The best place for Cuban coffee and steak sandwiches. My friend Paul would disagree because he got food poisoning once and Dr.’s had to pump his stomach and he grew an ugly beard and didn’t want to see the light of day and basically tried to ruin our trip to the Bahamas on his boat by saying, “I’m still not healthy.”
The girl behind the counter was not Alexi, the thin elderly Cuban man who runs the place, and I inquired as to where he was.
Me: Alex not working today?
Girl: No, he’s in the back. You want me to get him?
Me: No, I’m just used to seeing him back here. You’re the first person under fifty I’ve seen behind the counter.
Girl: Yeah, I’m in high school.
Me: Oh. Skipping school today.
Girl: I’m on Christmas break.
Me: That’s right. You taking over the shop when you graduate?
Me: Don’t like coffee?
Girl: I do, but I want to go to college. This isn’t a job. I just help them cause he’s my grandfather.
Me: I’m sure he’s got a lot to teach about Cuban cuisine.
Girl: This place? This is not even a restaurant. It’s a dive.
Girl: There’s no waiter.
Me: You have-
Girl: No dining room. The only table we have is covered in ants under that tree. You having this to stay?
Me: Nope. To go. Thanks.
Girl: We don’t even sell water. The only water we got is in this big gatorade container, that he got when gatorade first came out; I don’t think it’s ever been cleaned.
At that point I put down my paper cup, tipped her a dollar and left.
The coffee was great as usual.