“You’ll put everything to good use,” he said. “I know how hard you guys work. Yarmi was always talking about you.”
“Well, I was like a mother to her,” Isabel said, retrieving the empty bean dish.
It looked like Yarmi had many “mothers” in Havana. Isabel, Fefita . . . It was easy for people to like her. Her real mom lived in Pinar del Río, though, and Matt wondered if he should call her and offer his condolences. He hoped that Lieutenant Martínez had already told Yarmila’s family of her death. Just in case, he decided to wait a couple of days. I would hate to be the one breaking the news to them.
The Germans and their companions left. So did the young Cuban couple. None of them tipped a cent. Luis closed the door and turned off the neon sign. Isabel brought out a perfectly round dessert that, at first, Matt mistook for a flan. She settled it on his table and invited the man in white to come over.
“Hope you don’t mind it, Mateo,” she said. “This is Padrino, a family friend.”
“Nice to meet you, señor,” Matt said.
He moved his chair and cleared more space for Padrino. The four of them sat together around a dish that reflected the light on its polished golden surface. Matt finally recognized it—it wasn’t a flan, but rather tocinillo del cielo, Yarmila’s favorite dessert.
Yarmi Cooks Cuban
Better than birthday cake
Tocino del cielo is flan’s decadent, slutty cousin.
Tocino means bacon. But tocino del cielo (or tocinillo, as it is also known) is a misleading term. The reason why a dessert that falls in the same category as flan and egg custard is named after cured pork has always eluded me. The del cielo part is easier to understand: it was “from heaven”—where people used to think everything good came from.
When I was a little girl, I always got a tocinillo for my birthday. Meringue cake? Forget it. We were given one every year through the ration card, but I was happy to let the party guests have it.
I’ll tell you a little secret: though my grandmother Hilda was the kitchen’s queen, it was mom who made the best tocinillo. Mom had “the touch” for sweets, and this is something you don’t learn. Either you have it or you don’t. In most dishes, particularly those involving egg yolk, butter and sugar, you need to find el punto de caramelo, that specific, indefinable moment when it’s perfectly done.
Mom’s soups or stews didn’t always turn out right, but she got the right punto for tocinillo and flan. She didn’t brag about it, though—and she wasn’t just being deferential. She didn’t want to embarrass Grandma, who was la reina. But she was also afraid that if her talents were recognized she would be asked to cook more often.
That, my friends, didn’t sit well with her. Mom was, and is, a liberated woman, a career woman, not a housewife. Though born and raised in a rural town, she was rather avant-garde. She managed the local clinic and served as the president of the Cuban Federation of Women on our block. She was also active with the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, where she was elected treasurer twice. But housework she didn’t enjoy.
Would you like to try her tocinillo? Then follow my instructions. But be warned—this isn’t an easy recipe.
Start by making the syrup. Boil half a cup of water and a cup of sugar with a few drops of lemon for ten minutes, stirring constantly. (Keep an eye on it all the time, as syrup is one of these unpredictable sweet sauces that gets burned when you least expect it.) Then allow it to cool.
While you are at it, heat half a cup of sugar (again stir, stir!) in a smaller container. Put it aside.
Now, let’s start with the tocinillo as such. Beat five yolks and two whole eggs together. But do not overbeat! I think mom’s success lay in the fact that she didn’t beat eggs as if they were going to be used for, let’s say, merenguitos. Make sure they are well mixed, however.
Add the syrup and a bit of vanilla extract—one teaspoon will suffice. Then strain it, using a colander, pour everything into a pan, and get ready for the most difficult step: the baño de María.
Baño de María, which my Yuma boyfriend calls “water bath,” consists of putting a small pan inside a large one and adding hot water to the larger pan until it reaches halfway up the side of the small one. (Did I confuse you already?)
The small pan, naturally, is where you pour in the strained mixture. Be careful not to burn yourself with the hot water, as I have done so many times. That explains why I am not a fan of baño de María!
