This is a French 75. It looks wimpy and inappropriate for most drunken occasions. I have often found myself in the middle of a sports bar delicately sipping on a champagne glass adorned with a lemon peel while a bunch of sweaty bros elbow me in the face during a celebratory cheer.
They don’t know the secret.
Everything about the French 75 is deceiving. The fragile glass. The bubbly champagne. The stupid, curly lemon peel. It’s secret weapon is a healthy dose of gin h…Continue Reading
“Do not underestimate this book, mi hija,” my mom tells me as she hands over a book with a faded pink cover, an artifact that’s been in our house since the beginning of time.
“This book smells like café,” says my sister, scrunching her nose as we pass the book around the kitchen.
As I page through the coffee-stained pages of my mom’s copy of Nitza Villapol’s Cocina Criolla, which is pretty much the Cuban cooking bible, I see familiar characters from my upbringing. There’…Continue Reading
Every morning before school, I’d wake up to the familiar clink-clink-clink of a spoon stirring around a metal cup as my dad toiled over the morning’s coffee. The smell of roasting Bustelo wafting toward my bedroom only meant my dad would come lumbering in any second now to drag me out of bed and into my school uniform.
As an adult, the daily clink-clink-clink sound became the promise of an awesome, new day. Sweet, delicious cafecito is here to punch you in your face, and yo…Continue Reading
When I traveled to Spain on my honeymoon, I went absolutely ape-shit on the concept of tapas the second I stepped foot in the country. Eating forty-five meals a day and mid-day naps were within the realm of what was socially acceptable, and I was prepared to integrate into the local culture ASAP.
I must’ve been on my tenth meal and ready for a siesta by the time I walked into this one tapas bar in Seville, a city in the Andalusian region that’s as rich in architecture as it…Continue Reading
I used to be a very picky eater, a likely result of my mother cooking the same rotation of seven dishes for the entirety of my childhood. This perfectly orchestrated dinner schedule suited my risk-averse personality, and the fact that my parents are Cuban meant dinners always comprised of protein, rice, and magic mom sauce.
On weekends, we deviated from the traditional and went for some “outside” food — cheese pizza from Pizza Hut or some lo mein and orange chicken fr…Continue Reading