We drove to my parent's house today so that we could catch the Eagles game on television (we do not own a TV). I dropped J and the kids off and let my stomach do the driving. After a busy week and a massive craving for Cuban food, its no surprise I found myself at Palacio de los Jugos. Largely ignored while I was in high school, discovered during my vacation time home from college, and regularly visited now that we are living here for a season, Palacio de los Jugos has become quite the hot spot. For those of you up north that have never experienced its equivalent allow me to give you the verbal tour...
First, the mental image.
I pulled into the parking lot, careful not to run over the bustling stream of people coming in and out of the store front and also avoiding a red truck overflowing with home made rocking chairs. I drove into an extremely narrow space, flanked by an old chrysler and an 80s BMW. The owners of the rocking chairs sat in two of their own creations under the nearest palm tree while they played dominoes on a fold out table and smoked cigars. The crowd was rife with guajiros, my favorite. Skinny old men, dressed in their best Sunday guayaberas, although now the top three buttons have been undone since church has long since let out and for most, a straw hat perched on their heads. A plump wife at each one's side, inspecting the large selection of dried meats, pig ears, and pickled feet. The occasional next generation Cuban decked out in his "papi" wear, generously greased hair and sporting a heavy gold chain, is also in attendance. The sound of chancletas smacking on the tile while everyone peruses the multiple aisles of fruit and vegetables. Most of the fruit, by the way, seems to have jumped off the page of a Dr. Seuss book. I love tropical fruit, but its a bit unsettling to find a giant green booger with purple spots and pink spikes staring at you from a grocery shelf. It makes me wonder, Strange little guy, surely only a fiffer feffer feff could ever eat you---a far cry from green eggs and ham, I will not eat you, no matter what you say Sam I am.
They are equipped with a small kitchen towards the back of the shop and are regularly churning out all kinds of artery clogging delights. The juicer is situated at the front of the store for orders ranging from freshly squeezed papaya, orange, mango, guanabana, to giant green boogers with purple spots and pink spikes if your taste runs in that direction. This is also where they keep shelves stocked with ethnic spices you wouldn't find in your average grocery store. Ha! Forget it, not even a specialty store would have most of this stuff. After all, I spotted a bottle of dried horse hair for sale today. You're good Whole Foods, but you're not that good!
Did I mention that they have a window for special orders? Well they do. So if you don't feel like bumping elbows with the elite of Miami, you can stand outside and desperately try to get the attention of the window cashier who is usually chatting away on her cell phone.
Get the picture? Now, the walk through. Just in case that mental image has prompted you to fly down to Miami for a quick jaunt through Palacio de los Jugos, here is the survival guide...
I walked in today in search of their tamales and masitas de puerco. Which in English translates as yum and yummy, or tamales and fried pork. If you want either of these items you have to stand behind a large pile of people that in no way resemble an ordered line. All of these people are somehow related, at least that is the general mood of the "non line" since they are all shouting at each other with astounding familiarity. Remember last week when you shouted to your cousin, "Oye, Mami! Be careful with that dulce de leche, it'll go straight to your ass!" only that person wasn't your cousin but in fact, a complete stranger? Who's mother, you will discover before you leave, grew up in the same Cuban village as your Dad?
Expect to stand in the line for fifteen to twenty minutes. Your options for last minute impulse buys include: canned sugar cane, bird seed cookies, salvia plants, coconut flan, chicken feet and lollipops. If you manage to get the attention of a clerk, shout your order at them before anyone else gets a chance. They will fish out a few tamales from a giant cast iron pot, wafting with steam, located not in the kitchen but right next to the cash register. If you are reaching for a credit card then you obviously haven't read the giant sign measuring 2 x 3 inches proclaiming, CASH ONLY. Good luck shuffling through the crowds to reach the ATM in the back of the store next to the Dr. Seuss fruit and a 75 year old man clothed in tight unzipped shorts and a mesh blue tank top clinging tightly to his old man-boobies. Excellent. $10 in cash later you are walking out of Palacio de los Jugos, accomplishment steaming from the plastic bag in your left hand and your right hand still feeling as if it should be holding a passport or travel visa of some sort.
A fixture of my city. A comforting, terrifyingly commonplace pit stop in my old neighborhood. The kind of place my kids will die laughing over when we come back for visits, or even worse, a place they will roll their eyes at.
I love that its one of the only places in Miami that has the feeling of a small village. While the rest of the city passes you by with no eye contact and not a word of hello, walk into Palacio de los Jugos and its non stop chit chat. Everyone refers to you with a term of endearment, "Mi hija," "Mi nina," "amor."As if you grew up on the farm down the road, and your family exchanges a small share of eggs each week for someone else's root vegetables, the way they always have for the past fifty years.
Unfortunately, that ambience is a dying memory. Fifteen or twenty years from now it will no longer exist. That beautiful old generation will be all but gone. The next generation will find themselves searching for that feeling, unable to find it, and then desperately trying to recreate it, only to find themselves producing disingenuous and mediocre copies.
Our only comfort will be found in the small hole that the cloud of fried grease has managed to burn through the ozone layer. An atmospheric tattoo that will watch over us, long after Palacio de los Jugos has gone.
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