The Art of The Proper Arroz con Pollo

The Coconut Telegraph ^ | May 10, 2003 | Luis Gonzalez

[Luis Gonzalez]

The very best "Calle Ocho" eatery, in the heart of Little Havana, places an asterisk next to the menu listing of their world-renowned Arroz con Pollo.

*Our Arroz con Pollo is prepared to order, please allow our Chef the proper amount of time to create your selection. Feel free to inquire about the progress of your order, but expect a wait of approximately 45 minutes.

The place is somewhat stern looking. Heavy Spanish wood and leather furniture, red velvet wall hangings, no windows, large portraits of regal looking, ancient Spaniards in Court dress, and lots of very, very busy tuxedo-clad waiters—not a waitress anywhere in sigh—help to create an ambiance of timelessness and Old Country dignity. Battalions of black-vested, scurrying busboys, who seemingly have mastered the concept of perpetual motion, move through the dignified hum of the dining room carrying large metal pitchers wrapped in red dinner napkins, pitchers that in spite of their linen sarong manage to land a drop or two of ice-cold water on your lap as the busboy pours the water into your goblet over their side, rather than through the spout.

I take clients and out of town visitors for dinner there all the time, they rant and rave at the fare but I've never been very impressed with the place.

You see, I know where you can find the best Arroz con Pollo in Miami, or anywhere else for that matter. The place doesn’t have any asterisks on their menus, as a matter of fact there are no menus at all, just some pictures of my kids, covered from forehead to chin in black beans, stuck to the door of an aging refrigerator in a magnetic frame that reads "Grandma’s Biggest Fans", and a Chef who can "create" something from nothing, in no time at all.

If you know Arroz Con Pollo, you know that there are as many recipes as there are kitchens, and cooks, and that these recipes are all like signatures, or fingerprints even. No two are exactly alike.

I remember the smells of the apartment on a hill by the bay where I grew up. I could tell what was being prepared in the kitchen behind the last door on the right as soon as I began running down the hall, and it didn’t matter I how many other kitchens were active, or how many other pots brewing and stewing, I knew the smell of my mother’s kitchen like I knew the sound of her voice, or the soft feel of her hands on my cheek.

Arroz con Pollo was the dish she prepared for special occasions, for celebrations, or for what little company we would have for dinner in a country where food was rationed, and company for dinner recorded by the block chivato, the person in charge of reporting "suspicious activities" to the secret police; "suspicious activities" that included friends or family over for dinner.

The dish then, as I remember it, was a masterpiece of simplicity.

Mounds of steaming, bright yellow rice, colored by bijol--my mother’s most treasured season, a small canister of it always hiding in the deepest recesses of my mother’s cupboards--glistened under a light coating of olive oil. The chicken pieces, spent after having given their essence to make el caldo (the carefully seasoned and pungent broth that would give life to the rice, and become the soul of the flavor), were mixed in with the rice, then the whole thing was topped off with a sprinkling of petit pois negotiated from a neighbor in exchange for a plate of the finished product.

Mother would bring the pot out of the kitchen and place it on the dining room table were it was met by a veritable chorus of compliments, and then the only sounds heard for quite sometime were the sounds forks make when they strike china.

Mom doesn’t cook like that these days; she says that los viejos need to eat healthier, and that since retirement, Dad and her have developed high blood pressure, and a taste for bland food.

I have learned to curtail my culinary requests too. I used to call the day before coming for dinner with the family, and ask for one or another favorite dish, more often than not a good, Cuban , with petit pois and everything; but lately it seems that I’ve become a bit more aware of how much slower she moves, and a bit less concerned with my antojos (cravings). So we go out for dinner, or just eat a lot of bland food, and give thanks for the meal.

But I miss her , and try as I have, I can’t seem to find a restaurant that can make one to equal hers, or to even reproduce the recipe on my own kitchen.

I have sat many a time, and scoured the Internet for recipes. I’ve tried the ones that call for the very best chicken soup base to make el caldo, the ones that include sweet Spanish sausage, sliced and cooked in with the rice, the ones that call for alcaparras (capers), green and red bell peppers, and even a bottle of beer, and not one of them can satisfy my craving. I miss her Arroz con Pollo.

