To Havana and Have Not

With Cuba Cuba, Denver finally has a Cuban restaurant -- and reason to celebrate.

I discovered Cuban food on the streets of Miami a dozen or so years ago when I lived in Naples, two hours' drive across Alligator Alley. The first time I wandered through Little Havana, I felt as though I'd been transported to another country: English as a second language, sidewalk carts piled high with aromatic tropical fruits, pulsating music everywhere -- a perpetual festival atmosphere, with a lot of kissing and people shouting good-natured insults at each other across the road. Men played dominoes in a park that once had another name but is now referred to by the name of the game that occupies these long-retired caballeros; vendors plied just-jerked tasajo, made from steer rather than horse in this country. And everywhere was the smell of sofrito, the foundation of many a Cuban dish, a mixture of garlic, onions, bell peppers, herbs and spices all sautéed together, the components and proportions of which are as personal as the shades of red lipstick worn by the cooks.

If international cuisine is a celebration of this planet's bounty, then Cuban food is the life of the party. At times flashy and flamboyant, at others it's subtle and coy. Simple, but still full of surprises. The kind of mouth guest that starts out quiet and unassuming but turns out to be something you'd like to invite in again and again.

At first, though, I didn't get it. Why were people lining up for two blocks just to get a sandwich? After sampling a few on quick road trips, however, I'd be back in Naples watering my plants or switching stations on my stereo, and suddenly I would just have to get my mouth around a slab of juice-dripping, lime-soaked steak fresh off the grill as soon as possible, and Castro be damned. And after my first visit to the decades-old Calle Ocho Festival, where the lechón asado -- roasted pig -- was so rich, juicy and tender it had to be shoveled in with the hands because a fork merely shredded it, roasting my own pig became a life goal.

With Cuba Cuba, Kristy Socarras Bigelow has given the town a restaurant worth toasting.
Mark A. Manger
With Cuba Cuba, Kristy Socarras Bigelow has given the town a restaurant worth toasting.

Location Info


Cuba Cuba Cafe & Bar

1173 Delaware St.
Denver, CO 80204

Category: Bars and Clubs

Region: Central Denver


Hours: 5-10 p.m. Monday-Saturday

Mojito: $5.50
Cuba libre: $5
Mango mimosa: $5
Mariquitas cubanas: $7
Camarones mojao: $8
Ensalada Cuba Cuba: $6
La Floridita: $8
Croquetas de pollo: $6
Bacardi-painted mahi: $18
Mojo-marinated steak: $15
Pollo a la plancha: $13
Pollo al mango: $13
Tres leches: $6
Havana bananas: $6
Flan: $6

1173 Delaware Street

Here in Denver, I've found that many people share my passion for Cuban food -- but it's a craving not easily satisfied. If I had a dime for every time someone asked me why this town didn't have a Cuban restaurant, I'd be sipping Cuba libres in Big Havana right now. The thing is, only Cubans can do Cuban food right, so we needed a couple of Miami natives with the right credentials to move here and ask the same question before we finally got our own authentic eatery.

It was worth waiting for. Cuba Cuba, the restaurant brought to us by Kristy Socarras Bigelow, her husband, Brian Bigelow, and her brother, Enrique Socarras, is an unabashed bash.

Six years ago, Kristy came to Colorado to get her master's in social work and play on the slopes, but she wound up falling in love with both the area and a guy and decided to stay. With some help from her native-Denverite husband, she convinced her brother, who'd been cooking in Miami for seven years, that what this place needed was a Cuban restaurant. So the trio bought two side-by-side, pre-1880 dwellings in the Golden Triangle that are among the oldest buildings in the city and, with a lot of work -- Kristy says they had to shoo away the potbellied pigs squatting on the property -- created the space that is Cuba Cuba. (All together now: Kooba Kooba.) One house is now a dining room that looks like a cheerful, much more casual version of the Casablanca set, complete with palm-frond fans and a bright, open-air feel; the other side was transformed into a small bar that features bongos for tables and the constant, friendly presence of Kristy and her bartender, Franklin Buist.

Buist is responsible for the wicked libations that help make Cuba Cuba one big fete. Mojitos, made from rum, fresh mint leaves, a splash of lime and plenty of sugar, get their name from the Cuban slang for "soul," which may also explain why imbibers turn into philosophers after a few swallows -- and believe me, it doesn't take many. So a word of caution: If you're having any "issues" with your fellow mojito drinkers, stop at one. Or opt for a less dangerous concoction, such as the infamous Cuba libre or, even better, a mango mimosa, which pairs just-squeezed mango juice with sparkling wine.

Whatever your drink of choice, chances are you'll have plenty of time to down it. Taking a cue from Bang!, the popular Highland restaurant where Kristy once worked, Cuba Cuba doesn't take reservations, and the times we've dropped in, the place has always been packed. But once you're seated, things flow smoothly -- and time actually starts to fly as you toast one delicious Cuban dish after another.

The recipes are all Enrique's, and many are based on the siblings' childhood meals. "My family came to Miami in 1959," explains Kristy. "My stepdad fought in the Bay of Pigs and spent time in prison, so we were very anti-Fidel. My family wanted to get out of there, but they also did not want us to miss out on the foods that we would have grown up with over there. And so my mother always made the traditional dishes." But Enrique also wanted to experiment with nuevo cubano cooking. While Cuban cuisine has always been based in colonial Spanish cooking, transformed through ingredients brought over by African slaves and Chinese laborers, the nuevo upgrade involves many herbs and spices from other countries, along with more attention to presentation and thicker, French-style sauces.

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