The Bizarre Truth

by Andrew Zimmern

  The Nacional is one of the great hotels in the world from a historical and cultural standpoint. This was the place to see and be seen in the decades leading up to La Revolución. In its current condition, I felt I was visiting an ailing legend on its deathbed. Think Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. The food is terrible, the service bottomed out, the grounds unkempt. The cleanliness factor appeared to have reached an all-time low. Despite the hotel’s condition, I found my stay thrilling in the extreme. Sipping a virgin mojito in the same spot as Churchill, taking in the view of the ocean beyond the Malecón, was simply surreal. I stood on the same space occupied by every legendary gangster, international jet-setter, president, and king who lived in the first half of the twentieth century. I even slept in the Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner honeymoon suite. Not the luxurious accommodations I’d expected: dingy, oddly small, located on the second floor with an average view, and offering no amenities at all. I’m no dilettante, but this room didn’t strike me as the way Frank would roll; I did sleep in the bed he schtupped the lovely Ms. Gardner in, and that was enough for me. The Nacional is rich with stories and history—everything from the visible shell marks on the outer walls of the hotel from the 1933 Sergeants’ Coup, to the incredible smoking lounges where kings and princes sat enjoying a late-night cigar and a glass of aged rum, makes the hotel as romantic and classic a spot as you’ll ever find. The famous Parisian Nightclub, though not as big and swanky as the Tropicana, remains one of the greatest locations to see a show in Cuba.

  Cuba teems with fabulous nightlife. Discovering phenomenal food proved more difficult. The majority of restaurants are staterun, and these restaurants are trash. Restaurateurs must purchase their food from the state, must adhere to the portion control administered by the state, use only the recipes mandated by the state. The servers, many of whom have never even eaten in a restaurant before, come from state-run service schools and are expected to give tourists Western-style service. With a few exceptions, which I will get to later, avoid government-run restaurants like the plague.

  Instead, try eating at one of the many paladares—or privately owned, family-run restaurants—in town. This type of eatery, fairly new to Cuba, emerged on the food scene in the nineties when Castro relaxed tourism requirements. The resulting curiosity boom led to a huge demand in eateries. The government remains very involved in the business. Paladares are one of the only Cuban businesses that pay a hefty tax to the government, essentially profit sharing, and they must adhere to a strict code of conduct. For instance, a paladar cannot have more than twelve seats and must serve rustic, Cuban food. I did discover that rules are often bent, wildly and fantastically bent, but if caught, owners can face serious jail time.

  My first Cuban food adventure took place at La Guarida, an old mansion where the Spanish film Strawberry and Chocolate was made. This faded, crumbling, 200-year-old building with marble balustrades and classical statuary was once a large, single-family home. Currently, it houses over a hundred people, some who live in squalor, sharing teeny rooms way in the back of the building. I crept all over the old palazzo and saw some shocking, sordid things, most having to do with deplorable living conditions. But many other Cubans live in beautiful rooms up front, in what I found out was a crazy sort of first-come, first-served basis. If Cubans want to move (they can), they have to trade spaces with someone else. Good if you live in a nice spot already, bad if you don’t. But on the building’s third floor, you’ll find one of the country’s best paladares.

  Since La Guarida is privately owned, paying huge license fees and “taxes,” you can eat like a king. The Cuban chef Enrique Nuñez del Valle was tight-lipped about how he’d managed to check out food around the world, but it was clear that he had had some serious training; nothing rustic here. We ate a sautéed, grilled piece of tuna skewered on sugarcane over a lobster salad that was just stunningly plated, with a real eye for modern plating style. We ate an eggplant and goat’s cheese timbale (they called it a tart), layered with paper-thin slices of roasted vegetables. Their eggplant terrine was as good as anything I’ve ever had in Europe or San Francisco; the octopus salad at La Guarida rivals that of any seafood restaurant in Spain or California. And clearly they are cooking for Europeans, using local ingredients for a discerning crowd: European-style food, European-style decor with crazy little antiques everywhere, piled high like you would imagine Auntie Mame’s house would look. The pictures on their hallway wall featured every icon you could imagine, everyone from Benicio del Toro to Rob Schneider to Steven Spielberg. It’s like the Cuban Carnegie Deli.

