Stay Bitter NYC

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Threesome Tollbooth

“Michelle!” John calls. I’ve walked too far down the alley. I revert and join him and shake the hand of our bartender for the evening. “Hello, I’m Jesse,” the man introduces himself. His getup is quite unique, this hair straight blonde and chin-length, donning long socks and shoes that remind me of a forgone era. Is this some form of a uniform? I wonder. This personalized experience is called…

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Flagship Montauk

“What about Flagship?” Kevin offers. “I’m pretty sure I saw something about that place on social media,” I reply. “It’s new, right?” “What time should we make the reservation for? 8:00? 7:45?” Frank makes the call. I’m hungry, and Kevin has a movie to catch so, 7:45. We enter the sleek revamp of the location formerly home to Dave’s Grill. Summer vibes reverberate from white walls and chairs,…

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I really like Bill Murray. Really, who doesn’t?

The buzz around 21 Greenpoint’s opening weekend back in 2016 slated Murray to bartend at his son’s restaurant near the waterfront. Of course it was invite only, of course a line of uninvited guests formed outside, and of course I was working anyway.

Despite my frequent visits to nearby Transmitter Park, I unintentionally put the restaurant out of mind. That is, until I read a review regarding a $21 tasting menu featuring food that would otherwise go to waste (think misshapen vegetables, extra fish, not full portions of short rib). 21 Greenpoint is closed Mondays and implements a tasting menu on Sunday nights (the only option for dinner) to clear its walk-in of excess potential wasted food. The menu consists of 5 courses and changes throughout the night, but follow the same categories: 1) soup 2) salad 3) starch 4) protein 5) dessert. The portions are small, as any tasting menu, but the meal allows one to leave satiated.

This model strikes a chord with my personal values of minimizing waste as well as embracing repurposing and recycling. Naturally, I made a point to dine at the restaurant the following Sunday, considering the location is also extremely convenient for me.

  *photo via 21Greenpoint.com

The space itself is beautiful. Airy, classy, yet humble. The bar is an oval with a triangular point and the High two-tops line the wall opposite the bar, behind the bar lies an open kitchen and more dining. Eavesdropping, I learn the restaurant was designed by the same person who designed the Life Aquatic. A quick glance around finds the kitchen staff in red beanies. Yes, this restaurant could be a Wes Anderson movie. In fact, I might be in one right now, as I sit at the bar.

I’m becoming attuned to the flow of the tasting menu, the sequence. It’s a little bit like the yoga classes I go to. I know that at about 45 minutes in, I will be in pigeon pose. Here, I know that after the salad comes a flatbread. Tonight, a froccia so well executed with the proper amount of oil that I am sure the sliver will go unrivaled in my mind for some time.

Okay, okay, but we write about cocktails here, let me not get to carried away with the food – perfectly portioned, well-flavored, and mindfully plated. Order food here.

Also order drinks. The backbar is brilliantly stocked – I spy Braulio, Sfumato, and other favorite Amaros among a well-stocked selection of browns, rums, and agaves. A glance at the cocktail list makes it hard to choose – every cocktail sounds unique in some fashion. The Indonesian Spring is my first (white rum, arrack, raspberry brandy, amero, maraschino, kafir lime). I expect something rich but am met with a delicate floral bouquet and kafir. The drink alone is complex and remains so with every sip out of the elegant and minimal vessel.

The bar is more full than I anticipate. I spot Jerry and move with Ben and Lizzie to greet him. After some confusion with the hostess and a party of two other girls awaiting bar seats, the four of us move to a table in the back, a porch-like room with windows to the main dining area. The flow makes the space expansive, bigger than expected.

“Let’s get a bottle,” Ben takes charge. “If it’s alright with you all, I’d like to try as much American wine as I can while I am here.” We nod in agreement, his enthusiasm for all things, especially wine, is immersive and contagious. Laughter at the table is ceaseless. A bottle of pink bubbles arrives and rolls over the tongue – a sweet rosebud and dry floral finish.

The courses land on our table quickly, in succession. We share a salad and slurp our individual soups before flatbread and pasta descend upon us.

I recommend two more American wines and curb Ben’s attempt to order both simultaneously. I doubt we will finish three bottles. “Let’s start with the white and once we finish that, we can order the red,” I suggest. The Clendenen Family viongier is refreshing, round, almost buttery with notes of honeysuckle and minerality. It accompanies the starch and protein courses brilliantly.

