Gdansk of course used to be the German Danzig, and retains an air of former teutonic grandeur, not to mention hordes of German tourists, as we found when we arrived at our hotel, to find we had been bumped off to accommodate another busload from the Vaterland. So we ended up in the Hanza Hotel on the waterfront – allegedly the best hotel in Gdansk, and considerably more expensive than the one we’d originally booked into. However, at least the price was more or less justified by the facilities which were as near 4 star as anyone could expect. They could make a few improvements – for example, breakfast is only served until 10 o’clock, even at weekends; and the receptionist was totally ignorant about chemist’s opening hours, which was tiresome as we’d run out of Rennies and both had an uncomfortable night after resorting to crème-de-menthe as a remedy for indigestion. I would recommend to anyone visiting Gdansk that you purchase, on arriving, the “Gdansk in your Pocket” guide, which has tons of useful information of that sort as well as all the restaurant and cultural listings. It’s available from any tourist office or bookseller in Gdansk (though not in the Hanza hotel, unfortunately).The waterfront district plays heavily on the city’s maritime history, and Harold treated himself to a captain’s cap which he wore at a jaunty angle, calling out “Ahoy there!” and “Coming through!” at all the pretty girls, accompanied by his Popeye walk, which as you can imagine impressed them no end. He was somewhat disconcerted when he encountered the Gdansk Kaper, a retired Hell’s Angel dressed up as a pirate who swaggers (or whatever it is pirates do) around the Old Town wheeling a bicycle disguised as a pirate ship. The Kaper waved his plastic cutlass at Harold and pretended to kidnap me. Bluebeard and all that. Harold wanted to take him on with his Swiss Army penknife, but I told him not to be silly and get his credit card out instead, as I had spotted some highly attractive amber jewellery, which is the main reason for visiting Gdansk.
We stopped for lunch at a jolly place called the Sphinx on ul. Długa, one of Tom Maltom’s Egyptian-themed restaurants (there’s one in Krakow too). The main dishes are shoarma (pitta bread) loaded with meat and fried onions and served with salad and/or huge portions of chips – for between 9 and 15 złotys a throw. Harold did fair justice to a thin crust pizza the size of the Millennium Dome (12 złotys) while we watched Długa Square invaded by a horde of waddling Charlie Chaplins – everyone in Gdansk seemed to be in fancy dress that weekend. We saw some fascinating “statue” artistes, who did not blink an eye, even when Harold growled at them “Get a flipping job!” (He’s never had much interest in the Arts).
After a hike to the ex-Lenin Shipyards which I did not prolong, there being no amber shops in that part of town, we returned to visit the magnificent Mariacki Church … for some reason Harold was expecting to see a Mexican band in big sombreros but there weren’t even any Bolivians in ponchos, all having gone to Sopot … and the even more delightful Mariacka street, where I thought I’d died and gone to amber heaven. In the evening we had a light supper at a waterside restaurant called Goldwasser, where the fish was decent but the glass of non-specific dry white wine was quite undrinkable, and despite the waitress’s assurances that it was French vin de pays, I could tell it was Sophia! They had the cheek to charge us 16 złotys for it, even though I sent it back telling the gel it was “niedobre”.
On our second evening in Gdansk we studied the restaurant guide and chose one generally reputed to be among the top three, Retman. We had misgivings as soon as we walked through the door – despite booking in advance there was no table laid up, and there was a TV going in the main dining room. The menu appeared to be mainly boiled or fried fish, so we went for the only two grilled options – trout for Harold, cod for me. When we asked for the wine list, it appeared there wasn’t one, but the po-faced waiter produced two acceptable choices of French dry white, although I do so hate having to ask the price aloud. It looks as though one can’t afford it. In the end there was a decent Bordeaux at 75 zlotys, which at least took away the taste of the Sophia from the previous evening.
We are in serious disagreement with Retman’s high rating in the “Gdansk in your pocket” guide: “this restaurant captures the essence of 18th-century Gdansk, complete with heavy, ornate furniture and Old Gdansk-style cuisine”. The furniture was indeed heavy and ornate, although a linen tablecloth would have set it off to best advantage, but I doubt that TV’s were an integral part of 18th century Gdansk decor! The cuisine, when it arrived, was almost undistinguishable from our good old British fish and chips. Harold’s trout was scandalous – three (smallish) chunks of a fish which had been chopped into sections like an eel. It’s not often Harold leaves a Polish restaurant still hungry, but Retman was the exception, despite the free salad bar. Harold likened Retman to a downmarket Harry Ramsden’s. The chairs were indeed nice, but at least you get a tablecloth at Harry Ramsden’s.
After dinner we proceeded up ul. Długa in search of a sticky. However, at 9.30 on a Friday evening in the height of the tourist season, Gdansk was battening down the hatches. We were turned away, not even apologetically, by a series of hatchet-faced manageresses, and retreated to the waterfront in search of a welcoming waiter. People were scurrying away home and most of the terraces were already empty well before 10 p.m. Not even a German towel. It reminded us of Middlesbrough town centre where we’d once ended up by mistake. We wondered if the martial law curfew had ever been lifted in Gdansk? Or were Lechia playing at home to Millwall the following day? Or perhaps they were expecting the Viking longboat from Sopot to come chugging up the Mitława canal and disgorge a hundred drunken, hungry Norsemen (or Millwall supporters) intent on rape and pillage? Gdansk did share similar past experience with Middlesbrough, which was also within Viking striking distance and hence had also learned to close early. At the mention of rape and pillage I caught a gleam in Harold’s eye – or was it Sven’s? The Kaper came cycling his boat down the quayside on his way home. “Ahoy there, cap’n,” he hailed. Harold responded with what sounded like “cough”, an old nautical salute no doubt.
