November 16–23, 2000

cover story

¡Hola!

Their own niche: Juan Fernandez (left) and Miguel Fernandez in the window between the kitchen and dining areas at Café Habana. photo: Michael LeGrand

by David Warner

"This is what I call a moment," declares architect Miguel Fernandez proudly, pointing to a key feature in the design of his restaurant-in-progress, Café Habana. "Architecture is all about moments."

This particular moment is a small window space cut out of the corner of the kitchen, a detail that will be echoed by the rectangle of clear glass in the frosted front window pane, and by the niches to be carved into the back wall, each one containing an icon of a saint — a conscious reference, says Fernandez, to the altars found in many Cuban households.

Fernandez, 41, lived in Cuba till he was 12, and his business partner and friend Juan Fernandez, 39, was born in Miami to Cuban parents. They’re not brothers (though everyone assumes they are), but they hope their shared cultural heritage will create a unique niche for Café Habana that distinguishes it from the two high-profile Cuban spots opening soon (see sidebar) and from the many places (Cibucan, Pasion, Saboor) offering variations on Latin fusion cuisine.

For one thing, what they’re doing is not fusion; they want to serve the simple Cuban food their grandmothers made. Spicy, but not hot. Black beans that "just melt in your mouth," rice cooked just right. Drinks like guarapo, made from sugar cane and served over crushed ice. Served in a place like the ones they know in Miami, where artists display their work and musicians break out congas and jam till long after the dinner hour.

Not finding such a restaurant in Philadelphia, they’ve decided to create one. They’re hardly novices. Miguel had 12 years of experience in Miami as a maître d’ and restaurant manager, including a stint as GM of the Gloria Estefan-owned Lario’s on the Beach. Trained as an architect at the University of Florida and Drexel, he worked with the Miami firm Arquitectonica, and in Philadephia with John Milner Associates on the façade restoration of Reading Terminal. He’s currently with Ueland Junker McCauley Nicholson, where he’s project architect for the graphic exhibits in the new Liberty Bell pavilion. Juan, an assistant vice president at PNC, specializes in helping small businesses. And both men’s partners — their romantic partners, that is — work at the Latin-accented Center City restaurant Where Else?

Pouring thousands of dollars of their own savings into the project (they won’t say how much), the pair leased a 1200-square-foot former deli at 102 S. 21st St. on Aug. 15. Since then they have been working nights and weekends in preparation for a planned early-December opening. With the exception of electrics, plumbing and drywall, they’re doing the bulk of the construction and design work themselves.

Last Saturday, in PNC baseball cap and sweats, Juan was drilling studs into Hardibacker board: "By the end of the day we’ll have a kitchen floor." Miguel, his own baseball cap backwards and slightly askew, was finishing the bar, a plywood structure that will be decorated with stalks of sugar cane. New wooden columns separated the dining and bar areas, and wrought iron gates from New Jersey’s Iron Butterfly were propped against the walls, waiting to be put into place at the restaurant’s entryway. Louvers, wicker, banana palms, even an ornate iron chandelier (to be electrified by lamp designer Warren Muller) will complete the look, which is inspired by the neo-classic mansions of Old Havana.

Miguel focused on one mansion in particular in creating his design. "Look at this! Look at these!" he exclaimed during an interview in September as he paged through a magazine article about the home of mid-20th-century Cuban painter Amelia Peláez. With its serene rooms opening onto an interior courtyard, the house has the kind of unassuming elegance that Miguel envisions in Café Habana. The fact that it’s an artist’s house is a strong part of its appeal, too, because the long-range idea is for the restaurant to become a nexus for cultural exchange. Miguel envisions someday leasing the second floor to show work by artists from Cuba.

There’s a three-person team set to cook, one each from Cuba, Miami and Philadelphia. They’ll be making such simple-yet-unfamiliar dishes as filet of pork in a guava glaze, roasted chicken in bitter orange and garlic sauce, a Cuban seafood bouillabaisse. And the desserts — "Amazing!" says Miguel. He talks about a mango sherbet served in a coconut shell, of flans made from Caribbean fruits like guanabana and mamey (whose deep red-orange color will be echoed in the restaurant’s paint scheme). What’s mamey (pronounced ma-may) taste like? "Oh, god," muses Juan. "It’s a mix between a guava and… it’s delicious!"

The enthusiastic energy of Fernandez and Fernandez ought to go a long way toward making Café Habana a success, particularly in the current competitive climate. Though they say they don’t know any other Cubans in town other than themselves, they have extensive Latino contacts in the city (Juan has been a board member for Norris Square Neighborhood Project and the Hispanic Chamber of Commerce) and have many friends in the gay community, too. Sometimes when they’re working at the site it’s like "a non-stop visitors’ hour," says Juan. (One friend even scrawled a cheerfully raunchy good luck message on the drywall in Spanish, beginning with "Hola" and ending with a word Miguel’s reluctant to translate.)

Neither man has illusions about the complicated realities of present-day Cuba. Miguel returned to the island last year for his first visit in 32 years, and was appalled by the conditions. Juan and his mother, a Spanish professor, aren’t talking for a while, since she, like many Cuban émigrés, is a staunch Bush supporter and he’s not. But the men’s love for Cuban culture is strong, and it’s as good a fuel as any to make a restaurant work.

And then there’s always the music. Café Habana may be the only restaurant where the architect has made provisions for percussion storage (maybe the most unusual niche of all). Pointing to a space toward the back of the bar, Miguel says, "And this is where we’ll keep congas and maracas — for anybody after 11 who wants to play."