“I’m meeting some friends at El Refugio.”
“El Refugio! Great choice! That’s less than five blocks from Café Arabia. Why don’t you invite your friends to come?”
He took a card from his pocket, handed it to Matt and flexed his biceps toward him.
“Enjoy an unforgettable evening straight from One Thousand and One Nights, San Lázaro 177. Let us work our magic on you!” the card read.
“Taty, where are you, coño?” Isabel yelled from the kitchen. “Come clean the rice, quick! It’s full of gorgojos.”
“She is the gorgoja,” he whispered in Matt’s ear. “What a pest!”
Matt remembered a post Yarmila had written about making Cuban-style rice. She mentioned the gorgojos—they were weevils, or a similar kind of bug.
“The first show starts at 8:00 p.m.,” Taty said. “Think about it, don Mateo. Stop by. Do it for me. See, I get a commission when I bring in new patrons. See you!”
He hurried to the kitchen and began to help Isabel. She was making the night’s special—picadillo, mincemeat cooked with tomatoes, raisins and olives, served over white rice with fried plantains.
“It should have fried potatoes too, to give it more consistency,” Isabel said. “But the bisneros haven’t brought them in weeks. Let me know if you hear of someone selling potatoes, eh, Taty.”
“Ay, mama, dream on! The only way to get potatoes in Havana is to place a basket under the TV set and wait for them to drop inside.”
“Yep. Every time they start bragging about some super-duper crop, we can forget about it.”
Matt turned down the volume and listened to their chat. Taty reminded him of a chef he had once interviewed at a French-Italian fusion restaurant in Hillcrest, a gay guy who had been interested in Matt. The chef let it be known, but didn’t attempt to come on to him as aggressively as Taty did.
The documentary had ended. The next program featured schoolchildren in uniform, with red kerchiefs and red berets, singing: Arriba los pobres del mundo, de pie los esclavos sin pan. Matt recognized the melody. The kids were singing “The Internationale.” Arise ye workers from your slumbers, arise ye prisoners of want.
This is surreal. Estrada would want me to write a story for El Grito. Oh, he wouldn’t even need to fluff it up. It already had all the elements: pretty Cuban girl, stupid American, handsome native guy, and androgynous temptress. Er, tempter. Our man in Havana. Our pendejo in Havana.
“Was Taty bothering you?”
Matt jumped at Isabel’s question. She had brought him a glass of orange juice.
“No, not at all.” He tasted the juice. It was fresh squeezed, cold and refreshing.
“The kid is trying to figure things out,” she said, sitting next to him on the sofa. “His father kicked him out of the house because he is a mariconcito, as you can plainly see.”
Matt finished the juice and handed Isabel the empty glass, hoping she would return to the kitchen. But she kept on talking,“Last Christmas there was an incident in his neighborhood, a problem with another guy. Taty’s father got so mad that he beat him up and told him never to come back because his behavior was bringing shame to the family. That’s how people in the countryside are. Barbarians! Thank God that I was here for him.” She paused and lifted her breasts. “Taty’s mother was a good friend of mine. When she died three years ago, I swore I would take care of her niño if he ever needed me. He has no one else in the whole world, except for his godmother, who lives in Las Villas, up in the ass end of the world. So I offered him a job and let him sleep in the apartment when he wants to—I see him as another son. I always wanted several children, but could only have one because of my ovarian problems.”
Matt had listened to her speech in respectful silence, but the ovarian revelation made him cringe.
“May I use your bathroom?” he asked.
“Yes, come with me. Let’s make sure we have toilet paper, if you are going to need it.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Will you need paper? Let me know so I can give you a roll.”
Yarmila had once written about how difficult it was to find paper towels and toilet paper, which were luxury items in Havana. Matt had found it funny at the time.
“Gracias, Isabel,” he said. “No paper now, thank you very much.”
He slammed the bathroom door in her face.
