Whisking you away to Old Havana for a little Foodie Escapism on a Friday.

The people, the food, the culture of Cuba's Old Havana... there may have been rum involved.  The people were a pleasure and good food was hard to find (but when you found it - wow), the rum on the other hand was always nearby.

I fell in love with Cuba and Old Havana in particular.  I see what attracted Hemingway, it has a hypnotic quality a sense of possibility.  Even now, after so many years of communism and poverty there is a hopefulness and a sense of purpose that permeates every conversation.

And the MUSIC... so good it makes you weep.

It is a country and a people on a knife's edge.

I'm glad I saw it before it opens up... I shudder to think of it as one big strip mall speckled with MacDonald's.    Though I would like to see the control of food removed and fine ingredients put back in the hands of cooks who have been without for so long.

Now that is my kind of liberation.

La Floridita, had to have rum with Papa...

Every morning, no matter where you are, the sun comes up.   

I haven’t always been a morning person; I have the Dragonfly Inn to thank for that.   In my time as an Innkeeper, the early morning hours were precious.  No distractions, a quiet house.  It became “me” time...  a meditation... a cup of coffee... the Zen & the Zing.   

More than caffeine, coffee is a morning ritual for me.  The smell of it, the way it fills the room with a warm, heavy aroma.  In my travels through Central America, I thrilled each morning to wake up to some truly outstanding coffee.   

Of the many, three stand out in my mind; coffee so perfect in each moment that it made my eyes roll back in my head, a little moan escape my lips...      

... all the richness you'd expect from Mr. Coppola!

ONE:  Placencia, Belize; the Turtle Inn.

The Turtle Inn was one of my most indulgent moments; I stumbled upon it years ago while researching tourism properties and marketing direction for the Dragonfly Inn as I launched my own brand of hospitality.  More than any other, the Turtle Inn website was a profound influence, a Coppola Resort property (yes, Francis Ford Coppola...) their marketing was completely personal in its approach encouraging me to do the same.  Be personal.  (At the very least, shouldn't life be... personal?!)     

It was a dream come true to spend two days in the opulence that is Turtle Inn, greatly pampered - after a week in the atolls at an eco-resort, camping on the beach - to swim in a semi-private pool and indulge in Italian food and an amazing wine list and a setting so completely perfect that even I could not approve on it.    

Coffee service is one of the many little indulgences offered guests at the Turtle Inn.  Brewed fresh and brought to your door with raw sugar and steamed milk; the coffee offered is nothing short of a personal note from Mr. Coppola himself.   His favorite bean.  

A dark, rich, full bodied roast from Nicaragua.    

*Eyes rolling back in head moment. * 

The balance of a slight bitterness of a big roast levelled by the extreme sweetness of the raw sugar and the slight foam of the warmed milk.    

I sat in my Turtle Inn bathrobe, watching the iguana swim in my pool and imagined a conversation with my host, were he enjoying this cup of coffee with me... “So, Francis (do you mind if I call you Francis?  No?)  Ok... so, Francis, Godfather III... just a little too long don’t you think?”    

OK... so maybe its best if we stick to the topics of food and wine... it’s only polite.   

... 5AM, come on in, the coffee's great... had WAY too much caffeine on this day...

TWO:  Havana, Cuba; the Plaza Hotel

To be honest, the only thing good that I have to say about the Plaza Hotel in the heart of Old Havana is the fact that you can get an espresso, freshly pressed at 4AM.    

Horrid hotel.  Smelled like cheese.  I refused to sleep on the sheets.  The windows wouldn’t close and noise and lack of security kept me awake most of the night.  No sense lying there jumping with every honk of the horn outside my window.   Instead I found myself in the once glorious lobby(that smells less like cheese) watching Spanish music videos drinking Cuban coffee.    

Mmm... Cuban.    

Medium roast, mellow and even.  I’m a light and hot kind of gal.  If the roast is smooth I don’t need sugar... I’m sweet enough already.    

