Have you ever tried to bribe a parking attendant with a pastelito? Don’t worry—neither had I. Not until I found myself perched on a yellow curb outside a suspiciously unofficial lot in Little Havana, clutching a guava-and-cheese pastry like it was going to solve my problems. Spoiler: It didn’t. But that’s where my weirdest story begins—because chasing a lead in Miami rarely happens without a side of chaos... and a touch of Cuban pastry grease.
How It All Started: “Just Ask Manny”
Years ago, back when I worked as a journalist covering Latinx culture, I got a tip about an underground domino club in West Miami where older Cuban men supposedly traded more than just witty insults over a game of bones. There were whispers of cash deals, big egos, and a referee who dressed like Pitbull (white pants, sunglasses—indoors). My editor at the time thought it would make for “colorful local flavor,” which is code for “Martin, you’re Cuban. Do this.”
The first rule of newswriting is to follow the story, even if the story isn’t exactly following the law. The second rule? There’s always a Manny. Where? Somewhere in the corner, chain-smoking a cigar, willing to spill half-truths in exchange for a drink or a favor. So, armed with my reporter’s notebook and a childhood spent decoding abuelito slang, I set off on a multi-day scavenger hunt for “Manny.”
The Pastry Negotiation: A Mistake... But Make It Delicious
My first attempt to crack the domino case didn’t go smoothly. On my way to what I thought was the club’s meeting spot, I hit a snag—a literal one, in the form of a handwritten “Parking $10” sign manned by a very unimpressed attendant. To my dismay, I discovered I’d left my wallet at home.
In a panic worthy of a rom-com misunderstanding, I leaned into the closest tool I had: the box of pastelitos my grandmother had insisted I take “just in case.” I don’t know what was more surprising, that I thought a puff pastry was serious currency or that the attendant gave me five minutes to move my car before threatening to throw the guava-filled bribe back at me.
Takeaway: Don’t assume food diplomacy works outside of family gatherings or quinceañeras. And never drive without cash when snooping on domino players.
Inside the World of “Los Duros”
After my rocky parking debut, I found my way to the club—or rather, an air-conditioned backroom that smelled of cologne, cigars, and years of too-loud shouting. The players were a mix of retirees and third cousins once removed, arguing over which domino set had more “truth”—yes, that’s a real thing. There’s “cheap aluminum lies” and then there’s “authentic bone dominoes,” and apparently this was serious enough to pause the game for a debate lasting 20 minutes and three cafecitos.
I tried to introduce myself as a writer interested in documenting the cultural ties between dominoes and community bonding. Wrong move. The crowd immediately became suspicious. To them, I was either undercover law enforcement or some clueless grandson sent to learn family history. Manny (yes, he was real!) found me first, asking, “¿De quién tú eres hijo? (Whose son are you?)” before declaring, “Sit. Watch. Don’t get in the way.”
Pro tip: If you’re ever embedded into a space with an unspoken cultural hierarchy, keep your questions short and your insights shorter. Oh, and drink the cafecito offered to you like it’s the holy elixir that it is—it seals your bond with whoever poured it.
Lessons from the “Pitbull Referee”
In the middle of all this chaos, a self-assured man emerged wearing head-to-toe white, untouchable in both demeanor and sartorial risk-taking. This was the referee—think Pitbull circa 2011 meets your cousin at their wedding who insists on showing everyone their best cha-cha slide. He functioned as the enforcer of rules and, occasionally, an arbiter of grudges from matches past.
After the initial awkwardness of being “the outsider,” Manny managed to swindle the referee into explaining the finer points of the club’s culture. For instance: - Serious domino players talk trash as a love language. The more passionately you insult your partner’s strategy, the closer you are as friends. - Domino games are equal parts strategy and sheer instinct. Winning isn’t just about how you play—it’s about how you psych out your opponent. I called this gentlemanly gaslighting. - There’s always one Tía or Tío who brings their own dominoes and insists the pieces are luckier. Spoiler: They’re not.
These lessons gave me insight into how shared rituals, even seemingly small ones like dominoes, can connect generations, preserve stories, and build community. They also provided me with material for the most bizarre side plot I’ve ever written.
What Romantic Lessons Came From This?
Ironically, chasing leads taught me more about relationships than I expected. Playing dominoes is nothing short of a dance—it’s about reading cues, doubling down when it counts, and knowing when to chill. Turns out, those skills transfer directly to romantic connections. Here are a few takeaways I didn’t realize dominoes would teach me about love:
- Trust your partner, but call them out when needed. Whether it’s winning in dominoes or thriving in relationships, being honest (and a little sassy) goes a long way.
- Show up with good intentions—and snacks. I didn’t win over the parking lot guy, but in most cases, showing you care (yes, pastelitos count as affection) works wonders.
- Understand that connection is built over time. Witty banter alone won’t seal the deal—it’s about showing up consistently, whether at the domino table or in your partner’s corner.
Rolling the Dice on Stories—and Life
Did the article I wrote ever make the Sunday paper? Barely. It was buried beneath headlines about hurricanes and city drama, but it remains one of my favorite assignments ever. What stayed with me wasn’t the story itself, but the experience of following it—of learning about community, culture, and yes, the art of bribes gone wrong.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from chasing stories—and connections—it’s this: Be willing to take a little risk, laugh at yourself often, and never underestimate the power of embracing the weird. Sometimes, a misspent pastelito or a surprising mentor dressed like Pitbull can lead you to exactly the place you need to be.