Yarmi Cooks Cuban
Cream of cheese: Memories of La Romanita
Today we will mangiare a dish that has Italian roots. Very Italiano, but with a Cuban twist.
This entrée is called crema de queso. Our Cuban “cream of cheese” is basically a soup, but very thick.
The ingredients are easy to find: three tablespoons of butter, the same amount of all-purpose flour, three cups of milk, and five ounces of cheese. Plus salt, cumin, pepper, and nutmeg to taste.
Make a base by mixing butter and flour. Cook for five minutes, or until it looks golden brown. Add the milk and stir. After it thickens, add the cheese and go on stirring. It will soon be totally dissolved into the cream. Sprinkle with salt, pepper, and cumin. Go easy on the cumin!
Serve immediately, topped with shredded cheese. Don’t let it get cold. There are some dishes that benefit from a quick nap, but crema de queso isn’t one of them. If you do need to refrigerate it, add a bit of water or milk before reheating to prevent the soup from becoming too heavy.
When I think of crema de queso, the first thing that comes to my mind is La Romanita, a pizzeria located on 11th St., on the corner with 16th St., in El Vedado. I had just moved to Havana and part of my budding romance with the capital was discovering new places to eat every week. I lived at the students’ residence and used to take long walks around the neighborhood, sniffing the air until my nose led me to a little restaurant or a well-hidden cafeteria.
These walks were an adventure for a guajirita like me, a peasant girl fresh out of Cuba’s Cinderella, as Pinar del Río, my province of origin, is derisively called. I got lost a few times. There were no mountains to get myself oriented, only apartment buildings, and at first they all looked alike.
My best friends, Lili and Yusleidys, were also guajiras. Havana-born girls were too hoity-toity to hang out with us.
“Wait until they visit our provinces and then we will show them,” Yusleidys said.
Sadly, that never happened. “Cuba is Havana, and the rest is just countryside,” Habaneros would say.
Most restaurants were way over our budget—we did get a small stipend, but it wasn’t enough to eat at fancy places. Yet, for La Romanita, we would make sacrifices or ask our families for money. We would pool together our savings and share two pizzas, two creams of cheese, and a flan.
Cheesy kisses to all my readers. Buona sera to you!
Comments
Taos Tonya said. . .
I plan to make it tonight. I am having some friends over and we will have a Cuban night. What cheese do you use for the crema? Gouda, Asiago?
Yarmi said. . .
Here we only have yellow cheese and white cheese. I use yellow. A Cuban night sounds like fun!
Cubanita in Claremont said. . .
My family is part Italian and I’ve never heard of that dish.
Maritza said. . .
I am Cuban too. My family left in 1979. I don’t remember being able to buy flour at the grocery store. It was sold through the ration card every two or three months. Does your Yuma buy it for you? (Wink). My grandma would make a similar dish out of spaghettis, which she boiled and then grinded. She used yellow cheese, whatever kind was available. Here, I would use Gouda.
Yarmi said. . .
The spaghetti base makes sense. I get flour at the grocery store, like everybody else.
Anita said. . .
I haven’t heard of crema de ques
o either, at least in California.
Cocinera Cubana said. . .
Juan, Anita, if you go to Miami, visit Marakas Pizza on 42nd Street. They have the best crema de queso. Ciao!
Chapter Two
El Refugio
In less than a year El Refugio had gone from chrysalis to butterfly, from humble paladar to a star-studded restaurant featured in a Lonely Planet guidebook. When Matt came in, he didn’t recognize the polished oak tables, recently varnished but with their Old World charm intact, or the upholstered chairs that lent the room a certain aristocratic air. A bronze and glass chandelier lamp had replaced the cheap, plastic Tiffany knockoff that Anne had made fun of in their first meeting (“courtesy of Walmart—how did it end up in Havana?”). Handcrafted copper sconces, placed over each table, guaranteed that patrons could actually see their entrées. But the most outstanding addition was a wall covered in photos of foreign celebrities (actors, athletes, and singers) posing with the owner or enjoying a meal. Matt hoped that the only thing they had not changed was their menu. Pollo al ajo, spicy garlic chicken, had been the main attraction of the house, the culinary specialty of the chef and restaurateur, Ricardito Rendón.