Bake in the oven for around an hour. Next, turn the tocinillo over on a plate and drizzle it with the burned sugar. Refrigerate for three or four hours and enjoy. You deserve it!
Comments
Cocinera Cubana said. . .
Hola, Yarmi! One way of avoiding the water bath hassle is using a pressure cooker. Place the tocinillo mold inside and boil for around fifteen minutes.
Maritza said. . .
Yes, this is complicated! Not just the water bath, but everything else. It will take me a whole day, I am afraid. Better to buy it at Versailles, hehe.
Anita said. . .
I’d rather wait until I go to Havana and try your tocinillo, dear.
Yarmi said. . .
Cocinera, you are right, the pressure cooker is a possibility, but I am ashamed to say that it scares me to death. A childhood trauma! So here is the story: when I was five years old, a neighbor’s pressure cooker exploded and she was left badly disfigured. I do own one, but only use it in emergencies.
Maritza, I bet that if you make your own tocinillo, you won’t need Versailles at all.
Anita, I will make one just for you when you come.
Besitos, Yarmi
Chapter Seven
The Penthouse
While Matt ate, Taty stayed back in the kitchen, washing dishes and cleaning things up, though he sometimes popped his head through the curtain. But as soon as Isabel brought out the dessert, he pranced over and grabbed a piece of tocinillo with his hand.
“Niño, when are you going to learn manners?” Isabel scolded him.
“Ah, mama, don’t preach,” he answered, playfully licking his fingers and eyeing Matt. “Touching the food improves its flavor.”
“Don’t say that in front of our clients, comemierda!”
“But it is true. Don’t you think, mister?”
Matt cocked his head at him. At first he had thought that Taty was a young woman, but the way Isabel called him, niño, and his voice, high-pitched but obviously masculine, made him realize his mistake.
Taty gave him a seductive look, then winked. Matt recalled Lieutenant Martínez, the warmth of her skin, the electric feeling of her touch. Was he imagining it? Sex was the last thing on his mind and he had not felt attracted in any way to her or—God forbid—this flamboyant gay guy. But there was something in the air: a lurid, coarse cloud of pheromones floating over their heads. That might just be a Cuban thing, all interactions seemed permeated by subtle, and not so subtle, carnal innuendos. But not all Cubans were like that. Yarmila hadn’t acted like the hot-to-trot, sexy Latina that Estrada was sure Matt was chasing. She hadn’t acted that way with him, anyway. Maybe with Pato Macho.
Oh, forget it!
Taty returned to the kitchen, walking with an inviting swish-swash of his hips. Isabel gave the party a strained smile.
“Ah, teenagers—what is one going to do with them?”
Her apron was stained with sofrito. Matt tried not to stare at the spots. He was ready to ask if her casa particular was available, when Isabel said, with a sincere expression of concern, “It’s getting late for you to find a hotel, Mateo, and it isn’t advisable to go out at night by yourself, at least not in Centro Habana. Things are hairy here.”
Matt couldn’t help smiling at the phrase. Though he had never heard it, he assumed “hairy,” in that context, meant difficult or tough. Yarmila had once promised to teach h
im Cuban slang.
“I could call my friend Anne and ask if there is an empty room in the house where she is now,” he answered. “But as you said, it’s late. Originally, I had intended—”
“I know.” Isabel said. “I totally understand, my dear. If you want to stay with us, you are very welcome. Mi casa es su casa.”
“I do not want to impose.”
“You are not imposing! Please, consider us as if we were your very own family. We are all friends through—her.”
Matt’s throat closed. He couldn’t disguise his emotion. Isabel put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Padrino looked away and so did Luis. Isabel shot them both a warning glance and coughed.
“We have a room,” she explained, turning to Matt. “Small but recently painted and renovated, with its own bathroom and everything. Eh, viejo?” she prompted her husband. “Tell him.”
Despite being called an old man, Luis smiled pleasantly and said, “Yes, it is a penthouse. It has the best views in Havana.”
“Quiet too. No street noises.”
