Fried Cow at Latina Cafe

For the many years I’ve spent in Montrose — as a visitor and, later, as a resident — I’d never stopped to eat at the little clapboard Latina Cafe on Fairview, no matter how many times I passed it. I decided to rectify this oversight last night, and stopped into the cheerful cafe on a gloomy, soggy Monday evening.

A kid that couldn’t have been more than 15 or 16 years old sprung up from his position in front of a telenovela when I walked in. I was the only one in the restaurant — which I’m told is absolutely packed at lunchtime — and he seemed excited to have a table to wait on. I settled in to a little table by a window with a good view of the telenovela and ordered a Negra Modelo.

“What’s that?” the kid asked me.

“It’s a beer,” I laughed as I pointed to the menu.

“Oh, we don’t sell that anymore. We lost our license,” he frowned. Duly noted for future reference.

I asked him to bring me a “Cuban soda,” as it was listed on the menu.

“Are you sure?” he asked with a slightly sour face. “It tastes like pineapple and bubble gum…”

I felt like my little brother was waiting on me. I already loved this place.

Coming back to the table a few minutes later with a can of Jupina, the kid watched as I cracked it open and tried a sip. “Not bad!” I smiled. He looked relieved. (I was a little relieved, myself, as I was worried this would be another Cooler Coke disaster, a la Postobon or Colombiana La Nuestra.)

Perusing the menu, I was tempted to order the classic Cuban ropa vieja, but something else caught my eye: vaca frita, which is closely related to ropa vieja but cooked slightly differently. I ordered it purely because phrase “fried cow” amused me. Simple pleasures…

Like most criollo dishes, vaca frita is served with rice, black beans and plantains. I could have eaten an entire plate of just Latina Cafe’s wonderful black beans and sweet plantains, cooked up by a woman that appeared to be my waiter’s mother. The vaca frita itself is simply flank steak that’s been marinated in lime and orange juices and cooked up in a skillet with some oil until it’s slightly crispy. Think Cuban fajitas, but with shredded beef and not served on a comal. It’s a wonderful marriage: crunchy edges mingle with softer, more tender bites of beef, the fattiness totally offset by the citrusy tang.

Because I filled up on the plantains, rice and beans and because the serving of vaca frita was easily enough for two people, I ended up taking most of the meat home. I can attest to the fact that the vaca frita is even better the next day, warmed up in a cast-iron skillet and served with a fried egg on top for breakfast.

I’ve been told that Latina Cafe’s Cuban sandwiches are even better than the dish I tried last night. Good to know, as it looks like I’ve finally fallen in love with a place that most of the city has known about for years.