Ricardito had also changed. In the most recent pictures he looked more rotund than ever—and he had not been a thin man to start with. Anne, who was a longtime customer of the paladar, had told Matt that the owner used to hold a high post in the Cuban Young Communist League as a dirigente, a youth leader, during the early nineties. He was later deposed and confined to the “Pajama Plan,” which meant he had been sent home with a salary while forbidden to participate in public life again.
“He went from standing at Castro’s side during his three-hour speeches to being a social black hole,” she explained. “People didn’t hear about him for years. Some even thought he had gone to Miami.”
Meanwhile, the astute Ricardito bloomed in the relative obscurity of the private sector. After he opened the restaurant, the foreign friends he had made during his tenure as dirigente kept him busy, as did the affluent natives, who flocked to the paladar out of curiosity to see the former Young Communist leader in his new, humbler incarnation.
“Ricardito doesn’t mind it because he laughs all the way to the bank,” Anne said. “He did the right thing when he exchanged that old Che Guevara beret for a chef’s apron. A man of his time, that’s what he is.”
The restaurant’s fame had spiderwebbed over the city and beyond. It was now labeled “an iconic eatery specializing in New Cuban cuisine.”
El Refugio, like most paladares, accepted only CUCs.
Anne was sitting at the best table, next to a picture window overlooking Malecón Drive. With a sleeveless blue summer dress, oval diamond earrings, and a delicate necklace made of silver discs, she looked like a model taken off the pages of Condé Nast Traveler. Matt was relieved that Yony wasn’t there yet because the idea of explaining Yarmila’s death in Spanish horrified him. But Anne wasn’t alone; a young, shapely woman stood next to her.
The woman smiled and kissed Matt on the cheek as if she had known him forever.
“Welcome to El Refugio, Mateo,” she said. “Anita was telling me about your wedding plans. I’m thrilled for you! Congratulations!”
She wore a strong carnation scent with high notes of patchouli.
“Just so you know, we offer catering and can also take care of the entire party here,” she went on cheerfully. “We do everything, from the wedding cake to the buffet, and provide entertainment if you want. We have a classical pianist, an excellent Buena Vista Social Club-style band, a jazz singer—you name it and we’ll find it. We can even open another room, which is normally part of the house, for the reception.”
Matt wondered if she was Ricardito’s daughter. He knew his wife—a chubby, maternal older lady who was in charge of the desserts.
“Where is Yarmila?” Anne asked.
“She—um—couldn’t come,” Matt said. He coughed and the young woman took the hint.
“A waiter will be with you shortly,” she said. “There is a new wine list and many cool cocktails. Our mixologist’s latest creation is the Piñanguini. I will send you guys two on the house.”
She left, her round butt high in the air, almost as big as Lieutenant Martínez’s. Her conservative, two-piece beige business suit couldn’t disguise her curves. Matt followed her with his eyes until she entered the kitchen.
“That’s Ricardito’s new wife, Leidy,” Anne informed him.
“What about his old wife?”
“Mercedes? He divorced her. This girl is now his chief executive officer, or something of that sort. Ah, men! They are the same bastards everywhere. No offense to you, my friend.”
Anne did not have wrinkles—they were kept at bay by Botox—but her motionless face betrayed a profound sadness that poured through her eyes and spilled over her tight cheeks.
“Yony isn’t joining us?” Matt asked.
“He had to go on a business trip. That’s what he said, not that I believe it.”
“Why? He is a taxi driver,” Matt offered, happy to stretch the conversation about Yony’s shenanigans for as long as he could. “If he got a last-minute call . . .”
“He is an illegal taxi driver,” Anne clarified. “He doesn’t have a license yet.”