Cuban may be some of my favourite coffee.  It was readily available to take home in bean form and well as fresh ground.   I imported ten pounds of it.  It made my already heavy luggage even heavier and it was worth every penny!  As I write; I can see that big bag of ‘Cubanita, Cafe Arabico en Grano” just sitting there ---tempting me.    

But for the moment, I am occupied by the Honduran.   

... an evening coffee that became a morning friend... the Honduran... *sigh*

THREE:  Roatan, Honduras; the Vintage Pearl

After a big meal, some of the richest food I’d eaten in months on a journey that featured great food... the coffee at the Vintage Pearl Restaurant & Wine Bar was pure Honduran pleasure.  The aroma caught me before I had a chance to reconsider, as another diner enjoyed a coffee with dessert.    

Perhaps one of the greatest surprises in Honduras was its coffee.  Bold without bitterness.  Subtle but not shy. For my month in Roatan it was my daily intoxication.    

Heady.  Full.  A roast that I describe as “serene” in its intensity.   

Oddly, I found it hard to get Honduran coffee in whole bean form and trust me, I looked.  So I had to settle for ground. ‘Buenos Dias, la Muralla Mountain’ coffee is grown and roasted in Roatan.  The five pound bag I brought home is being carefully metered out every morning and when it’s gone I will miss it, terribly.    

It is the comfort of a friend who saw me through tears in paradise and came back home, to see me smile again.    

If there were four cups of coffee the fourth would be... this one... the Honduran, early, light and hot.  Just me and my pink fluffy bathrobe and a blank page. 

Here’s to ritual.  To mornings made tolerable by a warm brew.  To baristas the world over who handover our steaming addiction with a smile.    

May your cup runneth over, may it make your eyes roll back, may a sigh escape you...  

Never underestimate the power of a truly GREAT cup of coffee.

... a little Chez Gypsy coffee moment... HONDURAN!

In the heart of Old Havana, off Plaza de Armas, lined with book sellers and merchants, is a large awning covered outdoor restaurant lined with potted flowers and ferns – Cafe La Mina.

The open breeze and the colourful scenery of the square makes it an enjoyable spot of lunch or in our case, dinner.

The menu was huge, massive in fact.  Perhaps this is a testament to the fact that it serves 24 hours a day.  Personally I’m a big fan of any restaurant that houses chickens and peacocks... as pets.

That’s just not something you see every day on the way to the ladies room... a peacock... or a rooster.  Ways you know you’re not in Kansas Dorothy.

Perhaps more than any other food in the world, Cuban food has been shaped by politics.  Embargo's, restrictions and shortages dictate availability and to thrive, Cubans adapt.  Many restaurants are owned by the government and those that are privately owned are governed by extraordinarily strict rules that include not serving shrimp or lobster.

When looking for something traditional, the true flavour of a place, a country, a city, sometimes all you have to do is ask.

 “What would you recommend for a traditional Cuban meal?”

Low and behold, a whole different menu appears, one that does not include pizza or hamburgers.  Now, this is what I’m talking about.

The Cuban Pork Stew, black beans and yellow rice and a traditional pork dish in mojo.

In Cuban cooking mojo is any sauce made with garlic, olive oil and a citrus juice, traditionally sour orange juice. Yellow Cuban rice, flavored with achiote or annatto oil to give it that yellow colour and slight peppery flavour. This plate looked gorgeous - colorful and comforting - but as soon as it hit the table my nose went into overdrive.

“Don’t eat that...” my companion, Texas, put down his fork.  “Do you smell that?” he said holding up the plate.  “Oh yeah, I can smell that.”  Nothing worse than rank meat.  How the kitchen could miss it, I have no idea.

It only takes one bite of anything “off” to ruin a holiday.  This Gypsy’s rule of thumb:  Never, ever eat something that smells bad – unless it’s cheese.

Not every meal can be perfect, mistakes happen and sometimes, as diners, we need to send something back to the kitchen.  How an establishment deals with that can make or break a dining experience for me.  This was one of those times.

