Anthony Bourdain, a world renowned chef and food critic—and as far as I know a happily married man—took me on a date to Los Amigos, a paladar that offers comida típica on the corner of M and 19th street. It was a breezy Friday night, and yet the paladar was hardly half-full. I was ushered to the best table in the house shoved between a tall leafy plant and a closet. From my seat I enjoyed the spectacular view of the faded yellow wall on which hung a picture of a picture of a single flower in a vase.
My man Anthony first introduced me to Los Amigos in an episode of his show, No Reservations. The episode focused on the Havana food scene, and tantalized me and millions of other viewers with scenes of savory looking dishes of meat served with hefty portions of perfectly seasoned arroz congrí and fresh vegetables. As I took my seat and glanced over the menu—which had more items whited out than listed—I started to think that my idol had deceived me. To be honest, the majority of Cuban food I have tried during my study abroad has been disappointing compared to the visions I had from the pictures in magazines and on TV. Screw it, I thought, as I accepted the inevitability of another bland meal.
When the waiter returned I ordered ajiaco cubano, carne asada, and a cerveza nacional. The waiter asked if I wanted lighter or stronger beer, and I quickly answered the latter. He laughed and then left. Ajiaco is a traditional Cuban soup made particularly famous by Fernando Ortíz who used it as a metaphor for Cuba’s ethnically and culturally diverse society. I figured I was obligated to try the dish at least once before returning home. I ordered the carne asada because it was cheaper than the ropa vieja, and I hoped the beer would help to wash it all down. As I waited for my food to arrive I pulled out my journal to write some letters home. In the past I had fallen out of the habit and worried the memories of my experiences had already begun to fade. But after my first slurp of soup I replaced my journal and pen back into my bag, knowing my letters would have to wait another day. I realized was presently too busy making memories to possibly record and reflect on past ones. With every spoonful I tasted bits of juicy tomato, soft carrots and potatoes, essence of corn that had been thrown in still on the cob, garbanzo beans, and meat so delicate and savory I could hardly tell it was pork. As I was halfway through the ajiaco, my second dish arrived.
I beamed down at my plate filled with large chunks of meat, a hill of arroz congrí, and sides of yucca with mojo, lettuce, tomato, and a single slice of beet. The meat had slowly been cooked in its sauce—I could tell because it melted on my tongue and the infused flavors spread quickly to every one of my taste buds. At one point I stopped chewing and sucked on the meat, relishing its not only existent but also savory and perfectly seasoned flavors. The arroz congrí was good, but made phenomenal when I poured what remained of my ajiaco on top.
As I ate, I did not text or call anyone or play a game on my phone; I did not read a book or write in my journal; I did nothing but sit quietly, enjoying my meal, letting myself think. I thought about the food and Anthony’s TV show and all of the other food and cities on the show and how I wanted to try and visit them all. For weeks I have anxiously tried to plan my post-graduation life, but I could never settle on a career or place for it. And then I understood that was it. In that moment I realized I didn’t want to settle. I wanted to sample everything, or almost everything.
This wasn’t the first time I had had this sort of revelation. In fact, I have at least one on every trip I take. In these moments I have no doubts I could live abroad, though simultaneously these are the moments I miss my mom the most. She’s also a fan of Anthony—in fact she’s the one who introduced us. She would love Los Amigos and its food, and she definitely would have stared along side me when the owner, who showed Anthony around Havana on his show, walked past the table. In truth, I’m a Mama’s Girl through and through. I always have been and probably always will be. She’s my best friend, and in a way my other half. That said, my other half is the fiercely independent girl she raised with the impossible combination of true grit and patience. I can see myself—in my twenties at least—always coming and going from home, living in other places and for a period, but always stopping back at home before my next sampling.