Tortillas Floriditas, Judy Wicks, Spring 1998
It was pitch black in the walk-in refrigerator at Restaurante Floridita, once a favorite haunt of Hemingway's in Havana, Cuba, and now a sister restaurant to the White Dog Cafe. The power was off during one of the frequent blackouts engineered to save energy on an island further crippled by the tightened U.S. embargo. Along with eighteen of our customers, Kevin and I had come on a week-long trip sponsored by the Cafe and led by Medea Benjamin of Global Exchange (a non-profit organization based in San Francisco) to find out how our government's policy was affecting the lives of Cubans, as well as to enjoy the cultural delights of the island.
A free enterprise enthusiast, I'd sworn never to have a state-owned sister restaurant, but curiosity got the better of me. It was 1993, just after the fall of the Soviet Union, and this might be our last chance to experience a system where every tomato, fork, and toilet plunger was purchased through central planning. Even in Cuba, things were changing as the government, though determined to prevent rampant consumerism and preserve the victories of the revolution, cautiously began opening the economy.
Tonight was the grand finale dinner. La Floridita's Chef Clemente Harewood was preparing his famous stuffed lobster dish and Kevin was creating a first course from what could be found in the walk-in. Our anxiety was rising as our hope for fresh ingredients diminished. On the trip we had learned of the food shortage in Cuba, precipitated originally by a dependency on U.S. imports while all tillable soil was used for exported crops like sugar and tobacco. After the revolution, the U.S. imposed an economic embargo to punish Castro who then made the mistake of transferring Cuba's dependency from the United States to the Soviet Union rather than developing self-sufficiency. Now Cuba had again lost its major trading partner and was desperately trying to diversify its economy to become self-sufficient. It was a race against time to increase food production fast enough to feed the population before supplies ran out. Everyone in Cuba, including the employees of La Floridita, takes his or her turn in the fields. While at home we see only those fleeing in search of opportunity, here I found an indomitable spirit of dignity and hope and a willingness to tolerate authoritarianism and economic hardship rather than surrender to external domination and a return to a dependent economic system that had once enslaved the Cuban people.
While the rest of our group enjoyed the unspoiled beach at nearby Valedero, Kevin and I groped through the dark walk-in with dimming flashlights, searching for food. We stumbled over a cardboard box which looked promising until we found it contained only a couple of rotten potatoes. Finally, we emerged clutching a few precious tomatoes, peppers, and onions and a large tubular vegetable called boniato. The kitchen was spacious and immaculate with white tile walls rising up to a high ceiling with a beautiful big skylight that bathed the kitchen with a precious commodity, light. The staff was dressed in whites and the chefs wore traditional tall chef hats or toques. Clemente's was bright red with matching kerchief, the same color as Kevin's baseball cap. They were ready to be of assistance, but spoke no English, and we spoke little Spanish. We said "Hola!" and everyone smiled and shook hands.
Kevin approached the boniato with curiosity. It's similar to a sweet potato, but much larger. In his usual manner of cooking, he wanted to do something that was familiar to the guests, but with a new twist. Boniato dumplings perhaps! He set to work cooking the vegetable, then mashing it by hand Ð the electric mixer sat useless without power. Next he added free-range eggs with the most beautiful bright yellow yolks, a result of never ingesting chemical feed. Green philosophy had developed out of scarcity but had taken hold as a national mission. You will never see garbage dumps as clean and efficient as those in Cuba. Crops are grown organically, bicycles fill the streets and herbal medicine is taught in every high school. Even a paper substitute, Kenaf, is grown in order to save trees.
Kevin added flour and more eggs to the mashed boniato to form the dumplings. Mashing and kneading, adding more flour, then more eggs, nothing seemed to achieve the right consistency. Instead, the gummy mixture stuck persistently to his hands, refusing the shape of a dumpling.
The dinner hour was all too rapidly nearing. We were expecting about forty guests, including some local opera stars and officials whose permission I had sought to hold the event in this state-run enterprise.
The La Floridita sous chef watched with puzzlement. Under his cap, Kevin's face lit with a new idea. He grabbed a rolling pin and flattened the mixture. The kitchen staff looked on with great interest as he broke off pieces and formed them into pancakes.
"Tortilla," he explained. They smiled and nodded, understanding nothing. This wasn't Mexico. Spotting a nice big griddle, Kevin put on the tortilla. After it had browned, he broke off a piece and we apprehensively tasted a bite. Delicious! With the flavor of roasted chestnuts. Success at last! Now Kevin put the staff to work, "Mas, Mas," he said as they eagerly patted out the tortillas and put them on the griddle.
Clemente presented Kevin with some lovely shrimp, and things were really looking up. Kevin chopped the tomatoes, onions, and peppers, and added black beans, capers and olives from the pantry. As the staff lined up to watch, he placed the tortilla on a dinner plate, spooned out the tomato mixture, which formed a bed for the shrimp, and topped it with a dollop of herbed mayonnaise made from those beautiful eggs.
"Tortilla Floridita," he announced.
Everyone smiled with great satisfaction. "Vive la Tortilla Floridita! Vive la Revolucion!"
Judy Wicks
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