A little vignette, a sort-of-review.
We went to Floradita, a Cuban diner on 125th St. The waiter had a pompadour, the counter top was a large shiny U. We sat in platformed section, looking down. An old man, fierce-eyed and dressed as a sea captain, stood by the door with his hands clasped behind him, a self-elected security guard. We ordered corditas, faintly scented of rum. I ordered the soup of the day, caldo gallego, white bean soup. I wasn’t very hungry and expected something small, and the waiter’s pursed lips and approving nod indicated otherwise. A hefty dish of white beans, potatoes, and maybe three types of fatty pork. Pork fat, I had always been told, makes everything good. Together we finished the soup and the waiter smiled at the empty plate. Go if you get a chance.