Away it went, quickly replaced by the Traditional Cuban Combo - a massive meal.  Reminiscent of a large Italian meal served in four courses, but rather than the Italian style of relaxed leisure this was a Cuban rush.

I believe this may have been due to the fact that I had my big, fancy camera out, taking pictures of food.  Drinks arrived.  Then more drinks arrived... along with course after course in rapid succession.  Thought I might burst... but the flavours were so subtle and truly enjoyable, worked my way through as much food as I possibly could.

Tamal En Casuela

Corn, a staple through the Caribbean is handled differently everywhere.  In Mexico, we have the tamale;  a corn porridge, wrapped in leaves, layered with pork and vegetables then steamed.

In Cuba Tamal En Casuela; a similar corn porridge, cooked in a pot,  used as a base for tasty stews, served on the bottom of the bowl or served alone as an appetizer, which I just loved.   Like Grits; made with corn meal, savory as opposed to sweet, an amazingly filling treat.   Black Bean soup is among the few indigenous foods that have remained part of the modern Cuban cuisine.  Tender beans are mixed with garlic; onions and spices, then cooked low and slow to thicken often accompany a mail meal.

There is always a pot of black beans in a Cuban kitchen alongside - or mixed with the rice (I truly love a good 'dirty' rice).

The fish was a grouper, barley seasoned.  Cooked over a high heat, seared perfectly.  If there is one thing I could never complain about in Cuba it was the fish.  It was never over cooked, always completely fresh and served in the simplest fashion.

Melted in my mouth like butter.  With fish this fresh why would you mess with it?  In Cuba... order the fish!

As a special treat, a glass of freshly squeezed sugar cane... and I do mean freshly squeezed.  Cranking the mechanical arm and pressing the fresh cane through the machine a creamy milky juice emerges, skimmed and served.

It was decadent... along with a Cuban coffee...

Cuban Coffee, a rich medium roast.

Nothing like Flan... served cold on a hot day.

To finish - Flan de Clabaza, a light custard style, short crust desert.  Sweet, smooth custard baked and served in a sugary syrup, beautifully plated, was the perfect end to a rather massive meal.  Thought I was going to need a litter to carry me through the streets of old Havana to hail a cab.  Instead we enjoyed a walk along the sea wall, the salt breeze making the night complete.

On warm evenings Cubans line the seawall in Havana, socializing, drinking enjoying a picnic.  Lovers, families, grandparents, some with a line in the water in the event that tomorrow’s dinner might come along.

When asked our cab driver (and local guide) Ernesto about this,  he laughed  “Well, if you like your girlfriend you look at her, so beautiful, sitting on the wall... the ocean wind in her hair.  And if you don’t... you just push her over.” 

The boys laugh and laugh.  Ha ha ha...

Think I’ll skip that Cuban tradition and stick to the food thingy.

*rolls eyes*

Men.  Gotta’ love ‘em.

Cafe La Mina     Obispo 109 esquina Oficios
La Habana, Cuba 10100 

 Phone:+53 7 620216              

On this little “life from scratch” journey Mexico was... rest.  Belize was... recreation.  And Cuba?  Rebellion?  Revolution?  Nope.  Resolution. 

Resolved... to find the food that fuels its lovely people, the food that sustains its pulsating beat, I was determined to find... FOOD!       

By day three in Havana I had to ask “Where do people shop?”  Translation: "I’m just a nice girl from Canada, please direct me to your grocery store."        

I’m used to stumbling into them, food in the streets and fruit on every corner and fish at the local dock... like every other corner of the Caribbean... but food was much harder to find on the streets of Havana.  Like everything else in Cuba, food is highly regulated.  There are limitations and regulations on everything from how many seats a restaurant can have to how much any one farmer is allowed to sell and... where.          

