My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover

by Jen Lancaster

  “Okay . . . but so you know, I have visions of this turning into some kind of International Donut Taste-Off.”

  Oh.

  That’s kind of a good point.

  I’m already a fan of Cuban sandwiches, Cuban coffee, the smell of smoke from illegal Cuban cigars, and all things Desi Arnaz, so Cuba feels like a fine142place for my maiden solo dive into the ocean of World Cuisine. Plus, there are so many Cuban restaurants by my house, I’m not sure how I’ve avoided them thus far.

  I decide to try a restaurant called 90 Miles Cuban Café not because it’s well reviewed or the menu seems appetizing, but because when I looked it up on Google Maps and selected “street view,” I discovered they had a parking lot.

  For me, taste and value and service are pretty much always trumped by convenience. One might offer the best product in the universe, but if I have to make a bunch of left-hand turns without benefit of traffic arrows or need to parallel park once I get there, your business may as well not even exist. Offer me a small lot with well-spaced yellow lines or, even better, a valet, and you’ll win my patronage for life.

  I decide to brush up on my (essentially nonexistent) knowledge of Cuban food before I go. I pull up Wikipedia143 and read that Cuban food blends African, Caribbean, and Spanish cuisines, which is exactly zero help, as I’m unfamiliar with most of those flavors. I also learn how Cuban food uses some ingredients common in Mexican food, but the spices and cooking methods are different, so again, I have no real map of what’s to come. Basically I want to know if I’m accidentally going to bite into a flaming hot pepper so I can have a ramekin of ranch dressing ready, but my research proves inconclusive. I do find out that the bread in Cuban sandwiches is made with lard, which explains my affinity for it.

  I get to the restaurant, park easily,144 and enter. The place is packed, which I take as a good omen, particularly since it’s almost three o’clock on a weekday. The air’s perfumed with the scent of grilled beef and caramelized onions, another excellent sign. The aroma reminds me of the time my mom wanted to make our old house smell nice for a real estate open house, so she cooked a bunch of peppers and onions right before people arrived.145

  I take my place in line and try to make sense of the menu board. Everything sounds tasty and uses innocuous ingredients, such as beans, rice, vegetables, and nonoffal cuts of meat, but I’m still perplexed.

  There’s an employee standing next to me, wiping the soda cooler. He observes, “You’re confused.”

  “You’re right,” I reply. “I need help figuring out what to order. I want the most ‘authentically Cuban’ item on the menu. What do you suggest?”

  He places his towel on the counter and takes a step back to scrutinize the menu board with me. “I’d suggest either the bistec—it’s flank steak grilled with Cuban spice—or the ropa vieja—shredded beef slow-cooked in a tomato base. I’d also do one of these.” He opens the cooler and pulls out some kind of Spanish-language soda. “You like pineapple?”

  “I adore pineapple.” Not long ago, I bought a gorgeous fresh pineapple and left it sitting on the counter. For some reason, all the cats made friends with it. They nuzzled it and elbowed one another out of the way in order to sit closest to it. They loved that damn pineapple, and I have no idea why. But I never even got to eat it, because every time I went to cut it, they’d swarm me. Eventually, I had to toss it out when it went bad.

  Wait, that’s not the whole truth.

  I cut off the top, made the cats pose for pictures with it on their heads like a bunch of tiny little Carmen Mirandas, and then I threw it away.146

  “You’ll want this.” He hands me a brightly colored can of Jupina. “I’d also get one of those.” He points to something toasty and golden in an encased plastic case next to the cash register. “It’s like a croissant, and it’s filled with guava and cream cheese. It’s called a—”

  “Sold!” I shout. He’s a bit taken aback, so I explain, “You had me at croissant.” He grins and goes back to his cleaning.

  I decide on the bistec, not because it necessarily sounds better, but because I’m wearing a yellow polo shirt, and I don’t want to dot it with ropa vieja splatters. The meal comes with rice, black beans, and plantains, and I’m interested to taste their slant on these dishes.