She fell silent when the waiter, a young man with a shaved head and pierced ears, placed two cocktails on the table before them. Matt sipped his cautiously. It had a stick of pineapple on top and tasted of orange, marjoram and cinnamon.
“A bit too sweet,” Anne said. “Now, enough of Yony and his lame stories. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about him that much. What’s going on with Yarmila?”
Matt took a long, deep breath.
“Why isn’t she with you?” Anne insisted. “Did you guys have a fight?”
She had perked up. Her eyes twinkled.
“No,” Matt said slowly. “Not really.”
“Then? What’s up? Just tell me!”
He told her. Everything.
“‘Good lord,’” Anne said. “Good merciful lord. Don’t they say that Cuba is one of the safest countries in the Caribbean?”
“They say many things that aren’t true.”
“Poor girl! I was so looking forward to meeting her again. She had promised to cook for all of us, remember?”
Matt didn’t but he didn’t correct her.
“And the killer is still on the loose, I guess,” she went on. “That’s so horrible! I wonder if Yony knows. He didn’t say anything.”
“Cuban papers don’t publish this sort of news. Though the grapevine is pretty active.”
“Oh, my! I’m in shock.” She did look like it. Her face had turned chalky. “So you can’t leave now. But why—?”
“They are ‘investigating’ the case. I was afraid they would consider me a suspect, but I am only a person of interest.”
“Big deal. At the very least, you should move out. What if Pato what’s-his-name comes back?”
“I thought of going to the Colina Hotel. But without my passport, I’ll probably have to get Lieutenant Martínez on board to explain what’s going on. Last time I was there, I had the impression that the employees got nervous whenever they dealt with Americans, even under normal circumstances. They seemed afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing.”
“Yeah, I’ve had the same experience in government-owned restaurants. Waiters are not sure if they should call me señora or compañera, or if it’s okay to accept a tip.” Anne rolled her eyes. “They can go from nice to nasty in a second. But casa particular owners are more flexible and understanding. After all, they are making money off us. I always stay at Villa Tomasa and only have good things to say about it. It’s no five-star hotel, but—”
Leidy led a couple to a nearby table. The man was clearly a foreigner: tall, blond and sunburned. The wom
an, dark and petite, bore a striking resemblance to Yarmila. Both Matt and Anne noticed it, but didn’t comment.
“You should come stay at the Villa too,” Anne said. “The owner, Román, is really sweet. The other two guests left this morning so he’ll be more than happy to take you in.”
“I appreciate it. But I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“Why would I get in trouble?”
“If the owner asks to see my passport and I have to explain . . .”
“We’ll tell him that you had a problemita, as Cubans say, at the airport, and your passport was withheld. Which isn’t that uncommon, by the way. It happened to me once. He doesn’t need to know about Yarmila.”
“But the police may show up at his house.”
“Well, you’ll say they are solving your problem—resolviendo, Cuban style.”
“Is Yony staying with you?”
“God forbid. Román wouldn’t allow it. He’s very picky about Cuban guests. Yony and I just go to a motel.”
The dinner was quiet. Anne hardly touched the ropa vieja (shredded beef) served with moros y cristianos—black beans cooked together with white rice.
“The white rice represents the Spaniards while the black beans symbolize the dark-skinned Moors that settled on the shores of the Guadalquivir River,” read a description of the dish, typed on the menu in English, Spanish and French. “They merged their bloodlines and gave birth to a new race that changed the history of the Iberian Peninsula. Our moros y cristianos retain the best of the two ingredients, condensing them in a multicultural dish.”
The entrée came with plátanos verdes a puñetazos, fried green plantains that took their name from the way the cook hit them, hard with the fist, after they were fried for the first time. Then they took a second dip into the frying pan filled with lard or, in the case of health-conscious chefs, olive oil. Ricardito had used lard.
To break the silence, Matt asked about their host’s past. Anne, who liked to play the savvy cosmopolitan, chewed his ear off.
Death Comes in Through the Kitchen Page 8