“Who wants to relive me of this egg?” Lizzie says, part an offer, part a plea.

“Me,” I eagerly accept what she calls baby bird goo and top my margarita flatbread with the over-easy egg.

Conversation turns to jokes, with one very elongated joke from Ben. “The father and son walk into a pub,” he corrects for American relevance, “a bar – in Williamsburg,” he continues making the scene tangible. The punch line hits as we finish the wine. Ben begins to fall asleep at the table, illustrating that jet lag is indeed real.

No, we will not be ordering the red.

“Good to see you again,” the bartender greets on my most recent visit. “Michelle, right?” he remembers my name but I must ask for a reminder on his. I spread out with Spanish homework, and slide down to accommodate a group of five who order Campari spritzes. I sip a delicate balance of Salers Gentiane and Cappalleti Aperitvo. It elongates over several courses before I switch to the ultra-herbaceous mezcal Derrumbes San Luis Potosí. I had been introduced to this mezcal on my first visit and immediately fallen in love with its aggressive vegetal nature and intensity. The mezcal is perhaps ordered a little late in the meal. As toffee ice cream lands for desert, the agave offers its own satisfaction after the sweet cream leaves my palate.

Since my first visit for the Sunday night tasting menu, I have invited almost everyone I know in my neighborhood to join me. This is the kind of experience I want to encourage. The delight of expertly executed food and drink offer a gourmond’s euphoria. Who knows, one of these days maybe I’ll run into Bill Murray on a Sunday night.

21 Greenpoint I really like Bill Murray. Really, who doesn't? The buzz around 21 Greenpoint's opening weekend back in 2016 slated Murray to bartend at his son’s…

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Hanky Panky

The address they give me isn’t the same as what shows up on a Google search. I arrive at a shabby Mexican joint. Brightly lit, there’s only a small bar-counter, a fridge of bottled beer, one communal table. At the opposite end, a couple sit, sharing a meal; they look up at me as I enter. It’s only the three of us, and then someone appears from the back, stepping behind the counter. “Do you have a…

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I search for Agavero on the recommendation of a knowledgeable source. Looking forward to a bartender fluent in English and some acclaimed eats, I arrive to find the door shut. Majority of the bar quests in Mexico City also ended in shut doors, so this disappointment is not a massive surprise.

Instead, I think…more mezcal. Mezcologia is near and I post at the bar for one or two more, maybe some street food, and intentions to call it an early night. The space is small, quaint – a neighborhood mezcalaria. It is approachable. I had found it in a guide book rather than a recommendation, therefore leaving assumptions open.

The translated blurb from the bar’s facebook page sums it perfectly, “In this place the pleasure is born when all the elements are connected, that is to say, the mezcal, the coexistence with your friends and the good bohemias fill you with pleasure in that space.”

  An American man in a brimmed hat is closing out and the bartender quickly offers me English. I am grateful. His Spanish is stronger, but he knows enough English to curate a hospitable experience. His eyes spark beneath a curly head of hair. His energy is youthful, alive. I ask for something I can’t get in the States, ruling out Nuestra Soledad and Del Maguey. I also rule out Espadin, and ask for something funky.

“Tobala! Tobola!” the other man at the bar chants. They are clearly friends.

Mezcologia has their own line of mezcal sourced from small Oaxacan farms. We start there. The agave is medium-smokey, as delightful as any I have tasted, slightly grassy and vegetal. I sip with enjoyment and relaxation. This bar is one that could feel like home.

I begin to chat with the man next to me in English. He had chanted “Tobola” and knows enough English, Spanish, and French. He is on his way out to get food. “I may be back,” he says to both the bartender and myself. He tells the bartender something in Spanish, which translates to him buying me a drink.

“That’s very kind,” I say, though not yet finished with my Tobola. This ensures I will be here when he returns.

Another man enters with a huge water bottle filled with a dark liquid. He motions for a vessel and pours the bartender a taste. They confer in Spanish.

“What is that?” I ask, taking a chance on English. Ben is fluent, traveling from Rotterdam for extended stays in each location. Currently that is Oaxaca, occasionally working at Mezcologia.

