While millions of Cubans struggle to obtain a package of chicken or a liter of oil, Sandro Castro, the grandson of the dictator Fidel Castro, once again showcased his privileged life on social media.
In a story posted on his Instagram account, the young man shared a video featuring scenes from a nighttime barbecue by the sea, in the exclusive neighborhood of Miramar, surrounded by friends, music, and plenty of food, with the caption: “Costera Grill. A Cuban classic.”
The contrast with the reality of the country could not be more brutal. In the same Cuba where most families must stretch the few pounds of rice and sugar they still receive from the ration book, Sandro enjoys a barbecue with chicken, drinks, and charcoal, products that have become unattainable luxuries for the average Cuban.
In the background of the images, the Gran Muthu Habana Hotel, with its lights shining in full splendor can be distinguished, a symbol of exclusive tourism that survives in the capital while the island endures one of the worst energy crises in its history, with daily blackouts and entire provinces in the dark.
The grandson of the “statesman” who instituted rationing in 1962, and who promised “equality” for all Cubans, seems to revel in the hereditary privilege of an elite disconnected from the misery left by his own surname. His “coastal grill” is not just a night of celebration: it is the living metaphor of a family insulated from hunger, scarcity, and popular discontent.
While the prices of basic food items continue to soar —the price of chicken exceeds 3,000 Cuban pesos and a liter of oil hovers around 4,000—, Sandro records himself smiling, holding tongs over the charcoal, and celebrating what he calls a "classic" of Cuban cuisine.
Sandro's attitude adds to a long list of frivolous gestures and public provocations. Just a few weeks ago, he mocked the ration booklet, calling it “the diary of a vampire”, in yet another display of insensitivity to the plight faced by the majority.
His last barbecue in Miramar reminds us once again that, in real Cuba, the heirs of power do not stand in line or count pounds of rice. While the country sinks into darkness and hunger, they allow themselves the luxury of laughing, eating, and posing by the sea.
The Cuban "classic": Cooking with firewood at midnight and improvising with the little that’s available
In present-day Cuba, the "classic" of gastronomy is no longer rice with beans or traditional congrí, but the act of lighting a fire with firewood or charcoal under precarious conditions.
Amid the persistent shortage of electricity, gas, and coal, cooking with wood has become the only viable alternative for millions of families.
Some Cuban women demonstrate how they improvise cooking stoves on balconies, in patios, or in public spaces, gathering dry branches or old wood to prepare the little they have. In Santiago de Cuba, a mother was captured cooking with firewood in the street after being without electricity or gas for over 72 hours.
That “coastal classic” by Sandro —a barbecue by the sea with plenty of food— violently contrasts with the reality faced by many families: cooking at dawn, when the power outage allows for only a brief window of electricity, to get as much done as possible before the darkness returns.
Just as a viral testimony describes: families “carry out all their activities when there is electricity, including cooking for several days.”
There are extreme cases where coal is so scarce that some families resort to using doors, windows, or plastic as improvised fuel, exposing themselves to toxic smoke. In Granma, due to the depletion of coal, the provincial government distributed firewood to allow people to cook.
Necessity also drives culinary invention: minimal dishes, made with scarce or poor-quality ingredients, merely to ensure that something warm is on the table. It is not a creative or cultural choice, but rather a daily survival strategy.
That contrast —between the unrestrained luxury of those who have never known scarcity and the brutal ingenuity of those who survive through firewood and blackouts— reveals not only a social divide but also a mockery steeped in bad taste.
Amid blackouts lasting over 30 hours and food spoiling in turned-off refrigerators, Sandro Castro's barbecue by the sea in the exclusive neighborhood of Miramar becomes an act of symbolic provocation.
In this sense, the phrase "a Cuban classic" takes on a bitter irony: it does not refer to a shared tradition, but rather to the normalization of an energy misery whose burden falls on the most vulnerable.
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