EL PALACIO DE LOS JUGOS

A Visit to the Palacio de Los Jugos

It sits there, an unassuming, sort of beaten-down structure, on Miami’s great east/west transect, Flagler Street, out near 57th Avenue. In the surrounding parking lot, there’s a constant, poetic mayhem of clientes coming and going, searching for parking spaces or searching for a clear path back to the street. Successive visits on varying days and at varying times reveal there are no slow periods for this place decorated with folksy and colorful wooden signs that beckon to all.


Come in through the back, and you’ll pass by people lounging at makeshift picnic tables, glad to be out of the south Florida sun. They drink savoringly from white, unmarked Styrofoam cups and eat brown, fried nuggets of something from greasy brown paper bags.

Despite the din coming from inside, they are relaxed -- these couples and families with young children and workmen in paint and tar-covered trousers. Though as a gringo, you are on unfamiliar ground, you can tell the patrons have experienced similar places, perhaps in the cafes of Pinar del Rio, or the mountains of Central America, or on the streets of Santo Domingo. The sights and smells and flavors here are as natural to them as a potluck in the basement of a Midwestern Methodist Church is to you.

Just outside the doorway are tiers of wooden crates displaying colorful, inviting, fecund mounds of produce. Some of it is as familiar as the humid closeness of an Ohio summer: green, pinstriped watermelon, ears of corn with shiny yellow kernels and leafy husks, moist clumps of grapes with shimmery, powdery-looking skins.

But other items are strange, exotic and compel you to stare. Sleek, green coconuts are waiting to be chilled, then sliced and drunk from like those that must have dazzled Paul Gauguin during his travels. Purplish, sensually-curved mangoes will be someone’s afternoon snack. Papaya, guanabana and mamey seem almost prideful in their state of ripe perfection.

Enter la tienda and a beautiful madness envelopes. Stock-straight, polite queues are nowhere to be found, and a general cacaphony surrounds you. It’s unavoidable to bump up against people shopping for cracked corn for the chickens they keep behind their house, with the Miami skyline of buildings visible in the distance. Others search from bags of galletas, tasty Cuban-style crackers perfect with a seafood spread.

A salty, seductive smell meets your nostrils, and you realize that it’s coming from the lighted glass box warming the chicharrones (so that’s what’s in the paper bags!), fried nuggets of chicken or pork that put the Colonel and his eleven herbs and spices to shame. They are an easy, inexpensive snack that complements the freshly made fruit juices that have inspired the name for this wacky, but wonderful place.

Now, what to order? All of the days juices are listed on a chalkboard behind the counter, and some basic Spanish comes in mighty handy: melon rojo, guanabana, melocoton, pina, guarapo and more. Mixed with crushed ice, they are a divine treat on hot day. Should you prefer something richer, have them mixed with milk for a thick shake, or batido.
If it’s a meal you want, make your way through the sea of bodies to the prepared food counter. Always go with the specials, which often include lechon asado, a sandwich of shredded roast baby pig, garnished with sliced onions and a pungent chopped garlic salsa called mojo. You’ll feel like a thief after paying the very reasonable price.

With each successive visit you’re less disoriented, though no less mesmerized, by the exquisite pandemonium of the Palace of the Juices.

--By La Gringa de la Pequena Habana