“BBQ Green pepper syrup,” he hands me a taste as well, “with cloves.” It tastes like bell peppers, just sweet enough but still vegetal and savory. “I thought I would make a cocktail with it.” His accent is light, non-descript. He pulls items out of a plastic bag and unwraps party favor gift boxes, shredded confetti paper, and colorful straws. Taking a rocks glass, he pads the bottom of the box with the confetti paper and sets the glass inside. An orange slice will act as a lid, hiding the contents of the vessel.

He adds mezcal, ancho reyes, giffard elderflower, and lime to the homemade green pepper syrup. The whole thing looks like a trip to a party warehouse. The ingenuity is festive. Such elaborate garnishes are not so common in the New York cocktail world, I explain. We all take sips of the refreshing complex flavors and it is passed through a window to the kitchen, eventually to return empty. The beauty of this packaging is the inability to know if it is full or empty, much like a julep in a tin cup.

My second mezcal is a fan favorite, Origen Rais Cenizo, distilled in Durango. The packaging stands out on the back bar and when I ask for something even weirder than the Tobala, it is chosen. I immediately know I need to find a way to import this mezcal, but for now, enjoying it is all that matters.

“I’m here for one night,” I say, “Where else should I go?” My energy has been revived by the mezcal. Agave distillates have been called night coffee for a reason.

“One night!” The shock and horror is palpable. “You need far more time.”

I shrug, knowing they are right, but I will leave in the morning regardless.

“You are coming with us,” they say.

I am up for the adventure. The high proof spirit in our blood propels movement. We move to another mezcalaria, very near, with a bartender from Philly, also traveling. I am impressed with this group of men in Oaxaca and their choice to stay long enough to really indulge in and investigate the culture. One night is certainly not enough.

This mezcalaria is small, quaint, intimate. We share the moment as if time is infinite. Mezcal and memory do not seem to always exist in tandem, and the details are lost to the night air of this enchanted state in Mexico.

I wake to a text from the source of my Oaxaca recommendations. “It’s so peaceful there, no?”

Yes. Yes, it is peaceful, in a vibrant, colorful, agave-fueled way.

Mezcalogia I search for Agavero on the recommendation of a knowledgeable source. Looking forward to a bartender fluent in English and some acclaimed eats, I arrive to find the door shut.

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Midnight Cowboy

In 2016 I rang the buzzer marked “Harry Craddock.” When someone finally answered the door, I was turned away without a reservation. This year, I take precautions. The only reservation available during my visit to Austin is Sunday night. I choose 6:30 for two, knowing I will be solo, but added the just-in-case plus one. Also, no option for a reservation for one is listed. After opening probably a…

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Charleston, SC

It’s 4:00 p.m. Happy Hour starts early in Charleston. I’ve wandered up and down King Street without intention of stopping in Prohibition. The online menu did not jump out at me and I must ration my stomach space when only in the city for two days. Charleston’s culinary scene is baffling – so much good food and drink for such a small city. I need seven more stomachs. But my intended destination,…

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M: I wake completely enchanted and ready for another adventure. Despite the absence of my preferred American conveniences (unfettered access to tap water, vegetables), Cuba is gorgeous. Caribbean air is breezy, refreshing, and peaceful, though polluted.

Just after breakfast we meet Ivan, a Cuban who speaks fluent English. He proudly displays that his cell phone is in English and is eager to converse. He thinks highly of Americans, saying we are free and will always be free. I think of the Eagle on our passports and know that the freedom we enjoy is very different from the Cuban way of life, though the people are friendly and seemingly content.

“Americans are the mirror to society,” Ivan says. “We should all be like you.” His words are a sobering reminder that other countries hold America in high regards, despite the current political climate. We shake his hand and move on, his smiling eyes wishing us an adventure in his country.

Still mapless, we cross a major street to a part of Havana not yet explored. The energy is more chaotic than touristy Old Havana with more cars and people on the streets. Small souvenir shops are replaced by strip malls with architecture from the 80s. Making our way back to Old Havana as a home base, “Hola, taxi?” is the question at almost every step from men. From the women, “Where are you from?”

“No gracias” becomes our mantra, we practically chant it walking down the street. My tattoos draw more attention than I anticipated. “Beautiful,” I hear, “Expensive?” It clicks. The art permanently on my arm connotes money, excess, spending on something beyond subsistence.

