April 30, 2007 at 1.42 am · Filed under food, travel, Cuba, Havana, Camaguey
If it seems as though I’m being heavy handed when I say that we were on a mission from God, it’s completely intentional. You see I had no idea that writing about food in Cuba would be close to impossible not because the food is no good or not to my liking but because there just simply isn’t any food.
After an enormous breakfast of fresh fruit, Spanish chorizo, Manchego cheese, and coffee so strong it made the enamel on my teeth sizzle, we left our hotel, the Spanish owned Melia Havana Miramar, and headed out on our epic route eastward across the length of the island. (As a brief side note: because of its dependency on tourism, the Cuban state treats foreigners like royalty while the Cubans are absolutely banned from all hotels. I guiltily ate well while the Cubans had to stand outside.) The trip out of town gave us full view of the “overwhelming success” of the revolution, with block after block of hundred year old buildings mouldering in the humidity, begging for attention and knowing full well they deserve it. We weaved our way through gasping old Chevrolets and swaggering mule drawn taxis and out onto the three lane free-for-all highway with the colonial Camaguey in our sights.
Several hours into our trip and nary a restaurant in sight, I laughed to myself as we swung into a service station thinking “Fernando can you pass me one of those sandwiches we bought at a Cuban gas station? I’m so hungry I could eat a sandwich from a Cuban gas station.” And as things looked more and more Griswaldian, I pulled myself out the back seat to have a look around. Inside, finding only tired looking pastry and disappointed tomato-less pizzas looking less than convincing in their performances, I opted to wait until the next stop, unaware of the fact that it waited more than six hours down the road in Camaguey.
As our Camaguena waitress plopped down a plate of vinegary cucumbers and steak with onions, i woozily said my blessings and proceeded to eat every last drip on my plate, up to and including a piece of flat bread that very well may have been made of burned wood. Alain, my new Cuban friend and trusty driver, and I guzzled our frothy Bucaneros and it was quick off to bed with another full day of travel lying in wait.
April 28, 2007 at 10.20 pm · Filed under food, travel, Cuba, Havana
Sitting on the balcony of our hotel in Havana, facing north and squinting my eyes in the off chance I’d see Florida, I wonder to myself “How in the world did I get here?” I might as well be on the face of the moon peering back at the earth like one of those wallpaper scenes you’d see in a doctor’s office waiting room. It all looks relatively familiar and I could point to exactly where I am on a map but that’s where the explanations end and all of my questions begin.
It was safe to say that my first Cuban meal was graciously served to me on the airplane: A confused, greasy puff pastry filled with oily chicken and cheese, a “salad” of shaved carrot and cucumber that tasted like floor cleaner smells and a crumbly little cake that looked like a Ho-Ho except it was jammed full of grape jelly. “If you think that was bad,” Fernando said, “just wait. In a week you’ll be clawing for it.”
“But I always liked Cuban food,” I said to myself not really considering the only time I’d ever eaten Cuban was inside the United States. But because of the inaccessible ingredients, hopelessly old kitchen equipment, and kitchen staffs lulled into indifference by state guaranteed salaries, the best Cuban food will always be eaten outside of Cuba. There is something to be said, though, in my opinion, about a country whose top three foods are ice cream, pizza, and french fries. But with even the most optimistic guide books wishing me luck on finding anything worth eating, I was quickly feeling dispondant.
After an hour long questioning, at the airport, that stopped just shy of rubber gloves, we made our way into town for an early dinner and an evening stroll through Havana proper.
And we did have good food. The one thing I’ve managed to learn so far (in my three hours) here in Cuba, is that there are thousands of very stern rules and an exception for each and every one of them. At La Cocina de Lilian, our little table was in the middle of a private garden inside an even more private house and as I ate my little crock of “ropa vieja” and garlicky “malanga fritters” I hoped we weren’t experiencing the Cadillac now with Peugeots on the horizon.
