Call me Ishmael
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.
