🎶CHARACOAL SOUP— A New Wave of Musical Prose with Caribbean Soul 🎤📖 🎸

artwork & poetry specially provided by NS

Some stories don’t just invite you to read—they invite you to sit down, breathe deeply, and taste life. “The Soup That Sang in Cuba” is one such story. A sensual, political, and soul-nourishing narrative, it captures a single day that blends the sacred and the mundane into something unforgettable. It’s a story not just about food, but about fire, memory, scarcity, laughter—and the power of sitting at the same table.

The scene opens with live street music: Lágrimas negras played spontaneously by a neighborhood quartet. The music isn’t background—it’s heartbeat. We are in Havana, but through the lens of outsiders—Stan and Stella, visitors from Bulgaria—who bring with them a humble but symbolic offering: sopa verde de pollo asado (green soup with roasted chicken).

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The morning began with Lágrimas negras, performed live in the street by a group of spontaneously gathered neighborhood musicians—a trumpeter, a bassist lugging a double bass, and two guitarists. They had come to serenade Desita and were invited to lunch with los estimados invitados de la hermana Bulgaria (the dear guests from sister Bulgaria).
In Cuba, there was a rationing system, and food was hard to come by. Stan and Stella wanted to present their signature dish—green soup with roasted chicken (sopa verde de pollo asado)—and share it with the locals.
Stan lit the charcoal early. It crackled and slowly came to life in the smoldering fire, heating up the grill grate. He sat beside it, staring into the embers as if they held the answer to a question no one had yet dared to ask aloud. Primitive and ancient, like fire itself. When the coals were ready, he called for Stella.
She brought the chicken—marinated with just the essentials: olive oil, lemon, and salt. That day, simplicity was a virtue. She handed it to Stan, who cut it with kitchen shears and laid the pieces on the grate above the coals with the confident gesture of a master chef.
The smoke rose slowly, heavily, nobly—like a curtain in a theater. The scent of crispy skin, lemony fat, and mouthwatering delight teased the palate—fire and flame.
In the kitchen, Stella was preparing the green peppers—the soup’s other main ingredient. She roasted them directly over the stove flame, then tossed them into a large pot and quickly clamped on the lid to let them steam. She peeled them swiftly, almost fiercely—easily removing the charred skins and revealing the fragrant green flesh beneath. They smelled of summer and fire.
Then came the ritual moment. The meat was stripped from the bones—their fingers burned, but no one complained. The smoky scent wove itself into their skin, their clothes, their conversations.
Stan put on the pot. The water boiled. The meat slipped into it swiftly. Then came the peppers—green, roasted, aromatic, chopped into large pieces—adding their charm.
Salt. Black pepper. And one small, red, round pepper—ají cachucha—seemingly harmless but dangerous if you're not careful. Stella placed it in silently. She had smuggled it into Cuba—tucked inside a little bag, between socks and photos.
"Is that everything?" Stella asked as they sat down at the table.
"That's more than everything. It's been a long time since there was so much on this table," replied Desi.
She was from Cuba. She had seen more than what the brochures and songs showed. She had seen how people with empty shelves and empty pockets could still have full souls. How rum is drunk when there's nothing else. How rice and beans are eaten as if they’re a feast. And how salsa is danced when the lights go out.
They set the large table on the veranda and began to serve—Desi, Stella, the three musicians. Desi had baked rye loaves, and the aroma of fresh bread mingled with the noble scent of sopa verde.
Stan ladled the soup. A hush fell. Everyone took their bowl with both hands, the way you hold something precious and dear. They sipped slowly. The pepper tingled gently. The chicken fell apart—smoked, roasted, and boiled all at once. The green pepper's aroma made it tender, and the spiciness of the ají cachucha stirred a hunger for more bread.
After the first silent pleasure gave way to contented sighs, Carlito the Trumpeter stood slightly and raised his glass of rum:
“Agradecemos esta invitación de corazón. ¡Esta sopa no solo alimenta el cuerpo, sino también el alma!
Thank you from the heart. This soup nourishes not just the body, but the soul!”
“Sí, verdad, amigos,” added Pepe the Guitarist with a slight bow to Stella. “But we’re curious… What’s life like for you in Bulgaria? What do you lack, what do you have in excess?”
Stan chuckled, stirred his spoon in the bowl, and said:
“We’ve got an excess of proverbs. And ministers. What we lack are reasons to sing and laugh… and maybe a bit more Cuban spirit.”
“And sunshine, Stan!” added Stella. “We miss sunshine like this—the kind that softens people, even when they’re hungry.”
“We have winters, but also memories,” said Stan. “Like the bits of meat in this soup—seasoned and full of stories.”
“What do you eat most?” asked Juan the Double Bassist, blowing the steam from his bowl.
“Bread. And sometimes ourselves, out of rage,” Stella laughed.
“We eat hope. In slices. With salt, when we’re tired of sweet lies,” added Stan.
Carlito nodded seriously.
“Then we’re not so different.”
“No,” agreed Stella. “We’re only different in music. And dancing.”
“You dance it. We watch it on YouTube,” added Stan.
Laughter wrapped around them again. Then came a soft silence, thick with steam from the soup and thoughts each was simmering inside.
Stan raised a question that had long gnawed at him:
“How do you live in a country where there’s no competition? No contest. Everything belongs to ‘the state.’”
“Hermano, in Cuba everything belongs to everyone—which means: to no one,” said Carlito.
“And to the bureaucrats,” added Pepe.
“And what happens when someone makes junk and there’s no one to tell them?” asked Stella.
“In socialism, there’s only one competition—whose lie will be accepted most willingly.”
Juan the Double Bassist smiled:
“And if the product is bad—they change the name, not the quality.”
They laughed—but bitterly.
“And in capitalism?” asked Stan.
“There, the most predatory survives. The hungriest. The one who sells the cheapest.”
“And the honest one?” asked Desi.
“Él se muere primero. He dies first.”
“So in both worlds, there are lost souls.”
“Sí. And salvation lies only in this—to cook soup, to play out the pain, and not to sell your soul,” said Carlito.
They sat like that for a long time. Someone lit a Cuban cigar. Someone played a soft guitar solo.
The chicken soup with peppers and smoke had become a kind of communion.
It smelled of ash—and of truth.

TO BE CONTINUED

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