So I decided to ask for it just one more time, and to be there from start to end to take careful notes.

I told her that I wanted to make the dish and invite some people over, and I think she believed me; mothers are so good at ignoring our little white lies and making us feel like we are getting away with them.

When I got there, Dad was outside tending to his mango and avocado trees, and carefully maintaining the berm around a small lime tree that had been cut down once, but whose strong roots survived, and thrived in the good soil of their backyard. The kids said hello to Nana, and ran out to "help" Papa; mother was where I’ve always remembered her...in our kitchen.

We chatted a bit, and then I showed her the kid’s new school pictures. We wasted our first half-hour digging around her picture boxes for a snapshot of me at four years old—dressed in the very best Elvis outfit that she could find in Cuba just after the fall—to compare with the picture of my youngest, also four; even I was amazed at the resemblance…blond hair and all. She called the old man in from the yard to show them to him, and told him that she would need to go buy frames the next day.

Then we got down to business.

Her hands seemed to take on a life of their own as they moved over the familiar tools and ingredients, and the age seemed to drop off of them.

She talked as she worked, and I took careful notes.

She cut the chicken and recalled that in Cuba, she had used hens instead of chickens, and that her mother, my abuela was never satisfied with an Arroz con Pollo made without the fattier, richer meat of a hen.

"Tu abuela tenía un sazón muy bueno"—that roughly translates into ‘your grandmother got seasoning game’—"people would compliment her all the time. I learned by watching her cook."

I knew that. I loved that old woman’s cooking nearly as much as I loved her; but I loved my mother’s Arroz con Pollo above all.

She worked and talked, and I took notes.

She browned the chicken to a golden perfection (she had already made el caldo), and talked about the way she had to stretch the recipe in Cuba during the hard times. I remembered how she used to crush fine egg noodles to add to the rice by rolling an old Coca Cola bottle like a rolling pin over them. Then she made the .

I watched the mixture of fresh crushed garlic, tiny-diced onions, and bell peppers soften in the smoking hot olive oil as we reminisced and I took notes. We laughed at the stories of Dad smuggling things from the countryside into Havana; roared when she remembered the time when Grandfather, carrying a contraband pound of coffee on his lap in the bus to Havana, answered "café!" when asked for the time by a man dressed in an Army uniform.

"Compañero, could you tell me what time you have?"

"Café!"

"No compañero, I want to know what time it is, not what you have in the bag."

She returned the chicken to the pot with the garlic/onion/pepper mixture, and added cumin and crushed tomatoes while I tried to remember the names of all the people who lived in our apartment building in Havana...she remembered them all.

Her hands moved with an economical efficiency that I can only compare to that of an Executive Chef, and I have seen some of the very best in action, as she added rice, el caldo, a bay leaf, and a pinch of bijol from a tiny, beat up canister she retrieved from a dark corner in her pantry, to the pot.

I took more notes, and we reminisced some more.

We discussed all the other recipes I had tried, and she reminded me of all the things she began to add to the pot after we arrived from Cuba, the abundance of ingredients available fascinated her, but she would always return to the old recipe.

Then she covered the pot, and reduced the heat.

Dinner was every bit what I had expected it to be. The smells coming from the kitchen even sparked the interest of my four year-old "macaroni and cheese monster", who ate Nana’s Arroz con Pollo with a gusto seldom seen in him.

Mission accomplished, belly full, and antojo satisfied, I carefully folded my notes, stuck them in my pocket, said our hasta luegos (roughly translates into "see you later"—Cubans are notorious for not saying goodbye), and headed home.

I chatted with the kids so they would stay awake until we got home, they’re getting s bit heavy to carry upstairs to their beds, and complimented both of them on how well they had eaten Nana’s Arroz con Pollo; I told them that I had learned the recipe, and that I had written all the ingredients down so that I could make it for them at home.

"But Daddy...I won’t like it."—My four year-old, the problem eater and his favorite dinnertime prediction.