  I place my order and pay, then wait on a stool by the window. The waiting area’s festive, full of photos of palm trees and sparkly beaches and happy fishermen reeling in giant swordfish.

  When my food’s ready, I have to grip my carryout container by the bottom because it’s so heavy. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to eat it all, Fletch. Even if the smell practically intoxicates me on the way home and I have to struggle to keep my hands on the wheel and out of the bag for fear of getting a DWI.147

  Once home, I arrange about a third of the meal on a plate. I lay down a bed of rice, top it with a piece of the bistec, and wedge my plantains in next to it. The black beans are the consistency of soup, so I put those in a ramekin. I tear off half of the pastry, and guava cream cheese oozes out. My intention is to save it for dessert, but I might not be able to wait.

  I’m tentative at first because I can’t guarantee the meat wasn’t basted in kill-the-gringo chili peppers. But a few chews in, I realize the seasoning evokes a nice, smoky taste. There’re garlic and sweet peppers and onions, and nothing sets my mouth on fire. The rice is just right—not too hard, not too mushy, and the same can be said about the beans. The plantains aren’t sticky-sweet like they can be when they’re too ripe, and overall, the meal perfectly balances flavor and texture. The pastry’s creamy, tangy, and flaky—three of my favorite adjectives—and I wolf down the entire half, finishing it first.

  Maybe there will be a little bit of International Donut Taste-Off in this. Shut up.

  I take my time and savor each bite. I try pairing different things together—the tender rice is even better combined with the beans’ rich broth, and the mellow saltiness of the beef is enhanced by a chunk of plantain. And I realize everything’s more delicious when followed by a swig of Jupina, which is so magical, I have to call Fletch and narrate my lunch.

  “Why has our country never created a pineapple soda?” I demand.

  “Are you looking for a dissertation on America’s taste in nonalcoholic carbonated beverages, or are you being rhetorical?” he inquires.

  “I mean, what’s wrong with us? We invented lightbulbs and telephones and the sixty-nine Mustang, but no one ever thought, ‘Hey, why don’t we throw a little pineapple juice into this here can of 7-Up?’ I tell you what, if I lived in a place that sold Jupina, I’d never leave.”

  He snorts. “You do; it’s called Logan Square.”

  “Pfft, you know what I meant.”

  “Yeah, and yet with all that free and clear access to pineapple soda, can you believe some Cubans still float over here on doors and inner tubes? Sure is a mystery.”

  “Don’t patronize me; I’m just saying the soda’s really good. Also, the country looks beautiful. I mean, Hemingway spent all that time down there, right? And on Road Rules: Semester at Sea, they visited Cuba because oily Veronica needed to meet her grandmother, which was totally emotional, and for the first time that season, I didn’t want to kick her until she was dead. Anyway, the landscape was nothing but lush greens and hot pinks, all surrounded by palm trees148 and an endless blue ocean.”

  “That sounds great,” he concurs.

  “The whole scene was lovely—lots of tropical birds and big-game fishing.”

  Fletch adds, “Think of how tan you’d get if you lived there. Plus, you could drink all the pineapple soda you wanted on the beach.”

  “Tell me about it! That stuff’s meant to be consumed with a little sand between the toes. And what if someone served it in an actual pineapple? Ooh, or a coconut? Heaven! By the way, did you know Cuba used to be a huge hot spot for American tourists? It was like Florida Jr.”

  “You’re right. Sounds like a terrific place. And perhaps when you move to H
avana in search of your precious fruit soda, Fidel will ask you to write his newsletters.”

  “Wait, are you mocking me?”

  He is the very model of innocence. “Not me.”

  “Whatever. My point is the food was delish and there’s a ton left over, so I’m saving it for your dinner.”

  “I look forward to it. But hey, do me a favor,” he requests.

  I reply, “Sure, what do you need?”

  “Try not to become a Communist before I get home, okay? Bye!”

  Pfft. Communism is based on egalitarianism and the equal distribution of resources.

  And I’m totally going to violate those principles when I eat Fletch’s share of the pastry.

