My Tato drove into Chicago to buy some items from the Polish stores.
He bought Golonka.
Golonka belongs in poetry. When I envision a wealthy landowner from the Dark Ages gnawing on a piece of meat, I don't envision mutton or the modern spin, a turkey leg. I envision Golonka.
Because if that wealthy landowner knew anything about delicious meat, he would choose Golonka.
I think they should serve Golonka at Renaissance Festivals.
My Tato bought "two biggest Golonka they had", he proclaimed. He called dibs on the larger of the two he purchased.
Tato said, "I have to go drink a beer because Golonka likes to swim!"