In Cuba There Are Two Grades of State Bread Rolls
That sold on the ration book and that “under the table”
Every morning, Jose Luis discreetly picks up the goods and walks the streets of Matanzas to sell them.
By Julio Cesar Contreras (14ymedio)
HAVANA TIMES – In Matanzas, the early morning smells of flour—and risk. Between the state sector, the private sector, and sheer illegality, dozens of bread sellers move their product like someone hiding a secret. The street is their display case, speed is their lifeline, and inspectors or the police are the most feared specters.
In mid-month, flour disappeared from the ration system bakeries and, along with it, the 60-gram bread roll that was supposed to be available every day for every resident of the city. The shortage not only emptied the official counters but also cut off the diversion of goods to the informal network that survives off state-run ovens.
On August 26th, the return of rationed bread was announced. Since then, Jose Luis, 48, a street vendor without a license, keeps checking his phone screen, waiting for confirmation that he can carry two sacks on his shoulders and go out to sell his goods.
“The problem with this business is that it only works when the employees manage to set aside a little flour for an extra production,” he explains to 14ymedio.
Coming from Palma Soriano, Santiago de Cuba, Jose Luis settled with his wife and three children in a half-finished house in the La Marina neighborhood. With no money to invest, he found in the clandestine bread trade a way to survive.
“I pick up the goods, sell everything, and then pay the bakers. I don’t advance a single peso, but I can’t fail to deliver exactly what’s owed,” he stresses.
A Parallel Production
Access to the business came through a friend. Bakers, he says, are very protective when it comes to bringing in new vendors.
“Any indiscretion can cost them their jobs. Only those who come with a solid recommendation get in. Everyone guards their share of the hustle,” he insists.
The bread sold “under the table” is of better quality than the one sold through the ration book, even though it is made by the same hands in the same ovens.
“They prioritize the fat and the improver for the clandestine bread so customers stay happy and keep coming back,” says Jose Luis, well aware of the poor quality of the rationed bread.
But the most important thing is that the parallel production doesn’t get noticed. The rules are clear: the flour used must match the bread officially leaving the bakery, and if an inspection is coming, the clandestine production is suspended.
“I’ve gone up to three weeks without selling anything because there was no raw material or because government inspections were happening,” he laments.
The trick is achieved by cutting the size of the rationed bread even more, removing ingredients. Everyone in Cuba knows about the shrinkage, but the same customers who complain about the small size and sour taste of the rationed bread also buy from the informal vendors supplied by state bakeries. It’s the cycle that never ends.
The Marathon of Bread and Risk
Over time, Jose Luis has mapped out his route: he hauls his load up to Los Mangos and Monserrate, then heads down to Rene Fraga Park. Competing with other vendors, carrying the heavy weight, and dodging the police turn the job into a daily marathon.
“Nobody thinks selling 100 bread rolls is easy. At 150 pesos each, not everyone can pay. And if the bread turns out too small or gets hard in a few hours, I’m the one who has to face the customers and sometimes even cover losses out of my own pocket,” he admits.
The call usually comes in the afternoon. By three or four in the morning, the oven is already hot, and Jose Luis heads out to get his load.
“Even if the administrator surely knows what his workers are doing, I try to protect them. If someone has to take the fall, it shouldn’t be me,” he says with hardened pragmatism.
At sunrise, his cry is already familiar in the streets. Neighbors wait for him, recognize him.
“The fear of inspectors goes away when you have a family to feed,” he says with conviction.
He dreams of buying a bicycle, putting a box on it to transport the goods, and multiplying both the quantity sold and profits. He doesn’t know how long the opportunity will last, but he knows each day depends on a message on his phone announcing the most precious thing in his uncertain business: there will be bread for tomorrow.
First published in Spanish by 14ymedio and translated and posted in English by Havana Times.