  I spend the next week toggling between random cuisines. So far, I’m a huge fan of Mediterranean food. Who knew the humble chickpea was so versatile? And much as I love pork and beef, suddenly I’m all lamb, where’ve you been my whole life?

  The one regional cuisine I haven’t enjoyed is Swedish. I figured I’d be all over it, considering how much I adore the meatballs and lingonberry sauce in the IKEA food court. But when we ate at a Swedish joint, they served us a dish that was scary enough to change my opinion of the entire country. Fletch ordered potato sausages, which sound great, right? We imagined thick country pork sausage, nicely seasoned with sage, blended into a chunky patty, studded with red potatoes, and browned to perfection. Maybe they’d even come with gravy!

  What we got was a bowl of two-inch-long glistening pink tubes. They were so phallic that we had to cover them with a napkin. Gina remarked that we’d been served a side of castration. Fletch spent the rest of the meal with his legs crossed, and I was so nauseated that I couldn’t eat at all. Do me a favor, Sweden—please just stick to affordable flat-pack furniture and food court meatballs.

  (Sidebar: Okay, I ate my cinnamon roll, but that still doesn’t make this an International Donut Taste-Off.)

  Between meals, I’ve been watching edifying opera DVDs. Surprisingly, opera appeals to me. I didn’t expect it to be so engrossing! I thought it was going to be a few single people slowly trolling across stage wearing bustiers with Viking horns over their long blond braids. And then I realized my expectations were based on Bugs Bunny’s What’s Opera, Doc? and I had a Shame Rattle reoccurrence.

  I really enjoy how many folks can be onstage singing at some points, in all kinds of costumes.149 I really connect with the storytelling element, too, so I’m glad some of the DVDs have subtitles. Because I’ve been able to follow along, I’ve learned that operas are dark, dude. Honest to God, every single one of them’s filled with betrayal and lust, and people are always getting stabbed and dying in one another’s arms. Reality television—or soap operas, for that matter—have nothing on this.

  So far Carmen’s my favorite, probably because I know the music best. Seems like every fifteen-year-old figure skater ever has performed to “Habanera,” all painted up with smoky eyes, wearing latticed Gypsy outfits and big flowers in their baby-fine hair. Considering that “Habanera” is about Carmen choosing who she wants to take as her next l-o-v-e-r, the inappropriateness of a child doing a triple axel to it boggles the mind.

  I love how opera music is as rich and complex as a good bowl of carbonara. When I listen, it booms throughout the media room, and I practically swoon every time the tenors sing. I think with opera I feel the music as much as I listen to it.

  The problem is, as much as I’m enjoying the DVDs, I’m only watching them on DVD. I haven’t been to a real opera yet, but not for lack of will. Chicago’s opera run is limited and currently out of season, which is a shame because if I want to truly experience opera—and I do, desperately—I must be there live.

  I need to put on a ball gown150 and sit with everyone in the audience while they stir in anticipation. I want to use my funky little binoculars151 to watch the orchestra as they prepare. (By the way, is there any sound that quickens the pulse more than an orchestra warming up? Whenever I hear the random strings and woodwind instruments all discordant, I just know something great’s about to happen.) I want to see if a wineglass 152 actually cracks when the soprano hits her highest note.

  In short, I want the whole meal.

  My opera and World Cuisine educations are on temporary hold since I’m on my way to New York! I guess I shouldn’t have mocked Stacey last year when she entered all those crazy recipe contests, because that’s why we’re on a plane right now. Stacey’s one of three finalists in a cocktail competition, which is hilarious, considering she’s never been a bartender.153 But I’m not laughing because she got an all-expenses-paid trip to the city, and I’m her plus-one.

  When we land, we’re going first to her hotel and then to mine. We’ve learned over the years that the very best vacations include some alone time, so we’re not sharing her free room. When I tried to reserve a room at her hotel, it turned out they were fully booked. I checked out all the hotels in one square mile of hers and had the requisite sticker shock upon seeing New York hotel prices. I guess I’ve never been to New York not on business, so I’ve never paid for myself.