We settle on a cafe called La Luz for lunch. Our first choices are met with a “no, we do not have” to which I wonder on the point of a menu when you are out of half the items. This scenario is one we found at many of the government owned restaurants. A vegetable sandwich, salad, and two americanos later we are ready to leave.

“Maybe that hotel from last night will have a map,” I suggest. We’ve realized the map is our next necessary move since GPS and wi-fi are not accessible on our phones. The front desk does not have the prized paper we need, but we are directed across the street to a bookstore. We each buy a map, one of which I will somehow lose by the end of the night.

We take a minute to locate all of the recommended bars on our list, most of which we have either already visited or are quite a trek. We settle on the Polinesio in the Habana Libre Hotel and the Hotel Nacional, two recommendations that seem walkable (because when in Cuba, soak up the sunshine we don’t get in New York!).

E: Michelle and I lean over the map. We are still in central old Havana, plotting our route to Hotel Habana Libre, in the Vedado district some ways west of our vicinity. Michelle wants to walk. “It won’t be that far,” she says.

“It’s going to be pretty far,” I say. My fingers, marking our current location and our destination, are almost four inches apart on the map–I don’t know what the r:f is, exactly, but I know we’ll need a taxi back. “Holà, taxi?” In old Havana, men approach us at almost every block.

“No, gracias,” we say, moving on. With Floridita as our point of reference, we move west, out of the historic center. The crumbling Spanish colonial architecture, in saltwater taffy hues, is beautiful in it’s decay. Street-level homes are converted into gift shops–with more leniency now on private businesses, Cubanos open their doors to the streets, offering trinkets and tokens, right from their family rooms.

Crossing Paseo De Marti (Del Prado), antique cars and motorbikes speeding, we come into another Havana, one much less touristy. We’re on a promenade of sorts, more government stores mixed with food stalls; locals crowd around the walk-up counters. We consider grabbing something to eat, but the street pizzas aren’t good (flavorless, dough-y), and the rest is unappetizing street-meat. The dual currency systems apprehend us–we know for certain that a street pizza won’t be $60, but our Spanish isn’t good enough to ask.

Hotel Nacional, our secondary destination, is on the water front; Michelle and I decide to cut north a couple of blocks and walk along the sea. Wind whips the ocean over the bulkhead, crashing waves over the stone street-guard, flooding the road. We’re a block from the waterfront, but the sea spray is so strong we turn back. Later, on the way home, our cocotaxi would divert several blocks out-of-way to escape the rising waters.

“Ok,” Michelle admits. “Maybe this was pretty far.”

We’re tired. “I can’t wait for a cocktail,” I say. We’ve turned into another neighborhood, walking along a sidewalk, up a hill. Chickens peck through a fenced in back yard, among the overgrowth. Rising maybe thirty stories, the hotel stands before us, a dated glass-and-concrete high rise, like a trailor park in the sky.

M: The journey takes us back through the chaotic part of Havana and we jog to side streets for a quieter walk, all the while absorbing the buildings in disrepair. Poverty is real, but it is equal poverty, causing no air of inequality or injustice. After a few more cat calls and a walk that works up a thirst for daiquiris, we arrive at the Habana Libre Hotel, a hideous and tall structure with a mall in the bottom.

E: Once inside the stark lobby, we cross the marble floors to a help desk, where a woman addresses us in perfect English. “You have to see the hostess,” she tells us. She gets up from her desk, takes us over.

The young hostess is standing sort of in the middle of the lobby, holding a menu. “Polynesia?” She says. She takes us down a chrome-handled stairway, through glass doors that open to a sort of concrete portico. The bar is there, it’s tiki theme evident from its onset.

Inside, the space is dark. The windowless room offers no reference to time, creating it’s own experience entirely. The walls are round, lined with bamboo, like the inside of a hut. The low ceiling in the lounge is arced and thatched, realistic. I could be transported to another place and time, entirely, if not for the awful synthesized modern pop and a single crew of young locals in shorts and tank tops. Two men, dressed in pastel polos, finish drinks at the bar when we sit down. The space has so much to offer–the lounge behind us could be transportive, but instead feels like the mature Disney world of tiki bars.

