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Lead photo: Joe D’Allegro | Interior photo: Bob Kozlarek | Other photos: Melissa Surach

Earlier this month, I spent the weekend in a makeshift Polish Beer Garden behind an alleyway eating too much cabbage. I did it for my grandma. My grandma made me do it for God.

It was the 2nd annual I Love St. Anthony’s Festival, a benefit to raise funds to restore the exterior of St. Anthony’s of Padua Catholic church, at the corner of Monmouth and 6th Streets. At 126 years old, it’s the oldest Polish Roman Catholic church in the state and holds the title of Mother Church of Polonia in the State of New Jersey. It’s also on the National Register of Historical Places — and my Grandma is a church lady there. “You go church festival now,” she ordered me in her thick Polish accent.

Known as one of the church’s “Kitchen Angels,” she told me she peeled 1,200 potatoes for the festival’s pierogies. Whether this is hyperbole, I don’t know. Though she emigrated from Gdansk in 1963, her Poglish (Polish-English) can be very confusing. For example, when she told me the festival would be “fun” I assumed she meant it would be “chaste.” Poland is the most religious country in Europe, according to Rick Steves and Grandma. It has the most churches per capita. And despite the vodka-loving, anti-light bulb stereotypes, they are generally very conservative. To trick my friends into going with me I told them, “We’ll party like it’s Krakow” — which, coincidentally is both the most religious and biggest party city in Poland.

As an active pro-lifer, gay friend and evolution-believer, I’m not into the whole Roman Catholic martyr thing. I’m mostly not religious — except I believe in ghosts, and sometimes I pray but only if I convince myself that I’ve accidentally poisoned myself or become pregnant. My friends are of the same ilk — vaguely paranoid liberals — and we descended on the church en masse, excited for the pierogies we were about to devour, but nervous of the judgments we might incur. Before we went to the festival around the corner, we decided to look in the church to get a sense of how Godly this crowd would be. We walked under the scaffolding that covered the Gothic structure and burst open the gold-colored doors into the church I was baptized at. As I blessed myself with holy water my friends tried to stop me, “Melissa don’t! You’ll burn yourself.”

“No, you have to. It’s how you clean yourself for God,” I explained. Compared to my motley friends sporting tattoos, homosexuality and general creepiness, I was the expert in this crowd — at least I was half Polish.

We went inside the magnificent structure. It was incredibly opulent, with a large marble alter, mosaic tiles, large stained glass windows, intricate wainscoting and what appeared to be gold plating. Statues of Saints and Jesus in various throes of agony looked down on us from above. Enshrined in the church is the “Miraculous Crucifix” — the only thing that was left after a massive fire destroyed the original wood church in 1895.

“Do you think it’s haunted?” my friend asked.

“Duh — the Holy Ghost lives here,” I replied. We awed at the intricate artwork until we were finally satisfied that the church was too good for us and left and headed for the festival proper.

“Be on your best behavior everyone,” I said. “Let’s try not to get stoned — and don’t smoke pot either.” Everyone groaned.

We turned the corner immediately waded through elderly Polish people and children. We got past the carnival games, banners, shrines and armored riot truck. Surprisingly, no one hissed at us or shunned us. As a matter of fact, people smiled at us and said hello. Cabbage smells wafted towards us as we passed the food stand.

“My grandma’s potatoes!” I shouted. I bought the deluxe platter for only $9. As we made our way to the stage, where a young tattooed cover band was playing, we noticed a sign for a beer garden sponsored by Zywiec and Bak’s Zubrowka. “Thank Jesus!” I said. I bought a Polish Princess shirt and went inside.

We went through an alleyway to a courtyard with a full bar, flat screen TV, and gambling games. Bak’s even provided posters — one had a marijuana joke about “having groovy grass” and the other had a picture of three girls with prominent nipples about to make out. Zubrowka is bison grass infused vodka. It has a subtle vanilla taste, with a touch of cinnamon and nutmeg and it’s usually served with apple or pear juice. It went great with my deluxe platter of kielbasa, glumpki (stuffed cabbage), kapusta (sauerkraut), latkes and or course, pierogies. I have to admit, even though Grandma put her potatoes in the pierogies, the glumki was the best. Other Polish beverages served was Luskusowa vodka and Warka beer. The prices of everything started at $4 a drink, but as the festival went on the prices went down. By Sunday night, shots of Zubrowka were $1 and beer was $2.

The best part was how nice everyone was to us. They kept thanking us for coming and sitting and talking to us and checking on us to see if everything tasted good. I asked parishioner Anna Klimczuk and the President of Parish Council, Cecilia Jaskiewicz, how much money the church needed to restore the exterior. After several minutes I finally figured out how to spell their last names and they replied. “A buttload,” Klimczuk said. Jaskiewicz told me it would cost between $700,000 and a million dollars. I considered asking them why they didn’t just sell the marble and gold plating, but I heard my Grandmother’s voice in my head saying, “That very bad question. Jesus no like it.”

In addition to money, the festival was also a parishioner drive to convince people that St. Anthony’s was full of nice, inviting people. And I think they proved it, as they took pictures of us and told us how much they loved the church, and how happy they were that we were there. When it rained, they found special tables for us in the rectory (which was a good thing because my Polish Princess shirt would’ve become invisible and everyone would’ve seen my shame). “When I first came to church, after being away for a long time, I came to Polish mass here and I loved it,” said Jaskiewicz. There are masses in both Polish and English. If my Grandma’s schedule is any indication, I’m pretty sure they happen every day.

After I’d gotten my Zubrowka courage, it was time to ask hard-hitting questions, like, “Why is there a poster of girls making out at a Roman Catholic Church Festival?” Klimczuk told me they debated about it at the Parish meeting, but decided to put it up anyway. But that wasn’t the only piece of questionable art displayed on the church. I remembered a few years ago there was a banner on the church that said something along the line that 9/11 and other disasters were caused by homosexuals, abortionists and pornography. I asked Jaskiewicz about it. “I don’t know anything about that,” she replied, “I’ll get back to you.” But she never did.

In any case, whether or not the parish knew it, there were lots of homosexuals partying in the beer garden that weekend. Gay people love festivals, and I even met some who were thinking about joining the church. I wondered if the old stalwarts of the church minded, but I think they were too busy line dancing to the Polish Macarena to care. In any event, old-line churches like this will have to embrace Jersey City’s demographics if they want to sustain themselves.

We had so much fun we came back on Sunday for brunch and put in another 12 hours. Towards the end of the night, the church parishioners were still thanking us for spending so much money there. “Thank you so much! You guys are awesome,” the teenager bartender repeatedly told us.

“We know,” I replied, “Did your grandmother make you come here or are you doing this on your own?”

“I go to church every Sunday!” he answered devoutly, “Don’t you?”

After it all ended, we bought the left over booze and mixers, put it all in a trash bag, and carried it off into the night like Santa Claus. We left content and made my Grandma proud.

But will I join the parish? The answer is no. But if you’re looking for a church, check them out. Will I go to the festival next year? Absolutely.

And where was Grandma the entire time? Baking cupcakes, of course.

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