By Irina Pino
HAVANA TIMES – Last Friday, I reunited with a childhood friend. It had been over ten years since we last saw each other, and we decided to spend an entire day together. We wanted to relive our youth, those times when we’d go out and do silly things, take long walks, and do what’s often called “wasting time.” Of course, none of that can be reclaimed, much less repeated; nevertheless, the memories remain.
He came to pick me up in his car in the morning. It’s not a modern Lada, but he makes an effort to keep it in good condition, and it’s obvious he takes good care of it. He mentioned, though, that it often takes him hours, even days, to buy gasoline because in the city, there are long lines of cars waiting at gas stations to fill up, even though the price of gas has tripled. There is also more state and private transportation in circulation.
The first thing we did was head to Monte Barreto, a place later renamed the Ecological Park, covering 15 hectares and located in the Playa Municipality, stretching from 7th Avenue to 82nd Street. It’s a beautiful natural environment, with trees and endemic and local species. The big mistake, however, was building three restaurants there. The tranquility is now gone.
What we wanted was to sit under the shade of the trees, enjoy the harmony and greenery of the landscape, and especially listen to the birds. We both love peace and clean air.
Contrarily, none of that was possible. A nearby restaurant was blasting music (which is hardly music) at full volume, with lyrics riddled with profanities. The lights of the establishment, a kind of ranch-style structure, were all on, and the place was empty—only three workers were sitting around doing nothing.
After a while, we decided to leave. We wanted to eat something, and that place only had beer priced at 300 pesos.
We went to the Yang Tsé restaurant in Vedado. There was one table occupied by three men, chatting animatedly and drinking beer. For decades now, this place hasn’t served Chinese food, only maripositas (crispy wontons) and fried rice.
We placed our order. The waitress brought us pork steak and rice—a dish we hadn’t ordered. The woman seemed out of it and hadn’t even written down the order.
Then we decided to try the maripositas and fried rice. Both dishes were poorly prepared. The maripositas came without the sweet-and-sour sauce, replaced by a disgusting paste made of who knows what. The fried rice had bits of pork and cabbage. The only redeeming feature was the cold beer.
After that, we thought about going to the ice cream parlor beneath the restaurant, but the space had been rented out for a work center activity. In the end, we went to the ice cream parlor on 12th Street.
The scene repeated itself: only one table was occupied. We placed our order, and the employee warned us that the ice cream was soft because they were having refrigeration issues. The ice cream there is handmade and not bad.
Once again, the waitress brought us flavors we hadn’t ordered, along with an extra specialty. The scoops were pitifully small, served without wafers or biscuits. Honestly, it was embarrassing.
We assumed the waitress didn’t have paper to write down the order and that her memory was seriously flawed.
After all those mishaps and poor offerings (which didn’t surprise us at all), we came to a conclusion: in state-run establishments, there is a general crisis—poorly prepared food, missing ingredients, and high prices. That’s why no one goes there. They reflect the country’s economic and moral decay.
Finally, we ended the day at my apartment. My friend bought a bottle of wine, bread, and cheese at a private shop. We agreed to meet again, but next time we’d cook together. It would be more practical and cheaper.
Read more from the diary of Irina Pino here.