  On the way home, I swung by La Floridita—best known as Ernest Hemingway’s favorite haunt, as well as the place that put the daiquiri on the map. This bar is as faded as everything in Cuba, despite the fact that it’s one of the most visited spots in the country. Tourists are compelled to down at least one drink at La Floridita, myself included. As I drank my juice, I took in my surroundings. Here is a 100-year-old room in dire need of a renovation. The vinyl-upholstered banquettes are ripped and falling apart, the velvet curtains faded and dusty, void of their original luxury. You’d think the government would be interested in maintaining this legendary destination, but that’s not how Cuba works. The country has been working with the same goods for fifty years. Occasionally, they get an infusion of product from a particular country—but remember that for decades the Russians ran this place, and free trade (if you can call it that) has been going on here for only about fifteen years. Oddly enough, we ran into some Canadians one night who freaked out because the school buses from their hometown were rolling through the city, the signs calling out stops in the city of Montreal still in the front windows. For fifty years, the Cubans have existed on secondhand goods from all over the world, but not from us. And they still make it work.

  The next day, we took a carriage ride around Old Havana, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Now, here’s a model for renovation and reclamation projects in any ancient town in any country in the world. The ancient Governor’s Residence and all the old, private homes have been meticulously restored. The Plaza De Catedral, dating back to the eighteenth century, and the Plaza D’Armas, constructed in the sixteenth century, are two of the most stunning public squares in the world. This is a wonderful spot for tourists to check out—rich in history, architecturally stunning. You can still buy used books, pillaged from the houses fifty years ago when the Fidelistas came through. You can buy first-edition books on the street, often in Spanish, sometimes in English, for pennies on the dollar. Smoke a great hand-rolled cigar, sip a fresh OJ, and check out some of the only stores in Havana that sell real merchandise. Walking through the old town is a lot of fun, and since they do not allow cars in the area, I did it by carriage ride.

  I am a sports nut and insisted we check out a local boxing gymnasium. Cuba’s sporting life is immense, mainly because few activities here are anything more than homespun distractions. Life is simple and slow, so everyone dances, plays instruments, is religious about playing one or several sports. With only a couple local radio and television stations that repeat the same propaganda and stale telenovelas, Cubans swap plopping on a couch and eating Doritos for painting, or whatever they are inclined to do. And of course, they play sports. I’ve never seen such incredible talent exhibited in any culture I have ever spent time in. During my stay, I saw nearly 100 pickup baseball games. These were just little kids mostly, between eleven and fourteen years of age, and I guarantee that most of them could make any college team in the States. That’s how good these kids are. I saw them using secondhand equipment and hand-me-downs; I even saw kids playing with homemade cardboard and masking-tape gloves. I saw kids boxing at the gym (open air, by the way, with no changing rooms) in street shoes and work clothes. Some kids donned forty-year-old baseball cleats in the ring, the metal weathered down to the rims. Cubans typically do well internationally in sports not only because of natural athleticism, but also because they work so hard at it and are graced with a lifestyle that allows
them to train extensively at whatever they find interesting. It was awe-inspiring.

  Next, we headed to El Morro, the picturesque fortress built to guard the entrance to Havana Bay in 1598. El Morro Cabaña was added to the site in 1763, when the Spanish took back occupation of Cuba from the British in exchange for Florida, at the time a smart move for Spain. In the eighteenth century, Cuba’s GDP was six times that of Spain. Havana was home to more ill-gotten pirate booty than almost anywhere else on the globe. It was the global capital for the sugar and seafaring trading industries. Spice farms, citrus groves, and mining opportunities made Cuba an international powerhouse. By the way, you can also see a display of missiles at Morro Cabaña, some newer than others, still aimed toward the States. You can walk among scud missiles and check out the wing from the infamous U-2 spy plane that went down in the 1960s there.

