Ambrose
Little
Havana
A review of Little Havana's newest restaurant
By Bernal Santos
12 min read.
⭐⭐★★★ (Delicious, but not very true to form.)
When I first heard the news that celebrity chef Chaz Ambrose would be opening a Little Havana location in the nexus' Tourism Sector on the 26th of July, I must admit, I was skeptical. Mister Ambrose is no Auguste Escoffier — this much I can ascertain by simply stepping into any of his other restaurants worldwide. He is more of a culinary chameleon; adapting the local dishes into his own style and bending them to his mediocre vision of mass-produced food for the masses. And when I found out Mr. Ambrose was opening a location in my hometown in cooperation with Marshall, Carter, & Dark, I was bereft of joy.
For as long as Cuba has existed, it has known hunger. The Taino who lived there prior to the arrival of the Spanish were subsistence farmers at the mercy of cruel hurricanes and unpredictable weather. The Spanish brought with them slavery, sustenance farming, and an insatiable appetite for local delicacies, which were obtained through, yes, you guessed it, slavery.
This continued even after Cuba gained its independence, with the common people being ruled over by an elite bourgeoisie, all of which culminated in the Revolution of 1959 which saw Fidel Castro rise to power over the little island. Socialism brought with it its own challenges, such as being shut out of most trade and becoming isolated, which of course, led to further hunger in the island. Modern Cubans— at least most of them — are surviving off of ration cards and whatever they can forage in the land and sea.
All this to say, Cuba truly knows hunger. So where does this put a "fine" dining restaurant based on the cuisine of the Pearl of the Antilles?
Let's dive in.
Arriving
Upon arriving at La Joya del Caribe — Marshall, Carter, & Dark's luxury hotel built at the side of Sierra Plata in the Tourism Sector of Little Havana — I was greeted by waitstaff. Something I noticed immediately was their elegance and attention to detail. Most Ambrose restaurants around the world are staffed by pimply-faced teens and slobs off the street. This was not the case here; every interaction was highly professional and calculated. This was my first shock of the night. Perhaps something had sparked a change in Mr. Ambrose, making him more interested in maintaining an upscale operation. Or perhaps it was just the fact that Marshall, Carter, & Dark are bankrolling this operation, and they expect nothing less than excellence. I do wonder.
Anyway, I must admit, dear reader, that this waitstaff was excellent. I was greeted by name the moment I walked in the door, as if I were an old friend they hadn't seen in years. The warmth with which I was guided to my table was unparalleled. To further add to my surprise, the fact they already knew I wanted a Cuba Libre to whet my appetite was a pleasant one to say the least.
Unlike most bars I know, the mixologist who prepared my drink knew not to add the lime to the drink, and instead leave it on the rim as garnish for me to add in myself.
My Cuba Libre.
For my underage, alcoholically challenged, or prohibition-practicing readers, a Cuba Libre is a very simple drink made in a highball or Collins glass full of ice. It is one part rum, and two parts cola. As previously mentioned, many will add in fresh lime juice rather than wait for the drinker of the beverage to squeeze it in themselves, something I find uncivilized, but was, again, not the case here.
The waiter who sat me down was kind enough to inform me that the rum utilized in this recipe came from molasses sourced from Little Havana's finest sugar refinery, El Rey del Azucar. He also let me know the rum was aged 8 years in a cherry barrel which once held bourbon. The cola was slightly less impressive, but it was also made in Little Havana by a local bottler that also uses Little Havana sugar. Sugar grown in Little Havana can exhibit anomalous properties, and the waiter told me El Rey del Azucar specifically grew theirs to the taste of molasses without needing to mix them in, as well as included an anti-cavity causing anomaly. This type of behavior is most unusual for Mr. Ambrose— he typically sources his ingredients from Sysco, so I was initially a bit skeptical.
However, the more I drank, the more assured I was of its quality. The drink was strong, intoxicating, sweet, and sour. Everything a Cuba Libre should be, and yet, something was missing.
The Appetizer
To say that the average Cuban doesn't really engage with fine dining culture is an understatement. Would one know what an appetizer and entree are? Sure, they speak the language of food in Little Havana and Cuba— they have to in order to entertain guests from Three Portlands/Eurtec and Canada, but the average Habanero and Cuban does not know what it means to take part in a three course meal.
This is why I find it so ironic that before I knew it, there was a plate of tostones rellenos con camarones, or in English, "fried green plantain stuffed with shrimp", sitting right in front of me.
Tostones rellenos con camarones.
My waiter informed me that the shrimp had been caught this very same morning off the coast of Bahía de Santa Barbara, a secluded fishing spot in Little Havana which produced sapient seafood. He proceeded to then assure me that beings which possess sapience have been proven to taste 25% better. He also said the plantains were wild-grown, a claim I'm not sure I buy, but regardless.
Tostones are deceitfully difficult to make, especially ones shaped as these were. Green or unripe plantains are peeled, then fried once in oil until gold and crisp. They are then removed and pressed on a tostonera, a kitchen device specialized in flattening tostones, and then fried again and salted. These tostones in particular were likely mashed after being fried once, then molded into their receptacle shape before having a shrimp puree poured into them.
