Living in Excess in Havana
I woke early, again to the sound of the surf, now wearily crawling through the salt worn rocks. After another blasting shower, just toeing the line of ridiculous, I headed upstairs to the “Servicio Real” breakfast salon for fresh guava & papaya (a lesson learned the hard way: don’t ask for more “papaya” in Cuba because there it doesn’t mean what you think it means), Russian peach yogurt, apricot juice, Spanish Chorizo, Mahon cheese and more hot coffee and milk. In true form our day was completely centered around food and wandering the blistered streets of Havana. I spent a few minutes sitting on the balcony taking breaks in between hand written sentences to watch the fishermen hard at work out in the bay.
Alain, ricocheting our tiny pea pod of a rental through traffic choked Havana, took us to what many would call the most famous restaurant in Cuba, La Guarida, where the famous film “Fresas Y Chocolate” was filmed. After a quarter hour of popping up and down the vibrating back streets, he stopped the car in front of what looked like a building straight out of WWII riddled Paris. Crumbling holes in the wall big enough to drive a tank through, flaking paint showing flaking plaster showing centuries old brick and rows of blindingly white bed sheets hung to dry in the ever present Atlantic breeze.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“We’re here” Alain replied.
“Where’s here?”
“Chico, here, the restaurant.” he said looking at me funny.
I stuck my head out the window and scanned up and down the building’s three stories thinking to myself wondering how it was even possible that this place was still standing. And then I caught a glimpse of the tiny, almost imperceptible sign: “La Guarida.” Hey! We were here.
We made our way up two flights of questionable marble stairs that had long forgotten their weighty heritage after years and years of equal parts neglect and history. We came to a stop in front of a heavy, locked wooden door with a buzzer. As we waited for an answer I thought to myself that I couldn’t recall any good passwords that would ever get us in. After we were graciously buzzed in (sans secret code), we were ushered through tiny hallways plastered with old “Fresas y Chocolate” promo posters and fading photos of both local and international celebrities that had sat in front of steaming plates of Cuban fare and state brand cigarettes.
Our server, a genial forty-something woman informed us we were the first guests for lunch and sat us in the corner at a scarred wooden table next to an open veranda overlooking the cracked streets below. I knew we were in the right place as soon as the mojitos and malanga fritters were lain before us. We started out with a roasted rabbit and smoky eggplant “lasagna”, ceviche Cubana and fresh baked bread. As we were sopping up the last puddles of black olive sauce from the lasagna, our entrees arrived: Roasted Pork Loin in a tart mango sauce, Pargo a la Naranja, and a mixed seafood Risotto prepared table side. We quickly snatched up or forks and dug in, our eyes rolling back in our heads from sensory overload and before we knew it, we were fighting over the last bits of lobster stuck to the sides of the risotto pan.
As we waited for dessert to come, we sipped tiny cups of impossibly strong Cuban coffee and 15 year old Havana Club Reserva Rum served up in ballooned snifters. The server slipped by and dropped, in front of me, a flourless chocolate torte with an evaporated milk sauce, and in front of Fernando, a chocolate tres leches, sponge cake soaked in rum and sweetened milk. In the afterglow of our meal we sat full-bellied and all but laughing knowing that this wouldn’t be the last time we’d be here. To say that I was thankful is more than an overstatement. I was floored.
