This is the story of the first time I fell in love.
Way back in first grade I was friends with a Cuban girl and, in the normal course of things, her folks invited mine ’round for dinner. While our mom’s gossiped about other parents and our dads sipped beer, she and I sneaked into the kitchen where her grandmother and great-grandmother were cooking – Abuela and Abuelita, respectively. And, in that wonderland of delicious smells and surreptitious bits of food to taste, I fell in love.
It turned out that Abuelita had a soft spot for polite, toe-headed young-uns – a harried affection that would, over the next few years, earn me quite a few treats from her kitchen. And, in return, I loved her as only a little kid can – that searing, all-consuming, white hot love, undiluted by adult sexuality, that launches you sprinting from the car and into the kind of floury, comforting hug only a grandmother can give.
It is my firmly held belief that food made by grandmothers tastes best. Arroz con pollo, picadillo, carnitas, yuca, moros y christianos. And the cookies. Good lord the cookies.
But best of all things: ropa vieja.
I’ll admit, I had thought I was going to be doomed to the netherworld of half-assed, hipster-fied “Cuban” sandwiches and sad, under-spiced black bean mush when I left the east coast. Not because Cubans are not an industrious and adventurous people, but because, like bloggers, they are sensible and prone to mildew in the rain. Imagine my surprise then when, not wanting to brave the accordions and leather pants at Stammtisch’s Oktoberfest, we end up having dinner in Miami.
It is one of life’s true joys to sit on the sidewalk as the sun goes down, sipping an Iron Beer and talking about the day with someone you love. If you ask nicely, they’ll slip a little rum in it too.
We started with fried yucca and maduros. If my tentative optimism was to be dashed, I wanted it out of the way early. These are things I love. And they were perfect. Sweet and starchy and crispy and sour. Perfect.
Ropa Vieja. It’s such a simple thing – slow stewed beef, peas, beans and rice. And yet, it meant that I might not always feel foreign in this part of the world. This little piece of familiarity – of home – grabbed me hard. I have no idea what my dining companion ate. I was wrapped in a great, soft, floury embrace.
The Tres Leches cake is also excellent. Get it with some coffee.
I can probably stay here now.
https://www.pambiche.com/