Michelle has a daiquiri, but I order a mojito. The mojito begins first with lots and lots of mint–no bartender in the states would have used this much, but it was perfect, tamped down at the bottom of the glass, drowned in rum and granular sugar, the drink has a faint texture. Basic glassware, no miniature drink umbrellas. The scene has a lot of potential, but Polynesia should rethink their dress code, and their details.

M: Previously a Trader Vic’s, the tiki bar is still in tact and instead of offering an array of tiki drinks, it is a menu of blended beverages, as Cuba does. In Havana, replace the shaker for a blender and you’ve got yourself a bar. A round of daiquiris later, we opt for another rather than continuing our walk.

These daiquiris are tart, no where near as perfect as the ones at Floridita. We’ve now found the subtle differences in daiquiri balance. How different can a blended drink be from another? Very.

A stop at the Hotel Nacional is next. The grounds are large and we take the long way around, catching the massive waves breaking onto the road. It feels fancy, international, and is full of probably wealthy elderly British tourist couples. We aren’t feeling the vibe and would rather get back to Old Havana, the area that we have latched onto as home. We know it without a map, it has embedded itself in our impression of Cuba.

Polinesio (Havana) M: I wake completely enchanted and ready for another adventure. Despite the absence of my preferred American conveniences (unfettered access to tap water, vegetables), Cuba is gorgeous.

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E: In one of the rare moments that we were online, Michelle annotated El Chanchullero on our map. Her handwriting, neat printed caps, smeared on the slick surface of the paper. From Jose Marti Bellas Artes, we headed south, towards Plaza del Cristo. Across from the square, El Chanchullero is undistinguished, one restaurant among a few nondescript storefronts on the block. We pass it, crossing through sunlit Cristo, another quiet street. “If we can’t find it,”  I say, “Let’s just go back that way. I saw a place we might could check out.”

We double back. The place I’d seen is, in fact, El Chanchullero, a small tapas restaurant with a buzz. Sunlight pores into the entryway, a space of exposed stone that narrows back to a small bar, recessed in the shadow. The place is bustling, couples sipping, sharing meals at tables. Underneath the staircase is a low table; a group of friends encircled, laughing over drinks. The service staff, constantly moving, tease and flirt among each other, hustling and having fun. The energy, even midday, is fraternal.

Others head straight upstairs to the overhead dining area, but Michelle and I stall in the sunlight, eyeing a table.

M: “It’s good,” a man says. “We are done, not waiting.”

M: El Chanchullero is a hip space. Mechanic overalls and a t-shirt are the uniform. “I can see why this is on a Thrillist list,” I say. It is the only bar in Old Havana on our list left untackled. The walls are pasted with international dollar bills and graffiti. Wooden tables line the room and the bar lacks significant space for seating. We commandeer a recently vacated two-top near the door to catch the fresh air in the wooden den.

E: Our server—he sort of looks like Mario in his grey tee shirt and blue overalls—greets us casually, in Spanish, dropping off a letter-folded piece of white printer-paper. It feigns official-correspondence; inside, the menu, is printed in courier font. It’s all in Spanish; we take a gamble. I think I’m getting vegetables. I know, for certain, I’ll be having a caipirinha.

M: Saying yes to tapas with a menu in Spanish means that Lizzie has vegetables and scrambled eggs and I end up with a plate of warm sausages when I thought I was ordering a sampler. Okay. We nibble, the flavors on point, but the portions more that of an entrée than tapas. Our first round of cocktails is a caipirinha and piña colada. My piña colada is sweet and balanced, blended perfectly and through the straw too easily. I exercise self-restraint to avoid a brain freeze, a tactic learned at Floridita. Lizzie’s caipirinha is boozy and full of limes, tart and refreshing. We swap orders for round two, coveting the flavors in one another’s drink.

Unsure why it took so long to deviate from daiquiris, this mid-afternoon rum buzz is in a variety of cocktails, and always, rum.

El Chanchullero E: In one of the rare moments that we were online, Michelle annotated El Chanchullero on our map.

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M: “Hi,” two very tall men emerge from a building that looks bustling, modern. “You were on our plane.” Some casual chit chat lets us know their trip is the same length as ours, they too flew in from New York. We shake hands and exchange names. Nick and Jack had been in the row to our right on our JetBlue flight to Cuba. We noticed them as an unassuming couple resting heads on each other’s shoulders. “If you get a chance, eat here,” Nick says, “It was fantastic.”

