This was, as is so often the case, an unfortunately late discovery of mine (meaning just before I was set to leave Chicago), but I managed to sneak in a few visits, during those two or three unspeakably hot and humid weeks we had in late June/early July this Summer.
As JeffB says, very solid, Miami-esque Cuban fare, with all the usual suspects in generous portions. Despite the heat, I tried their fabada Asturiana (the Cuban take on a Spanish white bean soup, always one of my favorites), and it was quite good - thick and hearty, studded with pork hunks, served with a side of so-so "Cuban" bread (I believe JeffB has done enuogh lamenting for all of us about the dearth of real pan Cubano en la Ciudad Ventosa) for a decent price. In fact, the whole menu is decently priced, and the servings are quite substantial, though perhaps not Versailles (ie, Flintstones) sized. But the quality is good (I sampled their medianoche and pan con bistec, the boliche, picadillo, and, of course, the requisite platanos maduros and moros y cristianos or congris for side dishes.) and the setting is simple and homey, with a smoking section (might want to bring the spare lungs, JiminLoganSquare... ahem...I'll deal with you later, Smokey McNofun...). What was a little disturbing about the place, though not totally unexpected, was the overwhelmingly old-school, chauvinstic vibe in there. Trying to be my usual, ingratiating, friendly self (especially in a new, neighborhood restaurant with a 100% Latino clientele), I smiled and shifted into my best faux-Cubano Spanish for the entirely female staff, and was met with an ice-cold steeliness that was off-putting, to say the least. It wasn't until I had spent a little time in there, observing the (overwhelmingly male) customers, that the dynamic was realized - men come in, demand service, don't say thanks or please, and otherwise ignore the hard-working cadre of women in the kitchen, all of whom are running and sweating and slaving to meet the demands of these Johnny-cum-Patrones, all gabbing loudly amongst themselves and talking on cell phones and dropping food and napkins on the floor. Had this been a different time in my life, and had my grasp of Cuban idiom been stronger, I definitely would have made a comment to one of these
pendejos, but I decided that I needed to leave Chicago with all of my limbs intact, and thought it wiser to hold my tongue. Regardless, I paid the place another visit (after tipping extremely well and bringing my own dishes up to the counter my first time there) at a less hectic, almost empty time, and found the women who run the place to be a little more relaxed and open. But still, they get treated like non-entities by the regulars, and I guess the natural response to such treatment is to do exactly what they do, ie, block it out and do your job and not expect anything in return. I can only imagine how a single woman who ventured to Rinconcito Cubano would be received. If anyone's experiences differ from mine, please chime in, but I found the whole situation to be disturbingly neanderthal but, unfortunately, all too common, especially (and I'll get pasted for saying this, but, alas, it's true) in Latino establishments. My one method of subtle rebuke to the crew of men, by the way, was a dose of the coldness I found myself using as a defense mechanism - one of the men tried to engage me in the White Sox game on the TV in the corner (and I was watching)... I said, without a smile, "I'm a Yankees fan" and returned to my meal. The silence that fell over this crew was akin to if I would have said, "Viva La Revolucion, Gusano!" A mini-victory, perhaps, but, hey, I don't play that mierda. Still, worth a visit for the food, though you might want to get it para llevar.
-- Reb