A friend of mine who lives in the suburbs, or what I might jokingly refer to as the Land Beyond O’Hare, has been trying to get me to visit her and sample fare from an old-fashioned Polish restaurant for some time.

She has wanted me to try food that her grandmother used to prepare for her.

I don’t know what exactly it is about getting someone to eat the same dishes you were raised on, but it seems to represent a kind of intimacy.

I didn’t meet her until I was well into my fifties, but we’ve been getting to know each other better over time. We both wanted to learn a little more of each other’s back story, and a leisurely lunch seemed like a good excuse.

Last Sunday, I trekked out to her home, and from there, we made the short trip to U Gazdy for lunch.

She was excited like a bachelor or bachelorette from the reality TV show might be when greeting the four remaining contestants for a home town visit.

She bragged, “They make food just like my grandmother.”

There are no shortage of ethnic dining options near where I live, and yet, Polish Highland cuisine is not among them.

Odd to think that my immersive cultural experience took place at a poorly insulated, faux log cabin nestled between a Polish deli (owned by the same family I guessed) and a funeral home.

There was a good amount of seating at the bar and high-tops, along with booths in the dining area. The ambience begged the question…Was U Gazdy a bar that served food or a restaurant that happened to know what their barrel-chested, blue-eyed, working men clientele liked to drink?

Sitting at a narrow, imitation pine high-top by the window was like being in another world.

A draft seeped in from a crack underneath handmade, babcia (granny) curtains.

We started with mushroom soup laced with dill, which I understood to be a specialty of the house. I later learned that dill was a favorite flavor of the region. It also showed up in relish plates that came with each entrée, a sort of holy trinity of carrot, cucumber and beet salads.

The waiter, looking to be approaching twenty, had perfect golden skin and a sort of checked out look. After bringing us glasses of water and inquiring whether we wanted drinks, he brought us a small cutting board with mini loaf of dark sourdough style bread. Instead of butter or olive oil the spread of choice was bacon fat with bacon bits and — you guessed it —more dill.

My friend ordered some sort of cream chicken dish, and I ordered spicy goulash served on a huge potato pancake.

No need to plan for dinner that night, I thought, as I ladled out a spoon of horse radish sauce. Not elegant, but authentic and satisfying.

Too full from our entrées, we skipped dessert and drank hot Lipton tea from small ceramic pots and talked…and talked.

We shared tales of growing up with sisters (both of us had two) and having challenging relationships with our mothers (both of us felt another darling girl in the household had stronger bonds). We moved on to talk about accidents, stopping short of treating the U Gazdy crowd to a display of scars. We chatted about foreign travel.

Of course, we ended up talking about husbands and lovers, about having a sense that some relationships were never going to work out, about when we decided to ride the roller coaster, and when we chose to stay closer to the ground.

Somehow, this emptying out, relaying our perspectives and experiences, was at least as satisfying as consuming an overflowing plate of goulash.

I thought about the Ukrainian refugees flooding into border towns in Poland. Their hosts greeted millions with a hot meal and listened to stories of their flight. Grief and uncertainty was now the defining characteristic of their lives.

I felt a special type of gratitude for all the volunteers from Przemski and Medyka and such towns, for their generosity and humanity. Unable to provide permanent solutions, what a gift they offered, and continue to offer, listening to strangers’ stories and feeding them; making their next steps a little easier.

Having a full belly is no small thing.