One Thing Well

We’re exploring the Renaissance-inspired town of Zamość in eastern Poland, famed for its porticoed buildings and colourful townhouses. We spend a sunny day taking it all in. Then, out of nowhere. A religious experience.

No, it’s not the Italianate cathedral, nor the former synagogue, but a small black van smoking a large batch of sausages. Woodsmoke billows across the square on this Sunday afternoon as visitors flock around like moths to a flame.

Within two seconds, I envy the guy whose setup it is. I want to learn how to do this. Should I ask to be his apprentice? Can I, at some point in the future, in a house I don’t yet own, convert an outbuilding I don’t have into a smoked sausage production line?

I watch the guy, dressed in a traditional black hat with a frilly red rim, speaking to customers and explaining the differences between his products as wisps of smoke rise through the air.

In the end, we buy a couple of sausages for home.

Smoking sausages in Zamość, eastern Poland.

Yet, sitting on the train back home, the aroma of woodsmoke and pork fat permeating the carriage, I reflect on why I’ve gone from admiring someone’s sausages to mentally applying for a job.

Coming from a corporate career where I’m paid for my innate knowledge and judgement, there’s an appeal in being in able to produce something tangible. To be able to explain what you do in a sentence and have everyone easily understand it, yourself included.

Of course, I’m imagining all this from the customer’s side of the counter. I get the smell, the taste and a bag of sausages. Whatever it takes to make the business work is largely out of sight.

Yet there’s something I admire about such a clear offer. This is what I do. Would you like some?

I think back to other places I’ve loved visiting where the appeal has been just as clear. At Wiśniewski, with its bars across Poland, it’s cherry vodka, served with booze-soaked fruit at the bottom of the glass. You can have it hot or cold.

Or there’s the banana bread stall in Port Barton, in the Philippines. A small glass display case by the side of the main road, illuminated by a light. We buy multiple slices each time and always wish we’d bought more.

And then there’s Ginger Pig at Borough Market in London. It’s a butcher, not a business selling only one product, but its sausage rolls are what it’s famous for. For my money, they’re the best I’ve ever had. Yes, they’re very expensive. But they’re both incredibly delicious and incredibly filling.

They don’t all sell just one thing. But in each case, I know exactly what I’m going back for. In my own professional life, I can find myself filling gaps and being a bit of everything. There’s something appealing about having a particular thing you do really well, and letting it speak for itself.

Wiśniewski bar, Kraków.

Back on the train, we can’t resist any longer. We open the bag.

There’s a slightly springy resistance, then a crunch as my teeth break through the skin. The pork is sweet, fatty and juicy, with woodsmoke lingering at the end. Not cloying or overpowering, just enough to make its presence known.

I still don’t know what a working day looks like for the sausage man of Zamość. I’ve probably imagined the best bits. But sitting on the train, eating what we’ve bought, I can at least understand why someone might want to spend their time getting this right.

Banana bread in Port Barton, The Philippines.

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