Emelina: A Dream of a Cuba That Never Was

When you step up to the sleek counter at Emelina in West Palm Beach, the first thing you notice isn’t a menu; it’s a story—one that starts on a Havana beach where a young Osmir González watched his father fry fish under swaying seagrape trees, and ends here, under soft amber lighting, with a plate that looks like a memory and tastes like a future.

It’s a strange feeling, the sort of quiet awe you get when a place you love finally gets that coveted Michelin star. In June 2026, Emelina became the very first Cuban‑style restaurant anywhere in the world to be crowned with a star, and it did so just four months after opening its doors. The honor feels almost surreal for co‑founders Osmel González and Camila Salazar, who set out to answer a simple, stubborn question: what would Cuban cuisine be like if a new generation could cook without the old constraints of scarcity?

González, born and raised in Cuba, brings the island’s street‑food sensibility to every dish. Salazar, originally from Colombia, channels the memories of her husband Álvaro Pérez Miranda’s family—who fled Cuba decades ago—into the menu. Together they imagine “the Cuba we cannot have,” a place where travelers come back home with fresh ideas, where ingredients travel the world and then return to the island for a fresh reinterpretation.

Take the restaurant’s signature “minuta” for example. It’s a deconstructed take on the classic Miami‑Cuban pan con minuta, that humble fried‑fish sandwich you might find at a beachside kiosk. Here, a dry‑aged, tempura‑battered red snapper sits on a carved wooden board, a dab of refried tomato paste underneath, a feather‑light cloud of horseradish‑egg foam, and—just for the fun of it—tiny pearls of Kaluga caviar perched on top. Next to it, a glass of amber fish consommé, reminiscent of the broth González’s mother used to make after a night of rum‑soaked dancing, is served. It’s both a tribute and a rebellion.

Service at Emelina feels more like a performance. The chefs slide plates across the counter, glance over shoulders, and politely ask diners to sip the consommé last—because the flavor, they say, is the final whisper of the story. While doing so, they sprinkle coriander, oregano and a pinch of sea salt on a tray of duck‑skin chicharrónes, watching the guests’ eyes light up. It’s a little theatrical, a little nostalgic, and wholly sincere.

The space itself is a nod to a past that never quite existed. Named after González’s late grandmother, Emelina occupies the former Flamingo Park Market spot that once housed the 10‑seat chef‑counter Konro. The partnership with Álvaro Pérez Miranda—who helped turn the space into a fine‑dining venue after his own Michelin‑starred venture, Ogawa—means the restaurant is as much about art as it is about food.

What’s on the plate is a mosaic of influences: Spanish techniques meet Florida’s farm‑to‑table bounty, and every ingredient is sourced locally when possible. The tasting menu runs ten dishes, each prepared live in front of a small audience of diners, and it comes with an optional wine pairing that pushes the price to about $275 per person. The demand is fierce; reservations fill up a month in advance, and the buzz hasn’t faded even after the initial star announcement.

But Emelina’s dream isn’t just culinary. Food historian Ana Sofía Peláez, author of the James Beard‑nominated “The Cuban Table,” points out that the restaurant represents something almost political. With the U.S. tightening oil sanctions on Cuba and the island’s power grid faltering, many wonder whether a re‑imagined Cuban cuisine can ever thrive back home. “It feels impossible now,” Peláez says, “but the imagination of young chefs like Osmel and Camila keeps a hopeful spark alive.”

For González, the journey is deeply personal. He remembers the days in Cuba when friends and neighbors would barter, “making do with what they could,” because travel and information were luxuries. Today, he dry‑ages the local snapper in a refrigerator for days before it hits the pan, a practice that would have seemed absurd on a Havana street corner decades ago.

In the end, Emelina isn’t just a restaurant; it’s a quiet act of resistance—a place where a lost Cuba is remembered, re‑imagined, and served on a plate. Whether you’re a Cuban expatriate, a food lover, or simply someone who enjoys a good story with their dinner, the experience feels like tasting a future that never happened, but could one day become real.