Restaurants were hit and miss.  Street food was limited - sandwiches mostly but on beautiful Cuban bread.  Cuban bread reminds me of European bread, light and flavourful with great body and a thin, crisp crust.  Turns hard as a rock after a day or two.    There's pizza... ever have a tuna pizza, with mayo? No?  Hmmm.  Think tuna melt... had to try it, right?!       

One of my best finds was this amazing little bakery about five blocks from La Floridita on Calle Obispo, the pastry was light and sweet with a heavy Spanish influence.    And everywhere there is flavoured ice... and rum.  There is always plenty of rum.  Good rum, no GREAT rum.  At the "Revolution Museum" you can have a drink at the bar... what could be more appropriate than a Cuba Libre?!  Yup... had to.       

Where were we?   Right.  Take me to your food... woman can only live on rum for so long.  People fish over the seawall, but were is the fish?       

This... is what taxi drivers are for!  “Take me to your market!”  Ernesto obliges!        

First stop, in New Havana a market for the locals... fresh meat... fresh fruit... fresh veg... fresh herbs and flowers.  The market is a frame with a roof, and a small side building - all the vendors huddle in the shade on this particular 30* day.  Open from 7A to 1P... get it while it’s fresh before the flies do.        

Meat is kept on ice, in coolers.  Fruit and vegetable are picked in season and ripe... eat it, cook it... now.  In Cuba (and most Caribbean countries), the food is cooked to death, so I had no issue with eating anything, once I found it.        

Next stop... Old Havana.  An old warehouse, and Farmer’s Market.  The roof is half blown away and the walls look like they may collapse at many minute but inside you can get what you need.        

Stacks of papaya and pineapple.  Bags of beans and rice.  Herbs for cooking and for medicine.  Right next door... the meat.  Still running around.  Now that’s fresh!        

Cuba made me realize, like never before, just how spoiled I am.  Spoiled by choice and selection.  Spoiled by convenience in a consumer driven economy.  We are so very, very spoiled.       

Gypsy confession: I don’t want to kill my own chicken.  Don’t get me wrong, I grew up on a farm.  I’ve done that stuff... pulled calves, plucked chickens, ate stakes that had a name on them... all part of life.  My grandmother always said "if you give something a good life it passes that life on to you."        

I am grateful to the pig... for bacon, but I like that bacon in a brown wrapper.       

Thank you... for bacon.

In Cuba, there is no such thing as a MacDonald’s or Wendy’s or a jar of pasta sauce or a frozen pizza .  You have two choices:  slow food or no food.  I'm down with that, but think about it...  how many different kinds of frozen pizza are there are your local super market?  Did a little recognisance on this, popped out in the middle of writing this (back in my comfortable life) to the local grocery store and counted.        

Seven different brands and...  78 different frozen pizzas to choose from.         

Feeling... spoiled yet?        

The markets, a colourful day of Cuban resolution.  Seeing, smelling, tasting... FRESH Cuba!      

Ernesto... our guide for a week in Havana, old and new... thank you!

Chef in Profile: Executive Chef, Silvano Cruz - the soul of Sol Cayo Largo, Cuba. 

On the shores of Cuba’s Cayo Largo de Sur - a tiny island in the Caribbean off the south west coast of Cuba - stretch miles of sandy white beaches. A haven to tourists; I was warned, “if you‘re offended by nudity, this is not a place for you”.         

Good news. I’m not offended by nudity. Let freedom reign. Get your knickers off and jump in the ocean, lie in the sun and be one with nature.  Which way to the beach?         

In need of 'ease' after a few potholes in the road between Mexico and Cuba, I found myself doing something I don’t usually do... an all inclusive resort.         

Sol Cayo Largo – a four star resort spreads over several acres, centering around two large saline pools with winding pathways linking dozens of two story units, that look like wooden sided buildings but in reality are made of solid concrete.  It's safe to say that hurricanes hammer this little strip of land with regularity.         

Land crabs scurry as you walk, followed by feral cats and the occasional tiny lizard. Black humming birds dart among the hibiscus, salt fills the air and sticks to the skin on windy days as the surf pounds against the shore.         

