FROM THE MARGINS
A defenseless fish fueled my Cuban dream
BY PATRICK AZADIAN
(Published: October 8, 2005, Glendale News-Press)
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 secondhand 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 on 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 ambience. When I speak of ambience, 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 ambience 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 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 trash can near the trio. I
heard 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.
* PATRICK AZADIAN works and lives in Glendale. He may be reached at
padaniaearthlink.net.