The potato arrived. That phrase, hung on a billboard in the bodega or shouted in the middle of a vacant lot, is enough to put Cubans on a war footing. Hunger, shortages and the possibility of arriving last in a robust, endless queue are enough to make anyone nervous. However, with potatoes there is an additional factor: you have to watch the truck and chase the precious tuber faster than the other neighbors.
Those who face the queue know the routine: a bag or trolley, a well-charged cell phone, water and a pill to calm the nerves, although the latter is almost impossible to achieve. There is already a considerable group of buyers on Arango street, in Luyanó. Now, everything is a matter of luck and a lot of patience.
When the eyes adjust to the sun and the body has found a place in the shade –without neglecting the turn, always in dispute by “clueless” who aspire to sneak in–, the dilapidated panorama of Arango can be better appreciated, the awnings patched up various Times and peeling walls.
The first thing to dodge is a kind of ditch that the tail crosses because, if you go in flip-flops or with broken shoes, it is likely that the stinking water will run through your fingers. The people who are already approaching the counter, especially older people and professional choleros, comment with indignation that the price “on the street” already exceeds 250 pesos per pound.
The rationed potato, which the State sells for 11 pesos per pound, is of very poor quality. An old woman sniffed the tuber before the seller’s impassive gaze and did not hide her disgust. “How bad they smell,” she snapped, placing the wrinkled and still dirt-smeared potato back into her place.
Most of the customers dream of preparing French fries, one of the “impossible delicacies” on the Cuban table, but only if they get the oil.
At the San Miguel stall, between San Nicolás and Manrique, in Central Havana, the workers took advantage of Good Friday and declared that they were only going to open until noon. “We are going to dispatch 50 shifts!” They settled, “not one more.”
Most of the clients dream of preparing french fries, one of the “impossible delicacies” on the Cuban table, but only if they get the oil. Others will boil it to make some other recipe. Some, however, will try to resell the amount they can buy for a much higher price.
When the aggressive sun of Centro Habana subsides, one of the lucky ones returns home almost dancing, with a modest bag in his hands, and improvises a reggaeton: “Papa! Let’s eat mashed potatoes!”
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