Butter Tarts & Rebels December 2025

The Pierogi that promised Christmas but gave us existential questions instead 

Part 1: When the bread fails the crown

We waited a year to try this place.   
Ognisco. Whispered to us by strangers who love food the way we do, and praised across platforms with that kind of glowing ratings (4.7) that usually should mean something. The name lingered in our notes all year like a candle yet to be lit.   
Booked for lunch, before the carol concert, thinking- Why not give our heart a feast before a must goodbye to a tradition?   
It was hard to book a table. That felt like a good sign.    
And yet…

We entered into a space bursting with holiday soundtracks and predictable clatter of packed before Christmas on a Saturday. Long tables groaned under elbows and wine glasses. People ware paper crowns from crackers. For a moment, we wondered: Are we royal now? Kings and queens of cabbage and custard?

The staircase at the entrance made a theatrical impression- like waking into the third act of a well- funded Christmas play. The tree ware burgundy, the color of elegance a few seasons late.

We were guided to covered terrace - technically part of the restaurant, but emotionally one foot out of the door. Cold light, thinner walls, the polite way of saying: Here’s your table, but you’re not part of the family table.

Then the bread arrived.

A basket of sliced white and rye. A pot of butter. A single pickle cut in half. And a teaspoon of- yes a teaspoon- of beetroot spread.  
It was meant to be an opening note. A welcome. A warning of the soul and stomach.   
But the bread was dry. The crust rough. It tasted like it had been left overnight in the hope that no one would notice. We did.  
Because bread, in any culture, is a handshake. A greeting. A we’re glad you’re here. And what they offered said: We’ve done this too many times to care. Plus we’re busy anyway.

Part 2: When the Dough is cold and the sausage redeems you

We stayed. Of course we stayed. Because hunger does that. And hope, well, it’s a stubborn little potato in your chest, isn’t it?  
So we ordered.

First came the Kopytka, deep-fried potato dumplings with a pepper relish.  
They were… fine.   
Golden, pillowy-soft inside, but with a hint of cafeteria about them. Too many for a starter, too few for a main. The pepper relish tried to sing, but it needed a partner - maybe a garlicky sour cream, something bold and brave to carry the tune.

Then came the moment we’d been waiting for.

Pierogi.   
We’ve been dreaming about them. Warm dumplings filled with potatoes and cheese, softly sautéed in butter, maybe with crispy bacon or dill, a gentle snowfall of herbs. A bite that tastes like you’re home- even if you’ve never lived in Poland.

Instead, we got this:    
A plate of half-moons. Cold to the touch. Dry. Lifeless.   
The filling had no cheese - non we could detect. Just some mashed potato with the emotional depth of an unsent postcard.   
The dough was thick, underseasoned, and tired.   
The fried onion flakes? From a jar. We know them - we used them in our M&S sourdough copycat. But they belong to experiments, not as a final curtain call of a national dish.   
Even the sour cream sat awkwardly on the side - naked, garli-less, dill-less, joyless.

This was not a warm hug. This was a “sorry, the hug machine is broken”.

And yet…

There was one dish, one flicker of redemption that climbed out from under the sadness like a hero in a side plot.

Grilled polish sausage with mustard, pickles, and potato salad. We only try a bite. A why not after the pierogi betrayal.   
And it delivered.   
Smoky sausage - the kind that dance when you cut.   
A mustard that bites just enough.   
A potato salad that held the memory of summer picnics and something homemade.

We’ll say this: if you go to Osnisko, skip the pierogi. Get the sausage. Maybe two. Pretend it’s a barbecue and forget you come for comfort.

Part 3: When the potatoes lost their soul and the cabbage rolled without you

 By the time the main arrived, we were… not hopeful.   
Not defeated, just cautiously chewing air. Because after the dry bread and lifeless pierogi, we knew better than to expect joy.   
But still, we tried.

The goose leg? Sounded promising. But at nearly £40, it needed to come with fireworks and a choir. And given the state of the pierogi, we didn’t dare gamble. So we searched the menu for something that sounded like home. Something humble. Something with cabbage.

We choose the Golqbki.   
Cabbage rolls, filled with pulled pork and kasha, served with mushrooms abs root vegetables. On paper? Almost comforting. Familiar. Like a cousin of Romanian sarmale, but lighter, maybe more poetic.

What we got was… soup. Sweet. Lukewarm. Confused.   
The cabbage? Crunchy- but not the good kind. Not “caramelized edges” crunchy.   
The pork? Pulled apart, yet restless. No seasoning. No soul.   
The mushrooms? Varied in shape and sizes, but silent in taste.   
The broth? A sweet warm paddle that whispered “I used to be a dream”.

No sour cream. No richness. Just a spoon on a side and a bowl that asked us to try. Three, four bites - searching for warmth, for memory, for flavor.  
But in never came. And do, most of it was left behind.  
Because this wasn’t food for the hungry. It was food for the photographed. Food for the expected.   
A dish that show up on time, wear the right outfit, but has nothing to say.

And maybe that’s the real heartbreak of places like this.  
Where the walks show black-and-white portraits from 1938, but the plate forgets how to hug you.