Pizza for Breakfast

Preparing for my experience in Cuba necessitated my dismissal of preconceived notions and expectations. The dearth of information in regard to food particularly challenged my gastrointestinal preparation. Experience in other Latin American countries helped me a little bit as I knew not to drink tap water or raw vegetables. As a self-proclaimed hypochondriac I was fully prepared to abide by these “rules.” Despite my uncertainty, I new that rice and beans would be omnipresent on my plate.

Previous travel taught me that the American adaptation of a foreign country’s gastronomy typically results in tailoring cuisine for persnickety taste buds to such an extent that the end result is unrecognizable from its original form. Needless to say, I didn’t expect to be eating a lot of Cuban sandwiches. I also didn’t anticipate the range of scares and surprises I would find at every meal.

Breakfast served as the most static element to my dietary adventure in Cuba as each day began with eggs, bread, and a meat patty that a colleague of mine took quite a liking to. But, this rather inoffensive breakfast was accompanied by what would become a perplexing staple of our Cuban diet. Pizza. Much like other elements of Cuban culture, history, politics, and economy I eventually accepted this peculiarity, but never quite understood it entirely. However, over the course of the first week in Cuba, it became clear that country’s gastronomy is largely defined by availability of produce.

While we ate most of our meals at our residencia, we ventured out for lunch at establishments ranging from a fashion house that doubled as a restaurant to what appeared to be a room in a private home with a few tables and chairs. Regardless of the restaurant, the menu always acted as a guide more so than a guarantee. I learned quickly that an item’s appearance on a menu did not equate availability. As a group we became strategic with ordering and grumbled minimally when someone got the last chicken.

As I ate my way through Habana, I eventually abandoned expectation and stopped predicting what I would eat next. I shared my sympathies with those who had dietary restriction while accepting their invitation to eat whatever they couldn’t or wouldn’t. I learned to be advantageous and eat as much of what I enjoyed when I could, just in case something less enjoyable joined me at my next meal.

The moment I stopped paying attention to what I was eating was a memorable cultural experience that the entire group and I will likely never forgot. After learning about the history of religion in Cuba, we were led through the streets of Habana Vieja to what I recall was essentially a religious organization that was involved with community development. The organization invited us for an impromptu tour and lunch. After the quick tour we were led into a room at the back of a house where we were presented a lunch of yellow beans, rice, hard boiled egg, bread, and guava syrup (a dessert staple that we had already grown accustomed to). Despite the fact that we dined in a nontraditional dining area while seated upon stools reminiscent of a kindergarten classroom, the experience was rich and unforgettable…and for me, delicious. I can’t lie. I may have welcomed others’ leftovers too eagerly and certainly encouraged a friend to snag scraps of crunchy bread to dip in the guava syrup.

Traveling abroad requires digestive adaptation and a willingness to relinquish control of our dietary needs to those who eagerly prepare food that they are proud of and wish to share with visitors. While this certainly isn’t the case all the time, it certainly was in Cuba. Just as our stomachs adapted to a new diet, the attentive staff at our residencia quickly learned who was vegetarian, who welcomed extra meat patties, who needed that extra cup of coffee, and who devoured the pizza at breakfast.

Ultimately, I learned that the most important aspect of Cuban food is that you eat what you are given. In a country where ration cards determine what you can eat and how much you can buy, you learn to that necessity trumps cultural hypersensitivity. Observing the staff at the residencia it became apparent that they weren’t offended if you said you couldn’t eat something for whatever reason, but were visibly annoyed when something was left untouched on a plate. Perhaps, we can call this an instance of gastronomic diplomacy.

In retrospect, I hypothesize that Cuban food is similar to Cuban life and ideology. It’s beautifully simplistic without fancy accoutrements to distract you from your senses and basic needs. As a result, you appreciate the occasional surprise, like a buffet, much more than you would.

By Jeff Hutter