Volume 4, Issue 17
August 22 - September 3, 2002
1201 Delaware
303-278-8000
I'd been getting these uninvited email invitations to a monthly singles mixer and I'd generally ignored them, but when they scheduled their party at Cuba Cuba , I accepted the invite. I'd been dying to check it out ever since I passed the charming little house located on the corner of 12th and Delaware in the Golden Triangle. There was something enticingly Hemingway/Key West about the place.
I phoned up Yvonne, my one single pal who is as particular as I am about men and food, and made a plan. She was none too thrilled at the idea of the scheduled meat market, but the possibility of Cuban food and rum-filled drinks won her over.
As we stood in the entryway, we oohed and aahed over the tranquil blue walls, the floating white lights hovering like fireflies over the bar, the drums artfully placed between the waiting area chairs. The interior of Cuba Cuba had the same seaside, Gulf of Mexico feeling that had originally lured me there.
We were seated at a table looking out on to the patio, where we could scope out the other singles, who all looked as if they'd been there a while and had downed more than a few mojitos. We were not surprised to find that they were not really 'our type.' For most of these young men, their personal fashion revolution had ended around college. It was a strictly khaki shorts or pants and knit, collared shirt kind of crowd. A room full of the white bread of fashion. I . m far more forgiving than Yvonne when it comes to clothes. I'll accept open-toed shoes, and even khakis and polos, but for Yvonne, bad fashion was a total turn-off.
I had always felt that singles mixers have an air of desperation lingering under a thin layer of false informality that makes it impossible to really meet anyone, anyhow. So we turned our focus to the menu. As we walked in, Yvonne spotted the specials board, which featured an appetizer she insisted I must be introduced to . Lobster Ceviche . a centuries-old method of cooking by contact with the acid of citrus juice instead of heat. I was intrigued and agreed, but when the waiter came by with our drinks, we inquired about the specials and were stunned to hear that all the specials were gone . including the ceviche.
Disgruntled but undaunted, we scanned the menu and picked the empanada appetizer, and placed our dinner order. We ordered a half and half plate of Beef Picadillo and Shrimp Picadillo Empanadas. The little crusts were flaky and buttery, and the shrimp was tasty and with a little kick, but the beef was lacking something, it was bland and either needed to taste richer or spicier.
Strangely enough, in a very . It's a Small Denver . moment, I looked to the far corner of the room and recognized 'Tim,' my first internet date who I'd met and done a little drunken under-the-table fooling around with at the Cruise Room ( that I SO regretted the next day! ) . He was with a date and didn . t seem to be having a very good time. The stunning brunette he was with was looking off into space, obviously wishing to be elsewhere. I honestly didn . t know who to feel sorrier for. I pointed out the doomed date to Yvonne and we both were immediately happier about our so far man-less evening.
We nibbled on the appetizer and took another look around the room. One of the two rather attractive men sitting across the room from us suddenly noticed us checking them out and alerted the other fellow, who turned around to look. We blushed and they smiled, looking half amused and half ( okay, maybe this was hopeful) interested, and then turned back to their food. Yvonne and I both stifled an embarrassed giggle and tried to look composed as the waiter delivered our food.
I ordered a side of what, to me, is the best reason for eating Cuban food . hearty spiced beans against the sweet starch of fried plantains. I scooped my fork into the beans and caught up a piece of plantain. The beans were cooked to the perfect consistency, with the skin seeming to dissolve upon contact with the tongue. The plantains were golden and soft, and mixed nicely with the texture and flavor of the beans. After sating that craving, I moved on to the Bacardi Painted Mahi which also had a sweet side, as it was laid over a fluffy bed of boniato mash that had a yam-like taste. The Mahi Mahi was flaky and meaty, and though it had a nice mild taste and was well paired with the boniato mash, I couldn't tell what exactly the rum was doing for the fish. Yvonne, meanwhile, had dug into her Bistec al al Guajira, a mojo marinated steak, a long, thin piece of beef that she described as . fajita-like . and pleasantly garlicky and a little tangy from the mojo. She thought something a little less sweet than the boniato mash, which was also on her plate, would have been better with the marinated meat. However she did like the combination of the black bean sauce and the mash, which had a sort of gravy and potatoes texture and a satisfying taste.
Meanwhile we could see that the fellows we . d been exchanging glances with were conspiring with the waiter and soon we had a couple of fresh mojitos set before us, followed by the pulling up of chairs, exchanging of names, and commiserating over the bleak scene out on the patio. Who says you never meet anyone at singles mixers!
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