The taste was umami, and the garnish of chive brought out the whisper of sweet onion flavor to the dish. It was absolutely perfect.
The Entree
Finally, the star of the meal. The selection of dishes for this course was shockingly low for an Ambrose joint. There were several classics; ropa vieja, medianoche, butifarra, yuca con mojo, and Cuban sandwiches, but I had to go for the tamale con carne with a side of maduros and rice and beans.
Tamal con carne, maduros, arroz, y frijoles.
But what exactly is a tamale? Well, dear reader, a tamale is a dish made from masa harina, or corn flour, steamed in a corn husk. My particular tamale came with beef and tomatoes prepared in mojo. Mojo, for the uninitiated, is a sauce foundational to most Cuban cuisine. It is citrusy, garlicky, and bitter, and we put it on everything. Though it is traditional for meats, vegetables, and even fruits to be steamed within the corn husk alongside the masa harina, Mr. Ambrose instead opted to prepare the meat separate. Despite having come together on the same plate, I know they were not cooked together because the masa harina beneath was meatless and the only meat present was on top of it.
Maduros are more or less just fried sweet plantains, which the ever-so-insightful waiter informed me were also wild-grown. And speaking of our friend the waiter, he also told me that the beef was sustainably and ethically free-range in a pasture from The Land of Enchantment. The tomatoes were critical tomatoes, raised on nothing but the highest brow of humor.
The main dish was perfectly umami, the maduros sweet and tender, the mojo was textbook, and the rice and beans flawless in their own right.
The Dessert
There is much to be said about a restaurant's dessert options. Many places order pre-prepared cakes in the morning to slice up and serve throughout the day. Ambrose joints are typically not the type of place to do that, to their credit, but they are the type of place to order pre-made pastries from a bakery local of whatever culture they are appropriating. With that knowledge in mind, I pored over the dessert options.
Arroz con leche (rice pudding), pastelitos de guayaba y coco (guava and coconut sticky pastries), and flan. Though I would have typically gone for the arroz con leche, my good friend the waiter suggested the flan, and who am I to question the maestro? So I ordered the flan. So I was commended for "my" excellent choice. So the waiter went off to the kitchen. So it was.
Flan is a simple dish, consisting of eggs, sugar, condensed and evaporated milk, and a whole lot of love. It originated in the Mediterranean during the age of the Roman empire, and was introduced to Latin America as a whole during the Spanish Conquista. Every Hispanic country has its own special twist on the dish, like how all countries colonized by the British have their own takes on curry.
But let's not reminisce on such nasty thoughts. My flan was brought out in short order, but how could this be? It was naked! But fear not, it was shortly after accompanied by the chef who brought with her a wheeled table with a burner and caramel boiling away inside. She poured the caramel all over the top of the dessert, something intended to delight and charm, but I would have much rather have my food in peace. Anyway, she poured the boiling hot caramel over the flan and ordered me to wait for it to set, which I did.
I thought that I had taken a picture when it was served, but alas, I didn't. Good thing I checked. Flan.
Much like everything else in this establishment, it was perfect.
The Overall
And that, my dear reader, concludes my dine-in at Ambrose Little Havana.
Yes, that was all.
Now, anyone familiar with Cuban culture will be realizing something is very wrong here. I waited for fifteen minutes after finishing my flan, and was met only with the check. Though the service was excellent— a far cry from all other Ambrose joints I have visited — and the food was excellent; again a far cry from other Ambrose joints, there was a severe faux pas here. Have you figured it out yet, dear reader?
No?
Well, let me tell you. It is customary to always offer your guest a shot of cafecito, otherwise known as Cuban espresso, at the end of a meal. Really, it should have been offered upfront and at the end of the meal. It is a most time-honored tradition in Cuban culture, and at any Little Havana restaurant owned by actual Habaneros you go to in this wide world of ours, you will be offered cafecito. Rather put out and flabbergasted by this, I asked my good friend, the waiter, if they served cafecito. He tragically informed me that no, they did not serve it.
So off I went on a little trip to the Residential Sector, back to a little cafeteria I had gone to when I was still a child. Much to my surprise, it was still there, and you bet your bottom dollar they were brewing a fresh cafecito for me within seconds of my arrival.
Dios bendiga a La Cafeteria es Invencible.
So overall, how was the Ambrose Little Havana experience? As expected from a joint Marshall, Carter, and Dark venture, the service was five stars. The food was perfect, but I could tell it was made by CIA graduates rather than local people. It lacked the love that makes Hispanic cooking as good as it is. It is the difference between "good" and "great." It's what makes food genuine.
But the most damning thing was the cafecito, and this is also how I knew that the kitchen was not staffed by locals. No self-respecting Habanero kitchen worker would be able to get through their shift without at least two cafecitos. There is also the fact that these dishes were so calculated and devised, there was no room for passion. So I guess in the end, it really is not too different from a typical Ambrose joint.
Until next time, dear reader.
- B. Santos
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