Homage a Henri

Having grown up in Miami, it came as a surprise to me that the best Cuban sandwich I would ever taste was made in Cambridge, Massachusetts at a restaurant called Chez Henri. What was even more surprising was the unsurpassed quality of this simple-looking creation consisting mainly of meat and bread. It was
a quality that elevated this sandwich far beyond the category of "sandwich" or "Cuban food." It was, in fact, one of the best things you could eat anywhere. I'd wager it was better, in its own way, than the best filet mignon, sushi, BBQ or profiterole you could usually find. It was supremely delicious and satisfying.

The thing about Cuban food is that it's not subtle. It's many-layered, but it's usually many layers of really vibrant seasoning and ingredients made with no regard to counting calories. And the flavors hit you all at once in that "wham-bam thankyou ma'am" way that's so appropriate for Miami. The Cuban sandwich at Chez Henri shared some of those characteristics with its cousins that I had encountered in Miami.

But the main difference between the Cambridge Cuban and the Miami Cuban could be noticed right away: time. The chef at Chez Henri, Paul O'Connell (and I'm sorry I never thanked the man personally) took much more time to make this sandwich than any other Cuban I had ordered in the past. When my parents came up from Miami for a visit, I had to take them to this place so far north of Havana. My mom may have guessed at the secret that made the sandwich so good: the chef probably cured the meat himself. Aha, I thought. That's where the time was probably so well spent. (Will O'Connell ever let us know exactly how it was done?)

Taking this time to make the meat so flavorful was where, it seems to me, the chef brought a French influence into this otherwise completely Latin American dish. Chez Henri was known as a French-Cuban fusion place, and it was. But the Cuban sandwich sitting on a modest plate, garnished with wavy, thin, finger-length plantain chips, would give you no clue that any French influence had reached it ... and had made it any better than the sandwiches I had ordered at Versailles on SW 8th Street.

But one bite into that sandwich and any Miamian could tell you: this was something special. This was no ordinary sandwich, rushed together to appease impatient patrons sipping beers at the bar. This was a sandwich that, like the restaurant itself, carefully took the best aspects of two culinary cultures to create something special and unique. This is why the closing of Chez Henri in the fall of 2013 came as such a shock to me and to many others who came to Cambridge to enjoy O'Connell's creations. I heartily thank the chef for his contribution to Cambridge’s culture and nightlife … but I lament his leaving much, much more.

Raison's d'etre

(Please excuse the spelling and grammar errors, but I feel like French is
the best language that I can use for this feeling/thought)

Je me suis rendu compte
Que ma vie a ete dedie
(pour moi et pour des autres)
A la beute et a la decouverte
Qui, on peut dire, sont
Deux cotes de la meme chose
--la ouverture aux/des experiences nouvelles

C'est vrai qu'on peut faire trop de n'importe quoi
Et la vie doit etre quotidiane souvent
-- si non on mourrait trop tot

Mais on doit avoir peur que la vie de tous les jours
nous etouffe lentement, aussi.

La delice de la beaute me tente toujours
Et m'inspire de partager avec des autres
(comme quand je vois l'habitude de mon
fils de parteger des choses delicieuses avec
des autres -- comme une belle boule de glace)

La plus grand defit, il me semble, c'est de
trouver la beaute dans la vie de tous les jours

Quand j'apprends ca, je le partagerais avec vous.