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.
