My great-uncle Manolo, a Guajiro from Redención in Camagüey, gave me the most loving, illegal, and delicious meal experience I’ve ever had. It was New Year’s Eve, 1993, and the occasion was a highly prohibited steak dinner from a freshly killed, government-owned cow under his care.
To give you an idea of the severity of the crime, killing a cow in Cuba typically carries a 15-year sentence. Cubans often joke that it’s worse to kill a cow than a person. Despite the risk, Manolo was determined to give me and my ex-wife an unforgettable holiday meal, trusting that his neighbors wouldn’t find out or snitch if they did.
At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the magnitude of his rebellious act, but I knew it was more than just about eating steak—it was about defying a system in a country rich in agriculture, yet where meat was a rare luxury. Oddly, Manolo didn’t serve the steak with utensils. Instead, he urged us to tear the meat out with our hands, and to eat it like that, adding to the primal experience.
By the end, we were all covered in grease, our hands filthy, our faces shining with grease, grinning like satisfied pigs. We were completely out of our element, but that steak was incredible—and unforgettable, thanks to Manolo.