  I end up choosing the Four Seasons, partly because I was able to find a sweet deal on the Internet, and partly because I’m extremely loyal to any organization that turns my book into chocolate. The price is still higher than what I’d pay at a Westin or a Hyatt, but I can justify it because the rest of the trip is free, and I’ve earned a little luxury after hauling ass all over the country for a month.

  Of course, Fletch was less easy to sway. I finally changed his mind by convincing him (a) it’s only two nights, (b) I’m sure to get a funny experience out of it since my staying there smacks vaguely of a Beverly Hillbillies episode, and (c) if I do get a good story, we can write it off.

  Our flight’s without incident and traffic from LaGuardia’s surprisingly light, so we get to Stacey’s hotel before we know it. When I checked it out online, I saw a twee little European boutique hotel. But when we enter, I learn something very important about photos on the Internet: things are not always as they appear.154

  The lobby manages to feel both empty and crowded, which I assume has something to do with the cracked, barely-more-than-six-foot-high ceilings. The carpet runners are threadbare, and the furniture’s old and shoddy. Turns out the ambient glow from the photos was not mood lighting—rather, it was most likely an imperfection-masking dollop of Vaseline on the cameras lens.

  The walls are empty of any kind of adornment, but the good news is there are plenty of random nails still sticking out, should one suddenly muster up a painting or framed photograph.

  While I hang behind with our bags, Stacey heads to the check-in desk, where most of the staff is busy either spraying one another with juicy sneezes or hacking into Starbucks napkins. I make a mental note not to touch anything in the lobby, because I’m fairly sure this is Ground Zero for the swine flu.

  Key in hand, we take an elevator so small that we’re the only ones who can fit in it. “Stace,” I say, so close to her, my breath moves her hair around, “I got a baaaaad feeling about this place.”

  “Eh.” She shrugs. “I’ve seen worse. It’s free and I’m pretty much just going to be sleeping here.”

  The elevator lurches to a stop and we exit on her floor. We weave down narrow, confusing catacombs of hallways and finally get to her door. Stacey places the electronic key in the lock, the green light flashes, and she turns the handle . . . yet the door doesn’t open. She tries again, with the same result. She tries fifteen more times and the door remains closed. I cannot currently assist her, as I’m (a) sticking my clenched fists in my armpits in order to avoid any germs and (b) attempting not to laugh out a lung.

  Finally, in a move worthy of Agent Jack Bauer himself right before he finds/stabs an insurgent in the thigh, she inserts the key and hurls her entire self against the door. She flies in the air, feet leaving the floor, and body-checks the door, resulting in a thump heard round Midtown. The wall surrounding the door gives a bit, yet
there we stand in the hallway.

  “Hey, what if you pull the handle up?” I gasp, between guffaws.

  “That’s ludicrous. When have you ever seen a door handle open up instead of down?”

  I counter, “When’s the last time you stayed in a hotel where the entire staff was infected with the bubonic plague?”

  “You make an excellent point.” Stacey yanks the handle up and, like magic, the door opens, revealing the majesty of the accommodations and thus prompting me to double over once and for all.

  The carpeting’s an unnatural shade of green and sprigged with big bouquets of peach roses, which was probably the height of style when it was installed in 1982. Coincidentally, that’s exactly when the television was manufactured, so it’s nice to see they found a theme and stuck with it. I wonder if when we turn it on, we’ll see nothing but Dukes of Hazzard and Cheers reruns?

  There are two beds in here, which is one bed too many for the available square footage. As I make my way over to sit on the tiny horseshoeshaped chair across the room, I soundly slam my hip into the sharp edge of the writing table, as there’s only about a six-inch passage between it and the first bed.155

  Once I finally stop hyperventilating, I suggest, “Maybe you have a nice view?” pulling a sheer curtain back only to come face-to-face with the building’s industrial air conditioner. Then I realize her room is dark not because of cloud cover, but because the HVAC unit is blocking out all available light. “By the way, I would check those sheets for stray p-u-b-i-c hairs right now.”

  “Think you’ll ever be able to say any vaguely sexual words without spelling them?” Stacey asks as she turns back the paisley bedspread.