His recommendation was not wrong. We walk in after deducing the location from a photo Lizzie snapped the night before, which took a little wandering. “Reservations?” No. We are willing to wait, but instead are immediately shown to a two-top situated between the bar and the balcony. The decor is euro in nature, casual sheek, modern, obviously new for Havana. The menu looks fantastic. The prices are more on point with New York than Cuba, but still affordable. We spot a negroni on the list with much excitement. “I think I’ll order it with rum,” I say. Because when in a foreign country with a language barrier, why not modify the cocktail list? The request is a little confusing, but the waitress gets it after a few tries and the drinks arrive adorned with a lime twist and wedge, lemon wedge, cherry, and orange peel – practically a fruit salad. It is eccentric and playful. The rum works, the bitter flavors are welcome to our lips than have become sweetened with days of daiquiris.

First course: fried octopus and plantains. Obviously both are delicious, as anything fried. The food quality matches the prices; this is the first really good meal in Cuba. Entrees arrive, grilled lobster with vegetables and, tacos. The lobster tail is fanned out, grill marks in tact. I envy the vegetables on Lizzie’s plate but cannot say no to my favorite food. The tortillas are warm, soft, and crispy on the edges. A sense of ease descends with the quality of food and drink. We find comfort in the familiarity of the dining experience in what has otherwise been a very different culinary excursion in Cuba.

“Can we come back tomorrow night?” The thought is mutual, the answer yes.

E: The dining room is bustling; tonight, they are much busier. “Reservations?” The woman asks.

“No,” we admit.

The host and a server confer among themselves. “There are seats upstairs, at the bar,” one of them offers. Up a flight of stairs, on the rooftop, there’s a patio of tables and an open-air bar. Large groups of European tourists occupy the tables. Cafe lights strung overhead, a warm breeze wafts through. We settle at the bar. Two men beside us smoke cigars continuously. The bartender here is the same man who made our Rum Negronis last night, so we start with another round. He wields a pair of long tweezers in either hand, setting the various garnishes into the drink with precision. The rum’s sweetness mellows Campari’s bitter bite without overpowering.

The Gin & Tonic program is extensive; the list of international liquors, and variety of gins, is the most diverse we come across in all of Havana. The drinks are built into long-stem goblets, elaborately garnished like our Rum Negronis.

A boisterous group of Canadians wait for their table beside us; we’re squished but happy, in the middle of the bar. I order sautéed shrimp in garlic, though it’s hard not to repeat last night’s $15 grilled lobster and vegetables. Everything, again, is delicious. We found, on both occasions, a smiling and motivated staff, a stylish crowd, good drinks and energy–both experiences were worth repeating.

    M: Frente is by far our favorite restaurant in Havana. The availability of Campari may or may not have boosted our love for both meals.

Frente M: “Hi,” two very tall men emerge from a building that looks bustling, modern. “You were on our plane.” Some casual chit chat lets us know their trip is the same length as ours, they too flew in from New York.

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La Bodeguita del Medio

La Bodeguita del Medio

M: The men ask the table next to us about Hemmingway’s mojito spot and invite us along. Porque no? We join them, exiting Floridita like a jolly crew of newfound friends. We are told to walk seven blocks, turn right, and walk three more. “Leon loves to ask the same directions multiple times,” Ray leans in to tell me as the group is halted a few blocks into our journey. In fact, we stop a few more…

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Floridita

M: We cue for churros as two girls from Ontario speak to us in English. “Where are you from?” they ask. “New York.” “You got here with your American passports?” they are astonished, jaws gaping. “How?” We explain Stay Bitter, that we are in Cuba to write about cocktails. The fried dough is warm and delightful, covered in chocolate and granulated sugar and comes in a paper cone, like most street…

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M: Our AirBnb host greets us, “Español?”

“No,” Lizzie says.

The woman turns to me, “Español?”

“No,” I say. She groans. “Un poquito, per mi Español es muy mal,” I quickly add. A disjointed conversation ensues as our host relays instructions with rapid Spanish and hand gestures. Do not carry passports en la calle. Do not carry all our dinero en la calle. Turn the key derecho to open the door. Do we want desayuna en la mañana?

