A beautiful meal in Lviv

Friday 6 February 2026

I walked into the restaurant in the early evening, when the last light of the winter sun lingered in the sky and the city’s lamps had begun to glow with their familiar amber warmth. There was a gentle hum from the tables around me; the intimate sort of murmur that belongs to a place confident in her craft yet understated in her elegance. The air bore the quiet aroma of herbs and woodsmoke, a quintessentially Galician scent that reminded me at once of the countryside beyond the city’s limits and the proud culinary traditions preserved within them.

I took my seat by a window that overlooked a side street where the cobblestones glistened slightly after a light snowfall. A candle flickered on my table, its flame reflecting upon the glass and catching the brass rim of the water jug beside it. For a moment I simply absorbed the surroundings: the measured pace of the service; the soft clink of cutlery; the distant laughter from a small family gathering. It felt like an evening suspended gently between ceremony and comfort.

The first course arrived with the sort of quiet confidence that good Ukrainian cooking often carries. A bowl of borshch, slow-cooked and richly coloured, was placed before me. Steam rose in delicate spirals, carrying with it the earthy sweetness of beetroot and the faint tang of fermented cabbage. The broth had been simmered for hours; I could taste it in the depth of flavour, enlivened by the tender strips of beef and the whispered heat of garlic. A dollop of thick, cold smetana melted gradually on the surface, swirling into the crimson like a painter’s brushstroke. I lifted my spoon, and the first mouthful warmed me instantly, as though some kindly hand had placed an embroidered blanket around my shoulders.

After a short pause, during which I listened to a pianist in the corner begin a quiet arrangement of a Carpathian folk melody, the main course was presented with a restrained flourish. It was varenyky, handmade and delicately folded, served in two varieties upon the same plate. One batch was filled with potatoes whipped to such smoothness that they might have been churned from cream; the other carried a filling of wild mushrooms gathered in the forests to the south of the city. They were sautéed lightly in butter infused with dill, and the aroma alone was enough to make me set aside any remaining thoughts of the day’s burdens. I noticed the cook had prepared them with just enough crispness at the edges to provide a counterpoint to their soft interiors. Each bite felt both homely and celebratory; a reminder that Ukraine’s simplest dishes are often her most profound.

A glass of local white wine, pale gold with a scent of meadow flowers, accompanied the meal. I tasted hints of apple and elderflower; it was refreshingly light yet held a confidence that spoke to the region’s emerging winemakers. As I sipped it, I thought of the resilience with which Ukrainians continue to cultivate their soil, even in times of uncertainty. There is something quietly triumphant about raising a toast with a wine born of such endurance.

Dessert arrived as a final gesture: medovyk, a layered honey cake that seemed almost too delicate to disturb. The honey, amber in hue and fragrant with notes of linden blossom, seeped gently into the thin layers of sponge. A small side of sour-cherry compote cut through the sweetness, adding a tartness that balanced the dish perfectly. I took my time with it, savouring each forkful until only the faint trace of honey remained on the plate.

By the time I finished, the pianist had moved on to an arrangement of a well-known Ukrainian carol, and the snow outside had begun to fall again. I wrapped my scarf around my neck and prepared to step back into the night. Yet for a moment I lingered, reluctant to leave the quiet sanctuary I had found within those walls. There are meals that nourish the body, and others that touch the soul; this one did both. And as I walked back into the heart of Lviv, I felt not merely warm but uplifted, carrying with me the memory of a beautifully prepared meal in a city that has learnt to cherish beauty even in her darkest hours.