This magazine could have easily been named after
the Cuban Sandwich. These days, Tampa can be more
easily identified by that savory creation than the
cigar. Like Cuban cigars, it can be mighty difficult
to find a fine Cuban sandwich. Unlike Cuban Cigars,
one could argue that the so-called Cuban sandwich
is more Tampa than Havana. As Cigar City Magazine
launches its second issue, it is especially appropriate
to re-examine our town's distinctive sandwich.
People in Miami often talk as if they invented the
Cuban sandwich, but they are pretenders to the throne.
In the early 1900s, workers in Cuba brought simple "mixto" sandwiches
to work or bought them at cafes. These cold-cut concoctions
took on a new character in Tampa, influenced by Ybor
City's vibrant mix of immigrant cultures. By the
1920s, the old "mixtos" coalesced into
something more distinct – the Cuban sandwiches
we know and love – an original Tampa creation.
Beginning in 1886, immigrants from Spain, Italy,
and Cuba fled poverty and warfare to seek new lives
in Tampa. The tumultuous cigar industry provided
some shocks of its own. Violence, strikes and work
stoppages in the cigar factories reminded all how
tough things could be on a regular basis. An erratic
cycle of feast and famine continued in Ybor City
for fifty years. The Cuban sandwich rose in popularity
during the 1920s, when electric sandwich presses
and toasters became more common. During the Great
Depression, the filling sandwiches served as a Latin-flavored
equivalent of New Orleans' "Po' Boy."
During tough times, Ybor City had the example of
Cuban bread to follow. When Cuba struggled for independence
from Spain in the late 1800s, citizens there faced
hunger and hardship. Cuban bakers responded by stretching
their bread into long, thin loaves to provide small
slices for rationing. The practice never changed
in Tampa; but today, bread in Cuba (when it can be
obtained at all) is short and more round. Perhaps
today's Cuban citizens would do well to emulate the
stretching practice of their ancestors.
Ybor City's struggling immigrants turned misfortune
to their advantage. Tampa's most famous sandwich
would not be possible without the stretched Cuban
loaf. Ybor City split the loaf and filled it with
mojo roast pork, sugar-cured ham, salami, Swiss cheese,
pickles and mustard. Each of the main ingredients
came from Ybor City's dominant ethnic groups: the
Spaniards supplied fine glazed ham; bread and mojo
pork came from the Cubans; and the Italians supplied
salami.
The sandwich's popularity elevated the Silver Ring
Café from a front for Bolita (illegal lottery)
sales to a destination for hungry workers and tourists.
That café was one among several to set the
standard for Cuban sandwiches in the Tampa area.
I enjoyed my first Cuban sandwich there fifteen years
ago.
Many of the sandwiches I've had in recent years
disappoint me, and I am not alone. On the food-related
website www.Chowhound.com, a curious web-surfer asked, "What
is the deal with Cuban sandwiches?" After going
to one of Tampa's most respected sandwich stands,
she said, "It just tasted like a ham sandwich
to me; not bad, but not particularly great."
Not every restaurant owner invests the same amount
of work into their sandwiches, but the other half
of the problem is people who expect gourmet quality
for a mere three dollars. Another visitor to Chowhound
recently asserted, "A Cuban sandwich should
never be over five bucks. It should be in the three-dollar
range, but never over five. If it’s over five,
you’re getting ripped off." I must beg
to differ. Almost no one on this good earth is willing
to go to great culinary lengths to sell a three-dollar
sandwich. For three dollars, let them eat subs. I'd
be willing to spend bigger bucks for an honest to
goodness Cuban.
When one examines the labor that went in to making
an old-fashioned Cuban, it is more understandable
that today's sandwiches fall short so often. Like
so many simple things in early Ybor City, the Cuban
sandwich was elevated to an art and craft. Restaurateurs
prepared every ingredient in painstaking fashion.
If modern sandwich slingers take some short cuts,
it is hard to blame them. Their profits may not suffer,
but the cult of the Cuban does.
Tampa's Cuban sandwich is a dying culinary breed.
By the time it became a recognized and revered tradition
in the 1940s, the real thing was already fading fast.
The true Cuban sandwich – conceived in Cuba
and perfected in Tampa – lived and died with
Ybor City. And for the uninitiated, Ybor City died
some time between the Great Depression and urban
renewal's bulldozers in 1965.
Wet, cheap boiled ham and processed pork loaves
give us little indication of what a real Cuban sandwich
should taste like. It doesn't help that most places
pile on lettuce, mayo, and tomato, which is like
adding a glass of water – it dilutes the flavor.
When done right, the sandwich showcases the contrast
between the dry crust of Cuban bread with the rich
mingling of melted fats within. The bold combination
of salty ham and salami, the garlic and vinegar overtones
of the roast pork, the sharp taste of pickle and
mustard – are all married by the bread and
subtle charm of Swiss cheese.
In 1957, Manuel Torres, a long-time Ybor restaurant
worker, volunteered to make Cuban sandwiches in what
even then was known as the "old fashioned way" for
a reporter. Torres soaked a select pork roast overnight
in a mojo marinade of lemon juice, salt, fresh garlic,
oregano and vinegar. He then parboiled the pork with
onions, celery and garlic and then roasted it. A
whole smoked ham was then parboiled in the same mixture.
Torres trimmed excess fat from the ham and coated
it in sugar. He then melted the sugar onto the ham
with a hot iron. The resulting caramelized sugar
gives the ham a distinctive taste. Drawn by the irresistible
aroma, salivating onlookers gathered around the storefront
as the sugar transformed into a thin amber glaze.
Torres then carved the meat into thin slices: pork,
ham and peppered Genoa salami. Imported Swiss cheese,
sour dill pickles, mustard and Cuban bread rounded
out the sandwich. He layered the ingredients onto
the bread in traditional order: first the ham, then
pork, salami, cheese, pickle, and mustard spread
only on the top slice of the sandwich. "It is
always done that way," Torres said.
I've stopped by a couple classic Tampa eateries
in recent weeks to eat sandwiches, but usually left
unimpressed. A sandwich at the Museum Café in
Old Homosassa, of all places, recently reminded me
how great a Cuban sandwich can be. When the sandwiches
arrived, the bread and the smell immediately impressed
me. The sandwich there has perfect proportions of
crusty bread and savory meats. The roast pork, sliced
thin and piled high, supplied great flavor. The salami
is wisely placed on top of the other meats, so when
the sandwich is pressed, the salami's juices moisten
the rest, mingling flavors. The proprietor orders
most of his ingredients from Ybor's Tropicana.
The other surprise that day stood at the center
of the table. The display card read, "Original
Cuban sandwiches come from Ybor City; everything
else is just a sub." The name on that card was
yours truly, Andrew Huse.
Andy Huse is Assistant Librarian, USF, Tampa
Library Special Collections Department / Florida
Studies Center.
"Welcome
to Cuban Sandwich City" by Andrew Huse appears
in Volume 1, Issue 2 of Cigar City Magazine.