We arrive via Russian prop plane from Havana, it’s loud, bumpy and dark, I'm grateful a short trip. Forty-five minutes start to finish and we arrive, to tropical heat, Cuban music and dancers in skin tight pants.         

Herded on to buses it’s minutes to the resort and... I’m staved.  Up at 4AM running only on Cuban coffee... this is a gypsy who needs snacks. We check in and make our way to the main buffet for breakfast and suddenly... I’m impressed.         

Tables of steaming chafing dishes filled with everything from bacon and sausage to French toast, cold trays lined with cheese and meats, cereals and yogurt, platters of fresh fruit, a table mounded with bread, another brimming with pastries and along the back wall, hot stations serving omelette's made to order and crapes - fresh and fast and fresh.  Coffee and juices served table-side and in minutes I'm fed and happy.          

This is home for four days. Eat. Drink. Lay in the sun. Swim if you want. Watch World Cup Soccer at the bar. Have a nap in the shade. Then do it all over again.         

We came for the SCUBA but never made it in the water due to high seas and heavy weather, we made due instead sipping rum at the swim up bar and indulging in a bit of people watching.         

Blue-white Russian tourists burn the first day, it takes two days for them to emerge again. I practice my bad French and my worse Spanish as staff speaks Spanish, French and Italian before speaking English it’s a decidedly European atmosphere.         

Lunch is an option of 'Las Dunas', the snack bar by the pool 'Lindarena' at the beach I choose beach, every time. The large, open air thatch building looks over a rocky shore lined by a strip of sand like icing sugar. A cold buffet, salads, pickles, fresh breads meats and cheese a choice of soups and a light, tight menu from the busy grill – grilled whole snapper, a burger, a rotating meat choice often another fish and a lovely fresh calamari; crisp, gently seasoned, perfectly battered then deep fried.         

Naps. Beach. Drinks. Calamari.  Salad. I could get used to this.         

Dinner. Les Trinas, Sol Cayo Largo's la cart restaurant requires reservations - the Food Gypsy in me opts  instead for the main dining hall and buffet, where those same steaming dishes brim with curries, rice, fish, savoury meats, a perfectly roasted hip of beef/pork or grilled salmon and trays of vegetables.         

Cold trays of cheese and deli re emerge, platters of fresh tropical fruits watermelon, papaya, cantaloupe, pineapple, a dozed varieties of fresh breads, cakes, pies, tarts, trifles and puddings.  Drawn again to the back wall I find three hot stations with fresh pastas, stir-frys and seafood. I wait and dig into giant shrimp doused in garlic and lime.            

It’s easy to eat... everything!            

So when I met the charming Silvano Cruz, Executive Chef along the path one bright day I could not help but ask what it takes to feed this small army of people without a care in the world, wandering from pool to beach from meal to bar on this little barren piece of limestone rock.            

Something you just don’t think about on vacation... the people working.            

Chef Cruz is a Mexican Chef working in Cuba. Originally from Acapulco, cooking is in the blood, growing up in both his mother’s kitchen and... his father’s. Silvano followed his father’s footsteps into the kitchen and never looked back.            

Educated in California, Cruz has worked resorts throughout the US and Mexico and now finds himself and his young family on the Caribbean, where his great indulgence, his solace from the heat and hurry of the line - is his garden.            

Growing under black protective sunscreens you find fresh herbs; basil and thyme and row upon row of mint... for the hundreds of Mohitos served every day.  He is currently replanting, loads of manure at the ready and young plants, peppers and tomatoes just waiting to be loved.  He examines tender leaves, turns over the soil in his hand, the gentle hand of a gardener.            

This is his favourite place, where he does his thinking, his breathing, his talking to nature.  All great cooks talk to nature.                    

Chef Cruz smiles as he tours me through a labyrinth gleaming white hallways; huge locked pantries stacked to the roof with supplies and guarded day and night, cold freezers and meat cutting rooms, rows of stainless steel counters and scrubbed stations that are the inner workings of this gigantic kitchen.              

