My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [74]
Wait, that’s not the whole truth.
I cut off the top, made the cats pose for pictures with it on their heads like a bunch of tiny little Carmen Mirandas, and then I threw it away.146
“You’ll want this.” He hands me a brightly colored can of Jupina. “I’d also get one of those.” He points to something toasty and golden in an encased plastic case next to the cash register. “It’s like a croissant, and it’s filled with guava and cream cheese. It’s called a—”
“Sold!” I shout. He’s a bit taken aback, so I explain, “You had me at croissant.” He grins and goes back to his cleaning.
I decide on the bistec, not because it necessarily sounds better, but because I’m wearing a yellow polo shirt, and I don’t want to dot it with ropa vieja splatters. The meal comes with rice, black beans, and plantains, and I’m interested to taste their slant on these dishes.
I place my order and pay, then wait on a stool by the window. The waiting area’s festive, full of photos of palm trees and sparkly beaches and happy fishermen reeling in giant swordfish.
When my food’s ready, I have to grip my carryout container by the bottom because it’s so heavy. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to eat it all, Fletch. Even if the smell practically intoxicates me on the way home and I have to struggle to keep my hands on the wheel and out of the bag for fear of getting a DWI.147
Once home, I arrange about a third of the meal on a plate. I lay down a bed of rice, top it with a piece of the bistec, and wedge my plantains in next to it. The black beans are the consistency of soup, so I put those in a ramekin. I tear off half of the pastry, and guava cream cheese oozes out. My intention is to save it for dessert, but I might not be able to wait.
I’m tentative at first because I can’t guarantee the meat wasn’t basted in kill-the-gringo chili peppers. But a few chews in, I realize the seasoning evokes a nice, smoky taste. There’re garlic and sweet peppers and onions, and nothing sets my mouth on fire. The rice is just right—not too hard, not too mushy, and the same can be said about the beans. The plantains aren’t sticky-sweet like they can be when they’re too ripe, and overall, the meal perfectly balances flavor and texture. The pastry’s creamy, tangy, and flaky—three of my favorite adjectives—and I wolf down the entire half, finishing it first.
Maybe there will be a little bit of International Donut Taste-Off in this. Shut up.
I take my time and savor each bite. I try pairing different things together—the tender rice is even better combined with the beans’ rich broth, and the mellow saltiness of the beef is enhanced by a chunk of plantain. And I realize everything’s more delicious when followed by a swig of Jupina, which is so magical, I have to call Fletch and narrate my lunch.
“Why has our country never created a pineapple soda?” I demand.
“Are you looking for a dissertation on America’s taste in nonalcoholic carbonated beverages, or are you being rhetorical?” he inquires.
“I mean, what’s wrong with us? We invented lightbulbs and telephones and the sixty-nine Mustang, but no one ever thought, ‘Hey, why don’t we throw a little pineapple juice into this here can of 7-Up?’ I tell you what, if I lived in a place that sold Jupina, I’d never leave.”
He snorts. “You do; it’s called Logan Square.”
“Pfft, you know what I meant.”
“Yeah, and yet with all that free and clear access to pineapple soda, can you believe some Cubans still float over here on doors and inner tubes? Sure is a mystery.”
“Don’t patronize me; I’m just saying the soda’s really good. Also, the country looks beautiful. I mean, Hemingway spent all that time down there, right? And on Road Rules: Semester at Sea, they visited Cuba because oily Veronica needed to meet her grandmother, which