Warsaw (Part III)

Milk bars are a relic of the communist times. These canteens first opened in the late 1940's to serve milk to the people, in an attempt by the communist government to popularize milk as a beverage. Some time later these milk bars became canteens that served cheap fast-food to the masses. Most of them closed when communism fell, but a small number still remain open. Probably thanks to loyal pensioners, students and bums - their main customers.  

The milk bar we went to in the district of Praga was sterile: dull blue walls, one small plant gracing the window overlooking the main street, grey linoleum floor and grey tables surrounded by plastic chairs. Elderly and middle-aged people with long faces and opaque gazes sat around their table slurping their soup or slowly chewing their food. They briefly glanced at us then quickly turned back to their food, as if the curiosity in our eyes brought about something painful in their minds. 

The system is simple: you order and pay for your food at one window, then wait until your order is called from another window. Our guide did the honours. He selected a few meals from a crumpled menu taped on the first window and placed the order to a stone faced old woman wearing glasses. She punched numbers on her massive till, presented the receipt to our guide and said out the price in a pre-programmed voice. Near us were people standing patiently in front of another window. A figure wearing an apron appeared on the other side, her face and legs hidden by the window's frame. A great balloon of steam rose from behind her. Her voice called out an order and a thick blue veined hand slid a plate on the counter to the other side of the window.

Our order was ready in a matter of minutes: seven plates of pierogi - dumplings stuffed with either meat, cheese, cabbage and some other vegetable. The group struggled to finish off the plain and oily food. Once done we had to return the plates back to the kitchen and dispose of the plastic cutlery in a trash that has seen better days. On my way out, as I walked past the pick up window, I heard something clumpy hit the ground. I turned to my left and saw a man in faded clothes holding a soup bowl filled to the brim that tipped in his hands. The soup was thick and brown in colour. It fell in chunks at the man's feet, making a dry and sick sound as each chunk hit the ground. Peas and other vegetables looked out of the thick brown liquid from the linoleum floor. The man just stared down at his feet, his hands still holding the bowl out in front of him, and let out a deflated sound, like a balloon losing its air.