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Los Angeles Times Valley Edition | Glendale News-Press | 2005 October 8
A defenseless fish fueled my Cuban dream
BY PATRICK AZADIAN
A few Saturdays ago I ended up starting out the day later than usual. It was already mid-afternoon when I realized I was hungry. I had a tri-faceted dilemma: eat out, go over to mom's, or do my usual single-guy-who-can't cook routine. The latter involved a can of tuna originating from the Persian Gulf.
The steel packed tuna is not only exceptionally tasty, but it also awakens some second hand nostalgia in me. The fish is from a region where my dad was born.
But, despite its great taste and our common roots, on that particular Saturday my thoughts wandered off to all the possible environmental trauma the tuna may have faced before finding its way into the can.
No one knows when my dad's compatriot was canned. The region is rich in oil, and every time I look down an opened can, I wonder how much of the petro-hazards are intertwined with my tuna. I don't know of any Middle Eastern environmentalists, so I can assume the tuna is defenseless against all the pollution dumped into the Gulf.
In addition, the region has been in a constant state of war in the last few decades. First, it was a certain Saddam Hussein, who decided to inflict a seemingly meaningless war on his eastern neighbors, taking advantage of Iran's unofficial status as the region's outlaw. While the world stood silent with a wicked smile, he brought death and destruction to the innocent civilians of the region. In the process, he successfully tested all his latest war toys and chemical ammunition. I wondered if my tuna had consumed any of the hazardous elements or the bomb residues during this war.
Once the Iraqi leader was armed to his teeth, and his army was battle tested against Persian teenagers, he shifted his attention to invading his Arab brethren in Kuwait. We all know the outcome of that over-ambitious offensive. The dramatic images of the burning oil fields in the aftermath of the occupation were fresh in my mind. The burned deposits in the air must have gone somewhere; I wouldn't be surprised if some found their way into my beloved tuna.
The recent military conflict in the region must also be leaving its unique scars on the Gulf environment. Combine that with the presence of an Iranian nuclear power plant stationed at the southern port city of Bushehr, and it is not hard to see why I opted out of the tuna and headed down to one of my favorite food establishments on Brand Boulevard.
Porto's Bakery satisfies all five of my requirements for patronizing an establishment. It's family owned, it's local, the food tastes great and, as far as I know, it's free of war chemicals and radiation. Moreover, the place has a certain ambiance. When I speak of ambiance, I am not referring to a Moroccan-style lounge with a mélange of Arab-Berber-Ottoman music and floor seating suited for consuming koos-koos. The ambiance at this Cuban-American establishment is subdued and subtle.
The sounds of Salsa play in the background, yet they are not overwhelming. There seems to be a hidden message. "This is an authentic Cuban Bakery. But we don't need to shove it in your face with loud sounds, overwhelming decorations or colorful posters. Our food speaks for itself."
So what does an Armenian-American order at a Cuban-American café? A feta sandwich and a green salad.
I grabbed my "#22" before I making my way to a table. Waiting anxiously for my food, I wondered if this was a piece of Havana without all the self-imposed economic and ideological limitations.
I decided to soak up as much 'Cuban-ness' as possible.
A trio of older men was sitting all the way across the café. They were engaged in an animated conversation. The leader of the group was sitting in the middle. His white linen suit, pink shirt and white tie combined perfectly to give the table a tropical feel.
I was curious. Was the man in the middle reminiscing about the old days in Havana? Was the old man still homesick? Or was he recalling his memories of the cigar factory he began work in as a teenager before working his way up to become a 'lector' (a 'reader' of literature often employed at a cigar factory to entertain the cigar rollers)?
At some point my food had arrived and I had consumed it without knowing. It was time to leave the 'island.'
I picked up my tray and walked toward the trashcan near the trio. I head a familiar tongue:" As suryatseeneuh beedee chi dzuken Lipananuh hankeest mnah." My dream had been shattered, the 'islanders' turned out to be fake. They were Lebanese-Armenian and their deduction was gloomy: "These Syrians are never going to let Lebanon live in peace."
I snapped out of "mi sueño cubano" ('my Cuban dream'). I was in America. The unleashed spirit of entrepreneurship and the co-existence of the peoples from all over the world was all the proof I needed.
Copyright 2005 Glendale News Press
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