  I wanted more insight into how life functions in this complicated country, so I met up with my friend Toby Brocklehurst over lunch. Toby is a British expat who has called Cuba one of his homes for many years. He lives in an old apartment on the edge of Miramar, overlooking the western end of the Malecón. He’d invited us over for chicken salad, which I thought was rather thoughtful of him—who doesn’t love a good chicken salad? You can imagine my surprise when I showed up and discovered a lobster feast instead. Toby procured thirty lobsters, steamed them, and had his housekeeper pull the meat from the shell. His neighbors joined us for lunch, which also featured huge platters of fresh, sliced sunripened tomatoes, baskets of warm bread, and bowls of homemade mayonnaise seasoned with curry. This might sound like a special-occasion lunch to most Americans—I can’t remember the last time I had lobster for lunch. However, despite its cheap cost here, it’s actually illegal to eat lobster in Cuba. But Toby knows some people who know some people, and trading food and favors in Havana is practically the local sport. It’s never printed on a menu, save a few restaurants frequented by foreigners and okayed by the state. At La Guarida, my favorite paladar, they acquired it from the black market. When I asked the manager about the lobster on my plate, I received only a blank stare and some ugly silence in return. Kids on the Malecón dive for lobsters when the weather is suitable, and everywhere you go you see them being eaten. But no one will talk about it. I asked again at Toby’s house for lunch about this crazy setup, and I was quickly convinced to drop the subject after our Cuban friends shot me some very strange looks.

  I’ve discovered the more strict a nation’s governing body, the more vibrant its art scene. Cuba is not an exception to the rule. Havana Rakatan is a dance group that melds Afro-Cuban rhythms, country-inspired campesino story lines, and contemporary Latin dance styles. This is a group that’s mastered the rumba, cha-cha, and salsa, and performs with a live band who accompany them as they rehearse and tour all over Europe and Australia. These dances stem from Africa—specifically, from slaves brought to Cuba to work on sugarcane farms. With them came the food, dance, religion, and music that influence the entire Caribbean culture and birthed not only the great Cubano dance styles but the amazing music of Cuba as well. Heard of Son? This is where it was born, and the Buena Vista Social Club is just the tip of the iceberg, my friends.

  I admit that my dance skills need a little work, and what better place to get a refresher than Cuba. Nelda Guerra, one of the most famous choreographers in all of Cuba and the “creative force” of this dance company, offered me a private lesson. You can’t imagine how grateful I was for her help, because as the trip progressed, I found a lot of use for those moves. The lessons were awkward. I was on stage in an old run-down (go figure) theater in Miramar, surrounded by a group of world-class dancers, all of whom I had been watching for almost two hours, mesmerized as they rehearsed for their upcoming world tour. The artistry and athleticism of these dancers was impressive, so when Nelda took my hand and pulled me on stage I almost peed myself. I’m old, fat, out of shape, and extremely clumsy. But Nelda had me shimmying away. In no time she even allowed me to lead, which was less embarrassing than her leading—trust me on this. Nelda swayed around me, pulling me into her hips to music provided by Turquino, one of the most famous and accomplished bands in the country. I was swept away by it all, which is good when it comes to dancing, so I’m told.

  One of the most famous Cuban artists in the world is a gentleman named Fuster. Yes, he is like Cher or Bono—one name. We met up with him at his home, which he built and designed himself. The exterior is covered with millions of little ceramic tiles, each one hand fired and glazed. This design motif extends throughout his neighborhood, where he’s spent the last seventeen years transforming his surroundings into a wild, outrageous, and bawdy pop art display. Fuster is also realpolitik communism in action, in the best sense of the word. He travels the globe, selling paintings and art installations for small fortunes, and disburses the money in his neighborhood so that everyone can enjoy a better life. He is a Cuban of Privilege, or COP, and COPs are a part of the local hierarchy here. They are popular if they give back, and almost all do. The reality on the street is that there are gorgeous mansions with palatial grounds in Cuba, and some privileged few get to live in them, mostly politicians and the like. Fuster lives in a beautiful, loft-style home that reminds me of the funky places in Venice Beach. Everyone in his neighborhood owns an air conditioner. The streets are clean. He puts people to work building new houses and working on his art projects. He does it for the love of his country and the love of his people. Seeing the results of these selfless acts is extraordinary.