“And very, very clean.”
After extolling the virtues of the room for several minutes, Isabel finally came down to the price. She would charge Matt only fifteen dollars a night, breakfast included.
“And the first night is free,” Luis added.
“That’s so nice of you,” Matt said. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Isabel patted his hand. “As I said, we are familia.”
“So you guys own a casa particular and a restaurant?” Matt asked.
“Kind of,” Isabel replied, after a brief hesitation. “They are—how would you say? Separate entities. La Caldosa is a legit paladar, but I haven’t gotten around to the legal stuff for the casa yet. It’s too darned expensive! I have to pay a fee before I can even register it as a rental for tourists. Then the inspectors show up and ask for money too. I can’t afford that now.”
“I see.”
“So, if someone happens to ask, we’ll say you are just staying here as a friend, which you are.”
Luis and Padrino had begun to discuss food providers. “The pound of pork costs seven CUCs at the Cuatro Caminos Farmers’ Market,” Luis was saying. “But I’d rather buy it from a guy that brings it to us for eight.”
“I bought a precision scale and always weigh everything here to make sure I’m getting what I’m supposed to get,” Isabel said. “These farmers are the worst kind of thieves. One needs eyes in the back of one’s head when dealing with them! But they know better than trying to fool me.”
Someone knocked at the door and stepped inside without waiting for a response. The newcomer was a young, tall, dark-haired man in denim shorts and a muscle shirt.
“We are closed, coño!” Isabel yelled. “Go away!”
“Come back tomorrow,” Luis stuttered, avoiding the young man’s gaze.
“Sorry,” the man said. His voice was oddly thin for someone his size.
He turned away and left.
“People don’t get it.” Isabel shrugged. “They don’t understand that when the sign is off, it means we aren’t serving anyone.”
Luis locked the door. Matt registered an expression of shock on Padrino’s face.
“Is he a regular client?” Matt asked. “I don’t want you guys to lose business because of me.”
“We don’t know him,” Isabel said. “Don’t worry.”
Luis went to the kitchen and Padrino got busy with the tocinillo leftovers. Matt had the impression that La Caldosa’s proprietress was hiding something.
Isabel didn’t accept any money for the dinner, not even a tip, but took thirty dollars for the room.
“This is to start,” Matt said. “I don’t have any idea how long I’ll be here. That’s up to the Cuban police.”
“You can stay as long as you want, dear,” Isabel said. “We will take care of you.”
Before he could see the penthouse, she insisted he take a tour of the apartment. When they passed by the kitchen, where the contents of the suitcase had been spread over the counter, Matt didn’t see the brand-new set of knives or the Cuisinart Elite food processor he had bought at Williams Sonoma. Had Isabel and Luis put them away already or had someone stolen them? Gordo, the other cops, Yarmila’s neighbors? In any case, there was plenty of stuff left for the couple: assorted pans and pots, mixing bowls, cookie sheets—all the items that he had lovingly chosen for Yarmila and she hadn’t lived to enjoy.
He followed his hosts and pretended to admire the rooms, each of them with their own TV set, as Luis remarked. The biggest one, with a sixty-four-inch screen, was the centerpiece of a bedroom turned into a living room. Isabel pointed to a velvety tapestry that depicted tigers, deer, peacocks, and pink flamingos sunning together at a lakeshore.
“It’s made in China,” she smiled proudly. “Very elegant, eh?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Now Taty will take you to the penthouse while I finish cleaning up here,” she said after the grand tour ended. “If you need anything, just come down and knock on our door. Luis and I don’t go to bed until well past midnight.”
Taty led him outside. A domino table had been set up on the sidewalk and four men played loudly while two others lingered nearby, offering comments, curses and advice. They were all puffing on cigars and the smoke twirled around the tiles, lending the group a ghostly aspect.
Next to La Caldosa was a four-story apartment building. The door opened directly to the stairs.
“It’s just a little climb, mister,” Taty said encouragingly.
