Cuba 4, The food

One would think that a country of 11 million people with incredibly diverse backgrounds, living on rich soil that supports a variety of fruits and vegetables, would be endowed with a strong culinary tradition. Not so. The fruits make an appearance at our breakfast buffet and are delicious: papaya, pineapple, melons and bananas that really taste like bananas. I catch sight of piles of vegetables as we drive past a farmer’s market, but they keep a low profile in the restaurants. What happened to the African, Spanish and Chinese influence that is so prevalent in the faces of the people on the streets? Did Cuba ever develop its own cuisine? Or have years of restrictions and shortages strangled the art? From my short visit to Havana, I can’t answer the questions. But here is a description of a visit to a restaurant in Havana.

Conference participants are invited to a local restaurant on the last evening of the meetings. We walk down the Malecón—the wide street along the coast—about 30 minutes to the restaurant. We walk on the ocean side, passing fisherman, children and lovers. The ocean breeze is stiff and welcome. On the other side of the wide street we spot our goal: La Abadia (=the Abbey). In a break between two buildings stands a tent with high gothic vaults in keeping with the name. Long wooden tables and crude wooden chairs complete the medieval effect. One whole side of the restaurant is open to the ocean. It would have been wonderful if not for the traffic between the sea and us. There isn’t that much traffic, but apparently mufflers are in short supply in Cuba. I try to shut my ears and just enjoy the view.

Drink orders are taken. For some, it’s a difficult choice between mojito and daiquiri. For others, it’s a choice of mineral water with or without ‘gas’. There’s no menu for our group dinner, but we can choose between chicken, shrimp or pork.

The waiter has a plate of napkin-wrapped utensils (the word silverware would be an exaggeration). Those who ordered the chicken or pork receive a knife and fork. Those who ordered shrimp receive only a fork. (I wonder how the Swedes will manage. They eat with both knife and fork, using the knife to push the food onto the back of the fork. They are stoic and shovel the shrimp onto the fork American style.) The napkin is actually one-fourth of a napkin. Each napkin has been carefully torn into four pieces, and then folded into a triangle. (Reminds me of my grandmother who would carefully separate the layers of tissue, using only one layer at a time. That kind of ingenuity helped her raise four boys through the Great Depression.)

Long wait. If it were Sweden, or most any other Western country, I would suspect the owners wanted patrons to order more drinks. But in Cuba drinks are the least expensive item on a menu. Perhaps the staff is unaccustomed to large groups. Service in most restaurants seems to vary between lackadaisical and bad. Is it a result of the lack of incentive in a communist regime? An inability to distinguish between service and subservience? It’s not a lack of friendliness, the waiters are often friendly and patient as we struggle to understand the options. Many restaurants have lengthy menus, but the waiter explains that only one dish is available. Oddly enough, it is always the most expensive dish.

An elderly man sits by the door to the bathroom. Beside him is a plate for coins. Tucked under the plate are rolls of toilet paper. Not rolls exactly, but about four sections of toilet paper rolled loosely. As I approach, he hands me a wad of paper, says something in Spanish and waves toward one of the four doors beyond. I wonder if I should get someone to translate for me, change my mind and go into the stall, thinking I ought to be able to figure out how to use a toilet. The room is relatively clean, but there is no seat on the toilet. I squat carefully, holding the paper, which I notice is already somewhat damp. Everything is somewhat damp in Cuba. I ignore the basin with one tap (no towels or dryer), return to my seat and take out my trusty disinfectant wipes. I make a mental note to put a coin on the man’s plate on my way out.

Food arrives at the table in intervals. The shrimp comes first. Those who have ordered pork or chicken have another 10 minutes to wait. Each plate is identical except for the meat, which is overcooked and dry. White rice and black beans. Two leafs of lettuce, two slices of cucumber and two wedges of not quite ripe tomato. We discuss whether it is safe to eat the raw vegetables. Opinions diverge. I compromise and eat the cucumbers, the inside of the tomatoes, but not the lettuce. (My stomach was fine the whole trip.)

Dessert is a choice between lemon pie and tiramisu. Again, one is delivered first. We taste. Is this the tiramisu or the lemon pie? They look about the same and both taste, well, sweet.

Another day we eat lunch at Otras Mundos, the hotel where Hemingway lived for several years before moving to the villa in the country. It’s an obvious tourist trap, and with good reason. We can imagine Hemingway strolling through the lobby with its dark wood furniture, tiled floor, and lovely artwork on the walls. We order the chicken: a spoonful of black beans, small pile of rice, and a slice of fried chicken. I eat the chicken meat and leave the skin on my plate. My husband doesn’t finish his. He is considerate enough to wait until I finish and we leave the restaurant before explaining that he found a fly, fried up with the chicken. I wonder what Hemingway would have done?

After a swim in the hotel pool, we order a drink and a sandwich at the poolside bar. We wait. A half hour later, the waitress comes by to say that they don’t have the sandwich we ordered, would we like to order another kind? No, gracias.

Upon our return from Cuba, a colleague is surprised to hear how disappointed we were in Cuban food. He says next time we’re in his hometown of Los Angeles, he’ll take us to Versailles, a very popular Cuban restaurant. Perhaps the exiles are keeping the cuisine alive in California?