"But honey, you liked it tonight"—reasoning with a four year-old with the blonde hair his Daddy had at four—"how can you say you won’t like it? It’s going to taste just the same."

"No it won’t Daddy. I’m only going to like it when Nana makes it."

That’s when I realized that I would never find the most important ingredient of them all, and that my four year-old boy was right.

I’m only going to like it when Nana makes it, and after that’s no longer possible, I want to miss it forever.

So, if you want a truly magnificent recipe for a proper Arroz con Pollo, with nearly all the proper ingredients, and using all the proper cooking utensils, you may want to look for a tear-stained, crumpled up sheet of paper bouncing about on the north-bound lane of the Palmetto Causeway, somewhere between exit #16, and the most sacred and precious memories of my life.

[dansangel]

Thank-you for the link you posted bringing me here. This gave me a lump as big as Texas in my throat. Two reasons:

1) I miss my mother's Italian cooking. She's back home in FL and I'm stuck here in Atlanta. She also (like your mother) doesn't cook the same dishes any more due to health reasons. But, when we visit and the mood strikes her, the food is outstanding.

2) I miss the good Cuban restaurants so abundant in FL and so lacking up here. Even though the restaurant food is not as good as your mother's (just like the Italian restaurants don't compare to my mom's or my dearly departed grandmother's), to "novices" like me, it is heaven! :-)

((((((((((Luis)))))))))

[Budge]

Luis, you better not have thrown that recipe away around exit 16!

You better tell us you still have it...somewhere, because I know there is going to be a lot of FReepers that will want it.

Or that you submitted it to "The Clinton Legacy Cookbook!"

Or are you going to force a large contingency of FReepers to gang up, come down there, and turn you over our knees? :)

Really would love to have your Mama's recipe!

Please say, however you must, we love her.

[dansangel]

Ping - this will get your taste buds going!

[hardhead]

I don't know the subtle differences between countries or regions, but I can remember while stationed in Puerto Rico in the early 1960s that arroz con pollo was excellente! This makes me hungry.

[Alamo-Girl]

Oh my, what a beautiful essay! What precious memories! Thank you, Luis. Hugs!!!

[Bizzy Bugz]

Luis, How beautiful. I did not realize it until I read your post that it is just Mothers love and not her dressing for Thanksgiving that we all miss so much. All of my familiy always try to make dressing like Mother and we cannot make it "Just like hers", although I have watched her for lots of years make dressing and my family just smiles and says "Mother this is so good, But it is just not like Mama's".
Thank you for your post.

[Gatún(CraigIsaMangoTreeLawyer)]

Thank you for the article.

If I may ask, where or near where did you live in Havana?

To share with you a couple of things which I think you might enjoy: “…she had used hens instead of chickens…” In Panama, we call these hens “gallina de patio” to differentiate them from commercially raised chickens. The galliana de patillo has more flavor.

“Hasta luego” is always used here also. “Adios” is considered permanent…a permanent goodbye.

Is “bijol” the same as “achiote?” Achiote are small red seeds that are dumped into boiling oil. They release a red color and a pleasant flavor and is used in arroz con pollo here.

[Gatún(CraigIsaMangoTreeLawyer)]

Ref post 52.

I see my question about achiote vs. bijol was answered. thank you.

[Gatún(CraigIsaMangoTreeLawyer)]

Thank you. I couldn't find bijol in my dictionary. Neither could I find achiote for that matter. But I do have my little container of commercial achiote in front of me. I was looking to see if the container also used the word bijol.

[Mamzelle]

I don't know bijol, is it anything like achiote? Maybe the scent you remember is saffron, and her "precious store" would make a lot of sense in that case.

[Gatún(CraigIsaMangoTreeLawyer)]

Shame on you, Luis, if you threw away your mother's recipe. If you did, your assignment from us is to return to your mother's home and write up a new one for us. Thank you.

[Mamzelle]

Achiote--I use it to flavor my "ugly soup." (Lentil soup with barley). This was a creation from early marriage poverty, chicken broth/lentils/barley/half a package of achiote-- with whatever meat you have, like kielbasa. Threw it together during a very lean time, and it became a family favorite. But it *is* ugly.