Up they went. The young man carried a flashlight because all the staircase light bulbs had been stolen recently, he explained.
“But the room is very safe. You are going to love it. Everybody loves Isabel’s penthouse! It’s the best kept secret in Centro Habana.”
Taty wiggled his butt in Matt’s face all the way to the rooftop.
Having nothing but a three-foot parapet between his body and Salvador Allende Avenue, which stretched forty feet below, was frightening but offered Matt a distinct view of Havana’s nocturnal face—a shimmering maze under the stars. The tall, lit-up frames of the hotels told them apart from the smaller, darker and plainer apartment buildings.
To his left, the steeple of the tallest church in the city, Sagrado Corazón de Jesús, glowed against the night sky. To the right he saw El FOCSA Building, where he and Yarmila had once eaten at La Torre restaurant. He tried to find Coppelia, the ice-cream parlor that they had also visited together, but couldn’t locate it.
“We call it the Ice Cream Cathedral,” Yarmila had told him. “It has the best flavors in the world.”
There had been around two hundred people waiting in line under the sun. Matt refused to be part of it, but Yarmila insisted that the oversized queue was part of the experience. “The bigger the better!” she had said enthusiastically. At his request, they had gone up a spiral staircase to the tourist (CUC-only) section, a separate area on the second floor that was built like a flying saucer. In the end, Coppelia came as something of a disappointment. The ice cream’s texture reminded him of Häagen-Dazs, but there were only three flavors—chocolate, vanilla and pineapple—and the presentation couldn’t even compete with a humble Dairy Queen sundae. He was served a small cup of chocolate ice cream crowned with a dab of whipped cream and a dollop of syrup; there were no sprinkles, maraschino cherries or fudge. But he had truly liked a government owned pizzeria called La Romanita, where she had also taken him . . .
Matt looked up and the shine of the unclouded stars dazed him like an explosion of fireworks. He had never seen such a clear sky, except for on a short visit to Mount Shasta. He stood in quiet awe, enjoying the fragrance of a night-blooming jasmine that grew inside a metal tub. The planter was set against the wall of a boxy, eight-by-eight-foot cement shed built in the middle of the rooft
op. Matt also saw what appeared to be strawberries in smaller metal containers scattered around the shed. Strawberries in the heart of Havana! But he couldn’t be sure in the semi-darkness, which was only broken by the flashlight.
“Luis grows all sorts of veggies here,” Taty said. “The man has a green thumb. If you ever want tomatoes, cucumbers or onions, you don’t need to go very far.”
There were more tubs, all brimming with huge vegetables. Matt walked around the roof garden, looking for the apartment. Taty opened the door to the shed and turned on a fluorescent lamp inside.
“Come in, mister!” he called.
“Is this the—the penthouse?” Matt asked, torn between irritation and incredulity.
You must be kidding me.
“Yes, of course. Isn’t it awesome? Make yourself at home, mister.”
“Please, don’t call me mister,” he blurted out, annoyed. “My name is Matt.”
“Yes, I know that.” Taty smiled, charmingly bitchy. “I was just trying to be courteous, since you are a Yuma and all that jazz. You don’t want to be called compañero, do you?”
“Just call me Mateo.”
“Fine, don Mateo, come and see your boudoir.”
Matt considered his options. He could send Taty to la casa del carajo, the Cuban equivalent of hell. Or he could put up with the little twerp for a few more minutes and finish the day in peace. Where else could he go at that hour? He groaned and went into the shed. It was furnished with a single bed, a crude pine table, a derelict chair, and a twelve-inch TV set mounted on the wall.
“No remote, sorry,” Taty said. “I think a guest left with it. Accidentally, I mean. Because who would want to steal an old Cuban remote?”
The only window didn’t have a latch, but there were four metal bars outside. A faded flowery curtain waved in the wind.
“Close the window if you don’t want the morning light to wake you up,” Taty said, fluffing up the pillows. “Oh, man! See how comfy they are? You are going to sleep like a king.”
Death Comes in Through the Kitchen Page 6