Smoked Pork Chops in Cuba

Photo: WordRidden In 2002 Barnaby and I flew to Mexico City, then hopped another plane bound for the beautiful land of Cuba. (Knock, knock, knock. Excuse me, I think that must be the Department of Treasury at my door). Barnaby was there legally as part of the Havana Film Festival. I, on the other hand, was the renegade American. I smiled a big I'm-so-happy-to-be-here grin at the Customs agent who looked at my passport and handed it back to me unstamped. "Welcome to Cuba," he said, sporting an even bigger grin. I felt naughty being there. And I liked it. Havana is like a beautiful aging actress whose lipstick bleeds and foundation is cakey. You see signs of her former glory, her sexiness, her mystique, but the luster has left long ago. All she needs is a face lift and a good shot of Botox. On our first night venturing out for food we were approached by a jinetero, which literally translates to "jockey" but more loosely to hustler, who escorted us to a paladar. Paladares are small, unadvertised family owned and operated restaurants. In exchange for high taxes the government allows families to operate these restaurants, but they must seat no more than 12 people at a time and serve only local food: pork, seafood (if you're lucky) black beans and rice (Moors and Christians) and simple salads. The nice thing about paladares is you get good quality home-cooked food while experiencing Cuban culture. Being unadvertised we didn't mind the aid of the jinetero. In fact, each night we welcomed the help of jineteros. Being fluent in Spanish it was easy for Barnaby to ask about the paladar to which we were being taken. One such place specialized in smoked pork chops. We'd had a lot of pork so we welcomed the new cooking method and told the jinetero we'd love to go. His friend ran ahead to tell owners we were coming. Apparently not many Americans visited this mostly locals only place so I'm sure the finder's fee was good. Down one quaint run-down street after another we went until we found ourselves in front of a once grand old home. We rang the bell and the door opened. Up the narrow staircase we climbed to another gated door. We were greeted cheerfully by a flamboyant transvestite who owned the "not so legal" paladar with his lover. We invited our two new jinetero friends to join us for lunch and the four of us embarked on the meal of a lifetime. For us, sitting in an unknown, impossible to find gem of a restaurant in a forbidden country; for them, eating a meal they couldn't afford. The lovers gave us a tour of their sparkling kitchen that was part cooking lesson, part La Cage aux Folles. I loved it. They brought out heaps of flavorful beans and rice, salad, ice cold beers, and the pièce de résistance: their smoked pork chops. To this day I have yet to have a more succulent, tender and juicy piece of smoked pork. Delicious ones indeed I have found at Latino markets in the U.S., but none that quite compare. They were that good. They were ebargo-ending good.