I strongly believe that there is an inverse relationship between how much you pay for Cuban food and how good it is. It's always a mistake to try to make Cuban food into Cuban *cuisine*; it's much better tasting when you pay practically nothing at the cheap places. The restaurant itself was fancypants, though there were some dissociative touches like linen tablecloths and napkins with paper napkins and tablecloths on top...it's as if they didn't know whether to hand us crayons to write on the tables or sneer at us. And the food...
Ok, I got a steak sandwich. Trying to economize, doncha know. I ate my frozen-then-fried fries and limp-handshake of a sandwich, all the while eyeing Leonard's scrumptious looking churrasco. Facepalm. Migs and I had a simultaneous eureka! moment when we realized why we hated the black beans: liquid smoke seasoning. For real? In Cuban beans? Meh. I tasted someone's pork and it was too salty. The Passion Fruit tea was tasty and not too sweet. Basically, it was a very uneven meal. Heck, I didn't even take home my leftovers, which is a highly aggressive act on my part. A virtual slap on Harry's face.
Luckily the evening was redeemed by drinks and smokes on MG's balcony, where the changing characters braving the humidity with me relieved potential loser discomfort. I even learned that, if you have the spins after a night of drinking, keeping one foot on the floor when you lay down in bed will stop that. And, here! If you look closely at this grainy, black & white photo taken from a great distance, there's the guy I'm dating! See? He does exist.
