Steak Tartare in Zakopane
In the 1990s, Peter and I made several trips to Poland. Peter was then an advisor to a Polish man who had for a time lived in New York and had used Peter as his attorney. At the time he met Peter, he was quite a young man with great ambition. However, when people saw him, they only saw a youth whom they did not take too seriously. We will call him Tomaz. Tomaz placed a lot of trust in Peter. When he left New York, he did not forget Peter. His ambitions made him rise to incredible heights, but his baby face sometimes stood in his way. Thus, Peter traveled with him to Russia, to Saudi Arabia, to England, to the South of France, and I cannot remember where else. Tomaz became incredibly wealthy. He married and had children. He concentrated on building an empire in Poland. He wanted Peter to become his sole advisor and for us to live in Poland, Zakopane, specifically. That was the reason we traveled there several times, each time for weeks on end. From a tiny little flat in Greenpoint, New York, he now lived in an impressive manor-like abode. It was more like a modern fortress. There were tunnels through which one went from one area to the other. If you wanted to swim in the Olympic-sized pool, you would reach your destination through the tunnel. If you wanted to sit in the garden in summer, you would go through the tunnel. At night, bulletproof panels would come down and protect them from intruders. They had extreme privacy. As his guests, we were housed at a nearby hotel. For days on end, we were familiarized with his many acquisitions. They were many. On the days I did not tag along with them, I was at their home, with his wife and children. As is usual in such a situation, we became quite friendly. I must describe Zakopane to you. It is situated at the foot of the Tatra Mountains and is a winter skiing resort. In winter, it is impossible to see asphalted streets, only snow on top of snow and on top of even more snow. We had to buy heavy-duty boots, for shoes and casual boots would not survive even a day in that weather. We bought special heavy boots to protect us from the constant snow. Despite the very heavy socks we wore, these boots chafed my ankles and made them bleed. I only wore them there. They now live somewhere in the corner of some closet. They were quite heavy, and each time I think of them, I feel the irritating pain I felt around my ankles when I wore them there. On heavy snowy days, it was safer to use horse-drawn sleds. We were covered warmly with fur blankets as we traveled on our way. It was very picturesque, charming, and pleasant, but quite alien to our way of life. One spring weekend, Tomaz decided we should go up the Tatra Mountains where legend has it that the Nazis had thrown the stolen jewels and artifacts they had usurped from their Jewish victims, into a lake up on the Tatra Mountains, as they fled at the end of the war. The lake is so deep and the weather is so cold that no one was able to recover these treasures. That story gave me quite an eerie feeling. He also mentioned there had been some concentration camps there. That day, Tomaz hired a few horse-drawn sleighs, and up the mountains we traveled. Peter and I looked about us as we traveled high up into the mountains. The trees were laden with heavy snow, even though it was spring. One seemed to hear whispers through the trees as we climbed higher and higher. It was as if the souls of the Holocaust victims were trying to recount to us their horrendous tales. I shivered inwardly. I felt for their poor, tortured, innocent souls. “Peter,” I whispered, “I don’t want to live here, in Poland.” All the way up the mountains we held hands to reassure each other. It seemed that everywhere we went in this country, there were indelible memories of the atrocities that occurred, whether we were in Krakow or Warsaw or a small town. One could not forget what happened there. Pleasant-looking places held violent atrocities in their history. Summers were quite pleasant. They were never too warm, but quite comfortable. By then, they had introduced us to their friends, and we went on many outings with them. One day we were told that they had a special treat for us. By then, we had gone back and forth quite a few times to Poland and met most of their friends. They were holding a dinner party at their home that evening. Their driver had risen early in the morning to purchase the fresh ingredients, including freshly slaughtered meat. All we were told over and over again was that it was a special treat and that their truly excellent cook was going to prepare it. That evening the house was filled with guests. When dinner was served, everyone gathered around the table. They seemed to be excited about a dish called ‘Bigos.’ Later, I discovered that it is a stew of meat and cabbage. It was tasty, don’t get me wrong, but you have to be Polish to get that excited about it. First, Cook served soup. I love soup, and Mrs. Ruja was a master when it came to food. Her soup was superb! She next served the Bigos. They all perked up and were practically salivating over the dish. They eagerly leaned forward to the middle of the table to serve themselves. “Bigos! Bigos!” they all exclaimed. They spoke excitedly in Polish. Peter and I did not understand what they were saying, but it sounded very complimentary to Mrs. Ruja! Peter and I thought that was the special treat, but no! When that course was done, Cook walked in with a big smile upon her face, pushing a trolley with several plates on the top and bottom shelves. She had brought in the pièce de résistance. With her head held high, she slowly made her way to the table. The driver, now her assistant, followed with another trolley with plates of food on its shelves. Tomaz and his wife proudly stood side by side, smiling. “Peter, this dish is especially for you,” Tomaz said, as he affectionately laid a gentle hand upon Peter’s shoulder. We both smiled. We were very touched by this kind gesture. Our eyes followed the dishes as the plates were proudly placed in front of each diner. The presentation was ceremonial and very impressive. The guests were aahing and oohing in appreciation! What was this very special dish? Raw chopped meat with a raw egg yolk nested into it. It was surrounded by gherkins and herbs. We ate our steak medium rare. We appreciated fine foods! But in front of us was a pile of raw meat, which just that morning was a calf that was killed especially for this meal! In my head, I heard the desperate cries of the poor calf as it was led to the slaughter. I heard the heart-wrenching wails of its mother as she watched them wrench her babe away from her. I felt my bile go up and down my throat, as I tried to control myself. I sneaked a peek at Peter. His face had become ashen as well. I worried that he would regurgitate his food there and then before he had even tasted it. “Eat,” we whispered to each other. We could not insult our hosts when they made such an effort to honor us. We ate. That evening Peter drank every thimble of vodka that was offered to him. We are not drinkers, only social ones. Peter kept up with the Polish men. Finally, the evening was over. We went back to our hotel room. I remember looking out at the snow-covered Tatra Mountains gleaming in the moonlight. They were so beautiful. “Concentrate on the beauty of the mountains, Stella. Relax!” I told myself each time the steak tartare rose up my throat trying to escape. I swallowed hard and pushed it down. Peter and I sat side by side, looking out of the window at the majestic mountains, swallowing hard every once in a while. The plan to relocate to Poland never came to fruition. I suppose it was not meant to be. We went back and forth several more times, but did not live there. That way, it was more practical.