No one can be expected to know everything. Still, you’d think a critic might be sure how to pronounce the name of the restaurant they were reviewing. “I’m off to Da-keese,” I announced chipperly to a colleague. “Da-kwies?” they replied. “The Polski place?” Uncertainly, I nodded. “Oh, I love Dar-kwiz,” chimed another. The name — take your pick, or cycle through them hazily, as I’ve taken to doing — is a synthesis of sorts, original owner and certified old softie Mr Dakowski having melded his name with that of his wife Louise. Not natural bedfellows those words, it has to be said. And why order them that way? Loukowski would have been an elocutionary cinch. Bloody patriarchy.
No matter. Mumble and move on. Daquise is London’s oldest Polish restaurant, and has been sitting with its borscht-coloured frontage on a South Kensington corner since 1947. Over the years there have been fires, changes of ownership, imperceptible refurbishments, and countless menaces to its mere being. Another looms.
