A great way to have an authentic local experience is to eat a meal in someone's home. We do just that at Paladar la Mulata del Sabor, just off Plaza Vieja.
Our host, seventeen-year-old Amarilis, is eager to start college in September. She goes to ISA, she says proudly. Instituto Superior del Arte.
Pretty, vivacious, and gracious, she chatters away in an eloquent blend of fractured English and body language as we wait for our meal.
It's a long wait. Thankfully, the tiny front room where we are is kept cool by three windows, an open front door, and two electric fans.
Every inch of space in this room is taken up by photos and myriad decorations. There are wall hangings, welcome signs, fairy lights, swags of gold musical notes, artificial flowers, Chinese vases, a Cuba license plate, a goldfish tank. In one corner is a raised stone table, almost like an altar, where a group of framed portraits are watched over by a Christmas angel. On the wall above is an elaborate script that presumably says GOD BLESS OUR HOME.
We check out the family photos lining the wall beside us and try to pick out Amarilis from among them. She tells us they are mostly of her grandmother and her older sister. There isn't a single one of her; she doesn't care to be photographed. She points to an empty picture frame and says, "That's me."
There's none of her mother either. She died of cancer at 47. It was the fifth anniversary of her death thirteen days ago. Amarilis doesn't like seeing photos that remind her that her mother is gone.
"She was my life," she declares. "My love, my friend, my boyfriend, my everything!"
What of her father? "No good! Party, party, party! No money!"
"I love you," she whines theatrically, ridiculing what is probably an oft heard refrain. The body language takes over. She scowls and pushes out her arm, an upright palm wordlessly defiant.
A pretty teenager who doesn't care to have her photo taken is a rare thing. This one doesn't mind talking about herself though. "I like music. I like all music except rap. I don't like hip hop. I love dancing. And pizza!"
The meal finally arrives. From her perch at the bar, only a few feet away from the tiny front room which would seat maybe ten people on a busy day, she watches apprehensively as I take my first bite of the house specialty. Chicken with rice and fried bananas. It tastes very much like our Filipino humba.
I flash her a thumbs-up and she breaks into a smile, mouthing a breathless thank you.
Later, I ask her if she cooks. No, it's her grandmother's boyfriend who does the cooking. She herself makes "the best mojito in Havana," she says.
Her grandmother stops at our table on her way out. She says hello and asks if we're enjoying our lunch. We sure are.
Sometime during our meal, a young man comes in, plants a quick kiss on Amarilis s cheek, and rushes on into the kitchen.
"My brother," she says. "And his friend," she adds, smiling brightly, as she moves to the window to chat with her brother's friend.
There's salsa music playing and she starts to dance. "Is that salsa?" Stuart asks.
"Disco," she says with a shy smile.
We ask if we can take her picture. She says yes. She quickly checks the result on Stuart's camera.
"No, not good! Take another one!"
Stuart takes another and another. She strikes a pose. And another. Then a picture with me. And another. She's a teenager after all, preening for the camera.
As we're about to leave, she says, "Maybe if you come back later tonight, we can dance salsa."
"You mean there's dancing here in the evening?" I ask.
"Only me," she smiles. "I'm crazy!"