[nutmeg]

bump

[No!]

`had me cryin like a baby...

Macho guy that I am!

Hasta luegos Luis... :)

[Grampa Dave]

Man, this post made my mouth water. We don't have any good Cuban restaurants in the N. California area that I know of.

[carlo3b]

What a wonderful story Luis, once again capturing the essence of the moment in your family kitchen.. oh, all of those wonderful memories, full of familiar smells, and laughter. If I had an acceptable replacement recipe, that I've prepared, for your grandma's authentic favorite Cuban dish, which I haven't, I wouldn't dare post it without this disclaimer; there were 6 women in our immediate family, 4 of which were infamous in the kitchen, and they could start a revolution over nuances in how to prepare our own family Lasagna recipe!
The following is taken from a yellowed 3 x 5 card, stuffed into an old cookbook. I filed it under Cuban because it came from my dearest friend, who's Cuban mother passed a few years ago and said she wanted me to have her cookbook. She and I would play in the kitchen when I was invited over to their home for the holidays. So I cherish it and the memories of that giant of a 4'9" woman. I hope this helps Luis;

Maria Fuente's RICE WITH CHICKEN
(typed as well as I could decipher and crudely translated what she wrote)

1 chicken of 3 pounds cut in pieces
1  minced onion
4 minced cloves of garlic
½ dry red pepper
1 teaspoon of  comine (I think this is cumin)
1 teaspoon of oregano
1 teaspoon of pepper
1 leaf of laurel (bay leaf)
2 pounds of  rice grain , short not long
1 tin of beer
1 tin of 6 ounces of tomato sauce
1 teaspoon of bijol
1 small tin of petit pois (spring peas).
¼ cup of capers
¼ cup of olives
juice of a lemon
6 water cups
3 olive oil teaspoons
1 tin of 6 ounces of peppers (I think this is hot peppers)
1/cup of dry wine
Instructions :
In an iron pot it puts the chicken, the lemon juice, the onion, garlic, the red pepper, I combine, the oregano, the pepper, the laurel leaf, the oil and sofríalo by 5 minutes; year the water, the salt, bijol and cooks by 15 minutes.    Year the rice and revuélvalo occasionally.   Lower the flame and you begin to add the beer and the dry wine, according to is cooked as well as I eliminate of petit pois and the peppers.   This rice does not have to be dry, so add these liquids little by little, according to needs it until this totally soft one.   Cocínelo by 30 minutes.   add the olives, the capers and the olive oil, adórnelo with the peppers and peas.

[gitmo]

I haven't had decent Arroz con Pollo since I left Guantanamo in the 60's. Thanks for the memories.

[JimRed]

God bless your mother! Now you've gone and made me hungry. BTW, is the bijol saffron?

[Luis Gonzalez]

I was born in Pinar Del Rio, in a litle town called Artemisa. We moved to La Habana while I was still very young, to a neighborhood called Las Viboras, a street named San Miguel.

Points of reference being the infamous Loma del Burro nearby, and a great view of the harbor from our balcony, which was interesting in the fact that our apartment was on the bottom floor of the building, but since it was built on the side of a hill, the back of the building (where our apartment was located) was three stories high.

One last thing, about saying adios.

[dixie sass]

Dearest, dearest Luis. Treasure her. Momma and Grandmomma were my very best friends in the world. I miss them both so much. There were times when I would want to fix a certain dish and I would have to call Momma or Grandmomma to make sure that I remembered the ingredients and how to combine them. There was always something missing...

You know what that was, don't you. Something every Momma puts into her cooking that can't be bought or grown - it's a mothers love.

I'm sitting here with tears streaming down my face, this piece today makes me even lonelier than before. Even though I know that their spirit is in me, I can't run into the next room and tell Momma that she should really come read this or call Grandmomma on the phone to read it to her.

Thank you for sharing your Momma with us today.

Hugs for you and your family.
May GOD bless you and yours.
Dixie