It is our last night in Cuba and I am anxious for Francisco and his son to get some one-on-one time together. So far, Francisco has been consumed by the home repair projects at his mother's apartment, and there hasn't been a minute, really, for him to be alone with Brayan to talk about 27 years worth of questions and emotions. I've tried to free up some time for them by doing last-minute errands and packing our suitcase, but the evening is dwindling away with obligatory visits that we hadn't had time to fulfill until today-- one to the cemetery to find the gravestone of Francisco's father (a futile effort, as the registry in which the location of his tomb is noted closes at noon), one to the sister-in-law of Francisco's son's mother, who is one of our e-mail intermediaries, and one to the cousin-plumber whose initial work on the running water system has been less than satisfactory. At the end of these visits, we all agree that we are hungry, and we decide to go to Barrio China, Havana’s Chinatown, for dinner. As we step out of the taxi, it is raining lightly and we hurry to decide where we will eat. I notice a large group of Chinese men outside of a restaurant called Tian Tan, and I make the decision for all of us that we’ll eat there.

We take a table and are greeted by a waiter in an outfit that looks like silk pajamas. We peruse the menu, which has an astonishing variety of dishes in every category, causing us all to wonder where the restaurant sources its foodstuffs. Francisco and I order soup, Brayan orders dumplings, and we agree we’ll share two entrees: crispy whole snapper and a pork dish. As we are waiting for our food to arrive, we notice a portly Chinese man holding court at a table near the bar. He is thumbing through a Chinese-Spanish dictionary, talking occasionally on the phone, and barking out orders to staff. "Ni hao," I say, venturing a greeting in my rusty Mandarin. "Hao, hao," the man replies, smiling, happy that someone has greeted him in his first language. Francisco tells the man that I lived in China for six weeks, and asks where he is from. "Shanghai," says Papa Tao, owner of Tian Tan, which is eerily similar to my Chinese name, Tian Tian. "But I LOVE Cuba," he gushes, proudly thumping his chest and adding, "I live here 12 years. Shanghai too busy. Cuban people... very friendly. Relaxed. Good for business, you know. I'm Chino, con libreta." A Chinese man in Havana, so established in Cuba that he has a ration book. He giggles.

The fish and the pork are delivered, both impressive in presentation. The first bite of everything is sensational, exquisite, so amazingly unexpected, and we are all laughing as Brayan tries out chopsticks for the first time. Papa Tao continues, obviously enthusiastic about the conversation and our pleasure. "I don't speak such good Spanish," he ventures, "but I want to tell you three things about Chinese food. First, in China, there is no such thing as 'your dish' and 'my dish.' We all share everything. Second, in China you do not eat to get full. You eat...ah...maybe 80% full. Third, you sit at table with family, friends, and even with your enemy. You want to make enemy friend? Bring him to the table. Enjoy."

As we share the pork, the fish, and the dumplings, filling ourselves a bit beyond 80%, we indulge in this rare moment of togetherness and absolute perfection. We have not enjoyed a meal around a table since arriving in Cuba; each person takes his or her meal when and where it can be had. Two people in the kitchen, three in the living room, TV rambling on in the background with Cuban, Brazilian, or Venezuela novelas, political blather emitting from Mesa Redonda, or Fuga de Prision, Prison Break, an American show that has totally captured Francisco's family. "Anda!" shouts Elida as someone's true motives are discovered, slapping her hands together and rocking contentedly in the sillones that caused so much heartache the day Francisco brought them home. Francisco declares Papa Tao's the best night in Cuba. "It's everything I wanted and imagined," he says, as he lays the chopsticks across a clean plate. Brayan and I agree. The Chino con libreta has gifted us with an unforgettable experience.