The big heart of Little Havana
MIAMI, Fla. — We inhale the grease-scented atmosphere of El Ray de las Fritas, a brightly lit diner in Miami’s Little Havana that, with its row of red vinyl stools and chrome-edged counters, could stand in for the soda shop in “Happy Days” — if that soda shop had served batido de fresa and chicharron de pollo.
“I grew up eating these fritas.” My friend Cesar points at a blindingly white bun sailing by on a waitress’ tray. Under the bun is an enormous rectangle of ground beef completely covered by matchstick potatoes. “I’m still eating them.”
He takes out his phone to show me a photo of the Cuban-style hamburger on his Instagram account.
Current wisdom advises travelers to visit Cuba now, before everything changes. But from what Cesar has told me in the short drive from my downtown Miami hotel to this Cuban version of a ’50s diner, I’m beginning to believe the same holds true for Little Havana.
It’s not the opening-up of that forbidden island that will change this longtime Cuban outpost. It’s the new stadium that retired soccer star David Beckham is building in the adjacent neighborhood of Overtown. And the luxury apartments going up on Calle Ocho — the main street of Little Havana. And the swanky condominiums planned for a stretch of the Miami River on the edge of the district.
Not that Little Havana is any stranger to change.
Before Castro’s revolution filled its stucco houses with the Cuban old guard, it was a Jewish neighborhood. More recently, Little Havana’s Cuban settlers — and their children — have relocated to Hialeah and Coral Gables, to be replaced by new Latino immigrants from Nicaragua and Colombia. The shops and the music venues, the restaurants and cafes remain predominantly Cuban. But once those upscale buildings go up — and considering Little Havana’s proximity to Miami’s business district — it won’t be long before Little Havana loses its Latin accent and the sidewalks fill with yogamat-carrying, hipsterhat-wearing young professionals.
So the time to see Little Havana is now. And I’m seeing it with the perfect guide: Cesar Alonso, son of a Cuban bandleader. Cesar grew up in Little Havana, making the rounds of all these shops and restaurants and sidewalk coffee counters with his father.
And that’s where we land next, at a sidewalk coffee counter, waiting to be served a cortadito — that particularly Cuban combination of supercaffeinated coffee and milk, sweetened with just a bit of sugar. This main stretch of Calle Ocho (Southwest Eighth Street), between Southwest 12th and Southwest 17th avenues — the historic heart of Little Havana — has half a dozen of these coffee windows, and it doesn’t much matter where you end up, because they’re all good.
We’re getting our jolts at El Pub, a wide-fronted restaurant near a giant rooster dressed like Uncle Sam. (The rooster, it turns out, is the spirit animal of Little Havana.) On the counter is an orange water jug — the kind you can buy at any Lowe’s or Home Depot — with a stack of cone-shaped paper cups beside it.
“Every Cuban coffee place has one of these,” Cesar tells me. Why? “No idea,” he says, pouring himself a drink.
Properly caffeinated, we stroll Calle Ocho, our shoes scuffling over the Latin Walk of Fame — pink stars with the names of Cuban celebrities inlaid into the sidewalk. Gloria Estefan, Celia Cruz, Maria Conchita Alonso. We pop into Azucar, where the most popular ice cream flavor is called Abuela
Maria — a combination of vanilla and cream cheese, which tastes much, much better than it sounds. We check out the seat cushions made from old guayabera shirts and the somewhat startling portrait of Celia Cruz. Then it’s on to Domino Park, where Cuban men and women sit in the shade and clack dominos all day.
Cesar translates the park rules for me.
“No going shirtless,” he says. “That makes sense. But no shouting? No Cuban is going to be able to follow that one.”
A short distance away is the black marble monolith of the memorial to Brigand 2506 — the Cubans killed in the 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion.
His eyes on the eternal flame, Cesar tells me, “My father hated John Kennedy.”
I ask him the question I’ve been asking my Miami Uber drivers, all of whom are Cuban. Now that the country is open, does he plans to travel there? He says his mother-in-law wants to take the family. Show his children — her grandchildren — where she grew up.
“But it’s complicated,” he says, echoing what every Miami Cuban has told me. “My father’s brother went once. And he didn’t speak to him for a year.”
“Your father’s been dead a long time,” I remind him.
“Still,” he says, “I’d feel guilty.”
We cross the street to El Nueva Siglo, a supermarket that has a small restaurant inside — a long counter and a couple of tables. Cesar tells me it’s one of the best places in Little Havana for Cuban breakfast. In one of the aisles, he pulls out a contraption that’s basically two wooden sticks forming a T.
“The Cuban mop!” he exclaims. “Just put a towel over the short end and throw a bucket of water on the floor.” He demonstrates mopping in the middle of El Nueva Siglo’s housewares aisle.
That night, on Cesar’s recommendation, I go to Hoy Como Ayer, a music venue on the edge of Little Havana. When I call to book my ticket, it takes five minutes to find some- one who speaks English. When I arrive, I ask the doorman if I’m the only gringa in the place.
“No,” he says. “There are two of you.”
It’s a tiny, dark club, with dozens of photos of Cuban musicians on the walls. The singer is Cuban, and when her blue eye shadow runs — from sweat and tears — a man in the audience comes onstage with a stack of cocktail napkins. Each time she sings about Cuba, everybody in the place sings with her. Not one word of English is spoken — not even by my waitress — the entire night.
The next day, I stop by Versailles (pronounced Ver-say-yay by the locals). This mirror-walled restaurant turns up in every guidebook. But both Cesar and the Cuban Uber driver who takes me there say they have not visited in ages — at least not for dinner.
I go at 3 p.m. — Cuban coffee-break time — and drink my cortadito, which they make with evaporated milk (delicious) at the openwindow counter. I’m joined by a steady stream of Cubans — housewives with jangling bracelets picking up pastries before they hop back into their SUVs, a few older gentlemen, who sip their coffees before buying hand-rolled cigars from the glass case, a dad who props his son on the counter while he downs his cortadito.
A 10-minute walk away is Sentir Cubana, which at first seems to be any souvenir shop full of tchotchkes. But look past the refrigerator magnets and Parking for Cubans Only signs, and you can see this is where the Cuban old guard comes for their dose of nostalgia. The place is packed with vintage travel posters and prerevolution telephone books.
Cesar told me he found his mother-in-law’s house in one. This is where you can buy a domino table with a built-in groove for the tiles.
“One thing every Cuban family owns,” according to Cesar. Or toilet paper printed with Fidel Castro’s face.
It’s this shop — with its old photographs of Cuban league baseball players and prep school students — that reminds me of the current wisdom about travel and change. Because no place — even Cuba — remains the same anymore.
And isn’t that a good enough reason to go?