Mid-afternoon Sunday we begin our time in Havana by wandering mapless (pro tip: get a map before you leave the airport). Photographing tiles and cars and colors and architecture, stopping frequently to absorb the culture around us, our walk is languid. Cuba is like a jolted time warp – the iconic 50’s cars as taxis polluting the air, boxy German cars from the 80s, rickety bicycle taxis, cocotaxis, Spanish colonial architecture in various states of disrepair, a market with leather goods and jewelry, mannequins imported from the 80’s, late 70’s storefront design.

Cocteles.

E: It had taken some very serious paperwork at the US Customs & Border Patrol (located in an isolated area of JFK), a $50 Visa, half a day of transit, and an hour of meandering through La Habana Vieja before we stop on the corner of some intersection and decide–resolve, really–to cross the street and sit down at a table of the touristy Europa Cafe.

Like many bars and restaurants in Cuba, Europa Cafe is owned by the state. We had a middle-school understanding of Communism, but we weren’t certain, exactly, how it worked. We assumed this meant that the government controlled available produce and pricing, but to what extent did they control menu preps, service standards and daily operations? The prospect beguiled us—restaurants are intimate businesses. The more time we spend in Havana, the more obvious a state-owned establishments stand out from recently opened paladars (privately owned restaurants).

Are there any external clues to deciphering the government’s establishments from an individual’s? The doors and windows are wide open at Europa Cafe, luring us inside the sprawling peach-and-coral dining room. The space is shabby, casually grand. Private restaurants must be smaller, with seating capacities of up to 50 max. The room we stand in could accommodate twice that; chairs with green upholstery encircled countless, dark-green-clothed tables.

We wait to be seated, unsure of what to do. Eventually, someone showed us to the first table in an open window. No place settings on this table, only two napkins, one crumbled, and the other oddly folded. Skeptical, we sit.

There is no music, but a bandstand is set up nearby, band members in yellow costume lounging around with cigars.

The large menus, in Spanish and English, boast an array of options—most of these are unavailable, a repeat problem among the state’s establishments.

“I’m having a daiquiri,” Michelle says.

Daiquiri Frape

Daiquiri Natural

Mojito

Ron Collins

Havana Special

Cuba Libre

Cubata

Sangria

Piña Colada

The menu lists options, but no descriptions. In the 15 or so minutes we wait for someone to attend our table, our cocktail orders change a couple of times. By now we know not a lot of people speak English. We are also adjusting to the reality of not having access to google.

It takes around somewhere around 15 minutes for someone to greet our table.

Except for the Sangria, it might be safe to assume these all contain rum. Michelle orders the Cubata; I order the Havana Special. Unable to google the cocktails, or articulate our queries in Spanish, we wait to be surprised.

Michelle’s dark drink arrived in a Collins glass, served with a lime. Mine was served up, frothy and white, a long pink straw floating over the lip of the glass.

“Yep.” Michelle flattens her lips. She smirks. “That’s definitely a rum-and-Coke. I should have known that.”

We laugh. Cuba Libre is a white rum and coke while a Cubata is dark rum and coke – the things we could have googled.

“I don’t know what this is,” I say. It is sweet, with a pulpy texture. “Kinda like a piña colada.” I pass it across the table to Michelle.

“But more coconut flavored,” she says. Does this drink involve Maraschino? This drink—like the city—contains a lot of rum, and that’s all we know for sure.

M: The food at Europa Cafe arrives – shrimp, mashed root vegetable, rice. “It’s like family meal,” we conclude. Despite warnings to bring hot sauce, I had run out of time before the flight. The seasonings were subtle, but not completely lifeless. It does the trick.

A man at the table next to ours snaps his fingers at a vendor passing outside the window. In his hands are small paper cones, the contents are peanuts, soon spread on the tablecloth. Apparently ordering street food mid-meal is a thing, or at least for this man.

E: In Havana, mystery and familiarity precipitate, and even the most obvious things are unpredictable. Our philosophy on this adventure is to dive in and receive whatever Cuba has to offer. Without hesitation (or the internet!) we continue our adventure.

…part 2 coming soon

Cubata & Havana Special at Europa Cafe M: Our AirBnb host greets us, "Español?" "No," Lizzie says. The woman turns to me, "Español?"

[staybitternyc-blog]

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