In the 1920s, Andr? Breton described Cuba as the most surreal country in the world. In the 1990s, as the country emerges slowly from communism, a visitor can witness much weirder things than Breton would have seen. Take government policy on restaurants.
One of the first cautious experiments in private enterprise in Cuba is the paladar, the new private restaurant. The name derives from a venue in a Brazilian soap opera that was played on Cuban television a few years ago. The oddity is that a new word should be required at all. "Restaurant," after all, is an international word like "taxi" or "bus," and it serves as an entirely unambiguous beacon to the bedraggled tourist in search of his next feed.
There are reasons for this. Paladares started up underground, and underground activities are more inventive with words than officialdom. Now paladares are in competition with state run restaurants. To share the same word would suggest that they are on a similar footing.
Although paladares were legalised in 1993 after their prosperous beginnings in the province of Holgu?-n, they were banned in 1994 for being too successful. They were grudgingly permitted again last year, but this time eccentric regulations were imposed upon them. They must, apostolically, house only 12 chairs; employ only the family and pay stiff taxes. Also, because of complications over property, the owners of paladares must use their own living rooms or patios as their dining halls. As a customer at one of these outfits, the distinction between the private and the public can be disarmingly narrow: the commercial becomes exceedingly personal.
The regime is said to have serious misgivings. "He" (as President Castro is informally known) has inveighed against them in several speeches, suggesting that they induce inequality. This official scepticism ensures that paladares preserve their illicit nature, particularly as they make most of their money from selling illegal products, such as lobster and prawns, which are still the preserve of the state. In a vain effort to confuse the ubiquitous inspectors, the illegitimate shellfish is disguised by having its shells peeled away, becoming a lump of nameless white flesh: they are then branded with strange names such as beetle or butterfly. "Mariposa ? la Americana" (butterflies ? la Americana) is a favourite lobster dish. It is also safer not to have written evidence of one's wares: for that reason, menus are often produced as photograph albums, studded with hearts to indicate availability.
The crab which I ate at my first paladar on a riverboat on the Almendares was succulent. Its unlawful nature no doubt added to its flavour. But the black market is also quicker-witted than official channels: the food is correspondingly fresher.
The imposition last August of steep taxes (to be paid in both pesos and dollars) means that it is now imperative to make money if only to be able to afford the tax. The taxes have made professionals of these budding entrepreneurs.
The inspectors who tour the paladares can sometimes be "befriended." But in today's tense political climate, the inspectors are under greater pressure to inflict penalties against those prepared, for instance, to risk whisking out a chair to accommodate the 13th guest.
But proprietors may just keep one step ahead of the system. With an elaborate web of their own informers they can be warned of the imminent approach of a plain clothes inspector. In such instances, even slang is too risky: the usual form of indicating that the seguridad is in your midst is to slap two fingers on to your shoulder to denote the stripes on a military uniform.
In the countryside, the situation is looser. The state cannot rely on so many agents and paladares can dig themselves in more effectively. In a little town in Pinar del R?-o, Gustavo has grown rich and domineering: he revels in lawlessness but informs on rival establishments. The smile on Gustavo's face did not falter when I asked him why he had 45 chairs in his patio and so many staff to whom he referred as his "godchildren." As if to emphasise his fearlessness, pigs' heads hung from the awnings of his patio kitchen. He even told me of his illegal private hotel which undercuts the local state hotel. Some might say that he is a welcome forerunner of a free market. He is also an empire-building bully.
In spite of the anxiety (or perhaps because of it), paladares are the most delightful places to eat in Cuba. Their desire to please is far keener than in the stuffy hotel halls, or official restaurants, which are also deprived of local custom.
At some paladares the emphasis on the quality of the food is enough to ensure a regular clientele; others pull in customers by having topless waitresses or raucous cabarets; others are famous gay hang-outs; I even ate at a lesbian paladar. And the idiosyncrasies are endless. At one in a flat in the centre of Havana, flashing red Christmas tree lights were draped around the windows and a tapestry of a pine forest hung on the wall. The owner told me that Cubans were bored silly by images of palm trees; it is the pine tree which inspires their deepest fantasies.
With the passage of time, paladares will no doubt come to be regular restaurants. As Andr? Breton learnt in the 1920s, you cannot take the surface to be flat: it is forked.