  Transportation is one of the most culture-shocking experiences for an American in Cuba. There are only eight cars per thousand citizens in Cuba, and therefore, hitchhiking is most people’s transport of choice. Much like bus stops, hitchhiking stations line Cuba’s empty three-lane highways. Picking up hitchhikers is a national obligation. Even if you’re in a private taxi, chances are your cabdriver will stop and give someone a ride as long as they are going your way and a seat is empty. There is nothing scary or dangerous about it. It’s just the way Cuba moves her people. Communism in action, one hand helping the other in a very practical sense.

  Cars are probably the most valued luxury item in Cuba. First of all, it’s difficult to get your hands on one. Before the revolution in 1959, roughly 150,000 cars existed in Cuba. Since the United States’ embargo, American auto giants have been prohibited from selling cars to the country—and it’s estimated that only 60,000 pre-1960 cars roam Cuba’s streets. Without the ability to trade with the States, it’s nearly impossible to find auto parts on the island, and engines are cobbled together. Like a Frankenstein automobile creation, cars are patched up with Russian, Czech, German, Japanese, and Swedish parts. Open up the hoods of some of these cars and you wouldn’t even recognize them. It’s almost as if lawn mower engines are powering some these vehicles. Last year, modern Chinese flexi-buses hit Cuba for the first time, replacing some of the oldest and most dilapidated camels on the city streets. The Havana Police finally have a few new cars, courtesy of Ŝkoda, and they were able to retire some of the thirty-year-old Ladas they had run into the ground. We drove all around the town one day in a 1952 Oldsmobile, touring Miramar, the Malecón, and the other drivable parts of the city, eventually meeting up with Enrique, a mechanic who’s essentially Cuba’s most famous car surgeon. He fixes motorcycles, cars—really anything with an engine. This man is a mechanical genius who will go as far as engineering and machining his own parts when he can’t find the right one. I peered under the hood of a few of his current patients and was stunned by the mess of unconventional materials he implements. The man has resorted to using old surgical tubing for some of the hoses in his Willy’s Jeepsters.

  Housing is almost as strange as the transportation. I visited the home of Damian Ruiz, one of the most famous painters in Cuba. He, his wife Pamela, and their son Bastian live in a crumbling, 300-year-old palazzo in Miramar. This house must have been something in its day, but now it looks almost condemnable. Honestly, I couldn’t believe th
ey lived there. But when we stepped inside, I was dumbfounded by this gorgeously restored Spanish villa, complete with an incredible inner courtyard, giant rooms, twenty-five-foot-high ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling French doors. It’s very common to rehab only a home’s interior, keeping the outside in shambles to remain inconspicuous. And when it comes to buying or selling property, forget it. Remember that houses are exchanged. Like a house? Approach the current owners about trading. The Ruiz family lives here because the former owners couldn’t afford to fix it up. When Pamela approached them about a trade, they jumped at it.

  I really enjoyed my time with the Ruiz family that morning. I missed my son and it was fun to hang out with Bastian, who watches my show with his friends on pirated satellite cable television, and we decided to take them to lunch. They suggested El Ajibre, yet another state-run restaurant. At this point in the trip, I’d lost my patience for state-run places. However, I was pleasantly surprised with El Ajibre. The restaurant opened about eighty years ago, and since its inception, they’ve specialized in one item: roast chicken. It comes with five or six different side dishes, rice and beans, plantains … the usual suspects. But the miracle of El Ajibre is their lemony pan sauce drizzled on these golden rotisseried beauties. I asked one of our Cuban fixers how this restaurant is able to maintain its quality compared to the other state-run, crap-tastic restaurants. Apparently, El Ajibre ranked highly with the upper classes in the old days but was snatched away from the family who ran it during the 1959 revolution. People were so outraged, post-revolution, over the decrease in quality that the government struck up a side deal with the original owners, which is how things work in a benevolent dictatorship. El Ajibre is the exception to the rule. It’s a state-run restaurant with extremely high-quality product. I guess everyone needs a good must-go-to place for roast chicken.