Everyday forty-six chefs report to work baking, cutting, filleting, chopping, stewing, braising, roasting, saucing. Every day this team feeds up to a thousand people, both gusts and staff -  three meals a day - and anything in between.              

Every day there is a new meal plan and every day there are challenges to be met in a place where there are no stores, very little is gown and everything arrives by container by sea.              

Fruit, vegetables, pork and seafood from Central America, beef from Argentina, salmon, bacon and yes, maple syrup from Canada.              

Weekly shipments arrive with every possible necessity... sometimes. Therein lies the challenge – what replaces ginger when the meal plan calls for Ginger Beef - and no ginger arrives. Nothing is sure.              

"That is my greatest challenge [here], how to stay creative working with what we have."  He shrugs, and smiles. “We always think of something.”              

We all do.              

“It breaks my heart when we try so hard and guests are upset” he says looking away with that familiar pain behind his eyes, smiles and looks back. “I know what you mean” I say, and I do.  That is a look I know well; it is the look of one who lives to feed, who pours his heart into every meal. It shows, the adaptable menu, the freshness, the lean to satisfy every taste.              

“It’s all about the guests, we do it all for them.”              

Sun. Salt. Sand. Afternoons by the pool. An all over tan.              

My memories of Sol Cayo Largo are fond... thank you Chef Cruz for making it... all about me. I loved every bite!              

http://www.solwayscuba.com/hotels/cayo-largo/hotel-sol-cayo-largo/?gclid=CJLLmMW3yaMCFZxo5Qod9QMmug              

Good to the very last... bite

Tourists lounge by the pool.  Taut nubile bodies in high-cut bottoms and slack pale bodies with no right to “Speedo”.  Bless Brazilian women.  Bless European men.   He strides by with the same confidence as she - her naked, round rear half exposed in the sun... him... flashing as he walks. 

I’m just here for the sun. 

One must assume that he purchased that Speedo in 1976. It makes me wish Speedos had an expiration date, slowly rotting away in a drawer only to be left with a tag that reads “Sorry Monsieur, we regret to inform, you are no longer Speedo material”.  I suspect that, if this were the case, he would immediately purchase another.  There should be a licence for such things. 

If nothing else it amuses me.  I practice diverting my eyes.  No books to read, I am content to lean back and watch the clouds go by.   Mist swirling into mist appearing and reappearing.  To the left, a black cloud looms, Havana’s 2 o’clock shower. 

High above us floats a bright butterfly.  Oblivious, it flits along its way, drifting on the breeze on an uncertain course out to sea and just as quickly it’s snatched from the skies by a stealthy swallow. 

Gone is the butterfly. 

Snuffed out and fed to chirping baby birds under the eaves of the Copacabana.  I am reminded how precious freedom is.  Easy and carefree one moment, crushed the next. 

Everybody’s gotta’ eat.

Gathering my things I join my companion, Texas, at table near the sea wall, in the shade.  We're having a lazy day.  It’s not long before the rain starts.  Gentle showers, then without warning, it gushes buckets and sends even the children - delighting in playing in a pool with water that bounces up - scurrying for cover. 

Everybody out of the pool, and into the rum.  Except the kids of course. 

As I sip my Cuba Libre, I ponder... the butterfly... the sparrow... the cloud... the nature of liberty. 

The uncertain future of a nation on the knife’s edge of change.  Will beautiful buildings now compelling become an endless stretch of MacDonald’s and Starbucks in a homogenized post-communist Cuba?  What will become of her people when it is again franchised by America?  Will there be equality in change or simply more disparity?  Time will tell. 

I am grateful to have seen it, flawed and imperfect, still gripping to its ideology, but, everybody's  gotta' eat.  Until then... there is music and beauty in everyday and the smiles of a people so welcoming... I wish them wings. 

Such is a day in Havana.