A Polish treat

It might not surprise a London sort to know I ate a starter made of cabbage in rural Devon on a recent weekend away. Cabbage is a deeply unsexy vegetable. Its last big moment was in its decorative form, gracing the window boxes of stylish gardeners.

Even ornamental cabbages are passe these days. The last time I saw them was in Besiktas Square in Istanbul. Nevertheless, the Tundra cabbage with toasted pumpkin seeds, croutons and button mushrooms with a pumpkin oil and parmesan dressing, served at Agaric in Ashburton on the southern edge of Dartmoor, was damned tasty. I respect the country confidence of the chef (who also did something good with John Dory, cream and three types of seaweed).

Cabbage is a feisty veg. It will survive the Peter Foster-like PR touch of the cabbage soup diet, and triumph over all your baby corns and mangetout.

I respect it. But that respect was tested last week at the White Eagle Club.

The White Eagle is one of those places that serves Polish food as it always was - this is no Baltic or Wodka. If Poles were given to dreary nostalgia, the phrase, 'Jus like Ma made' would be scrawled across the menu.

Their pickled herrings are categorically the best I have ever eaten. Pickled herrings are one of those foods which, if you like them, you love them - a lot.

If you are partial to herrings, then anytime you are in Balham you should drop in - but check the restaurant's opening times first, they are pretty arcane.

I was eating with another restaurant critic. He took a mouthful of my herrings with sour cream, drained his own starter of a rather plain barley soup, and raised his arm for more herrings. The pickled-ness was subtle - a compelling tang, like a mature cheddar. The process may be pickling, but the taste was something else.

Back to the cabbage. My main was Golabki Ziemniaki - two great fists of rice and pork steamed in a big translucent cabbage leaf and seasoned only with pepper, and sitting in a brothy mushroom sauce with two school-like scoops of plain mashed potato. I usually like plain food, but this left me cold. It did nothing more than fill me up with rice, pork and cabbage. My colleague's Biala Kielbasa, a juicy and porky white sausage, tasted of one thing. Pork. It was good, but singular in its appeal.

We drank 500ml bottles of Zywiec beer for a mere £2 and shared a coffee meringue, which was very suburban Seventies buffet lunch, and 'Could you do a pudding, Marjorie?' The baked cheesecake looked delicious. I might have ordered some had the main course not filled me so efficiently.

So why come here? Well, if you were Polish you might, for it is a Polish social club, frequently populated by older clientele, and the menu is vehemently authentic. The dining room is just one part of the complex. There are also meeting rooms, a dance hall (full of waltzing Poles on this night), a bar with knockdown prices and a games room.

The restaurant is viciously well-lit, and painted yellow. It would be a most unpleasant place to have a hangover. Our fellow diners were a chap reading a thick and improving book and two smart women who kept saying the word 'editorial director' very loudly. Bustling ambience was lacking. The waitress was slightly offended that I could not finish my stuffed cabbage. There is a Catholic church next door, and while Catholicism does not necessarily imply goodness, I suspect there is an upright moral institution subsidising the beer which, in these wearisome times, is something to be grateful for, isn't it?