The Potency of Café Cubano (Cuban Coffee)

Returning to my roots in Miami as I do for one month every summer gives me the opportunity to re-examine the things that are in absence of my life in France. For the first few days of what will ultimately be a brief stay, I am lured by the bright blue skies frequently interrupted by spurts of intense showers and decent Cuban cuisine. Amid the comestibles to re-discover, Cuban coffee is at the top of the list.

Being an avid coffee drinker, I'd like to believe that I have a good tolerance for caffeine. There have been times in which people have told me that they customarily stave from drinking any more of the liquid gold past four in the afternoon to prevent undergoing a sleepless night. I contemplate how I have never been able to understand this behavior as I drink my fourth cup of java at six o'clock in the evening.

I should mention that while I do have access to Cuban coffee while living in France, I ration myself to one cup of café con leche in the mornings and supply the rest of the intake with either soluble Nescafé or whatever is offered in the local bars in town. Be what it may, my resistance to caffeine is quite strong and don't have any issues going to bed at a decent time. 

Or so I thought.

On one fine afternoon, I sought shelter from the dense humidity seeping the Miami streets like a suffocating wool blanket and found myself glancing at a menu selling several drink varieties of café cubano. As the time was nearing 5:30 p.m., I reasoned that a café con leche would be too much to drink and that its smaller cousin, the cortadito, would hit the spot. True, while the volume of the cortadito seems puny in comparison to the run-of-the-mill Starbucks latte giants, its power lies in the sweetened espresso mixed with just the right amount of milk. 

I stared at the menu. I read the words "cortadito/colada." I made a mental note that when it would be my turn to place an order, I should say "cortadito" with conviction.

Cortadito, cortadito, cortadito. 

The person in front of me left the line. I stepped closer to the counter. The attendant asked me what I would like to order.

My mind thought "cortadito, cortadito, cortadito."

My mouth uttered "colada." 

In the haze of that silent chant, my mind didn't notice the mistake until I was handed a small cup filled with four shots of sweetened espresso. 

My brain screamed "WHAT THE HELL?! THIS ISN'T WHAT I HAD ORDERED!!! SHE GOT MY ORDER WRONG!!!" In the moment I was going to make my musings vocal, a little voice that had played the past few minutes in vivid succession recalled that, actually, yes, I had indeed ordered a colada, that I was too stupid to have not realized the error earlier and that it was now too late to backtrack and ask the poor attendant to make me another drink.

I forced a smile, paid for the drink then slumped away from the counter preparing myself to face the fate of drinking four sweetened shots of dark espresso. With the colada in hand, I imagined that this was what a walk to the gallows must have been like. I had resigned myself to facing severe heart palpitations and possibly never sleeping again.

Both the mind and mouth pleaded for me not to drink it. I drank it anyway.

At first, it seemed as if the colada's potency would have no effect on me. Yes, I felt more alert than I had been some moments before, but as far as I could tell, there was no perceivable difference as to how I would have felt had I downed a simple cortadito. I was duped into thinking that I was the caffeine-resistant champion of Java land.

I didn't go to sleep until 4:30 a.m.

Now I know why people here refer to the coffee as "Cuban Crack."

Barb the French Bean

The Concept and Reality of Cuban-time

A few days ago I sat waiting in silence for a full hour for an appointment I had scheduled. Feeling thoroughly indignant about the tardiness, hot air huffing out of my flared nostrils as I stared at the other disgruntled-looking people, it suddenly hit me that in being in Miami once again, I had re-discovered Cuban-time, something that I had long left behind when I moved to relatively-punctual France where you see neither hide nor hair of Cuban-timers.

For those who live in the unaware bliss of what "Cuban-time" is, I describe it as follows:

Cuban-time (noun)
The internal lack of punctuality in which those who are Cuban or of Cuban-descent (see "Cuban-timer") live their lives by being habitually late to appointments, social gatherings, events, meetings, even jobs, by a minimum of fifteen minutes

I hastily indicate that this minimum of fifteen minutes is the bare minimum. Chances are that your Cuban fellows are (and will) arrive much, much later than that minimum, give or take one hour.

Cuban-timer (noun)
A person who runs on Cuban-time

If you are having trouble trying to understand this concept of people being constantly late, don't worry. I'll guide you though this.

I want you to imagine the eternal wait that is a scheduled appointment in a doctor's office. Even though you have a set time that you know corresponds to you, the doctor somehow manages to see you a full hour after your actual scheduled appointment. As you sit there wanting to vocalize your mounting frustrations, you know that you can't complain about how late he's running because, let's face it, it is so frickin' obvious. Once your turn comes and you see your G.P. saunter over to you with his white lab coat, stethoscope strung about his neck like a shiny, tubular necktie, you are so thrilled that the wait is over and relish in the reward that comes from having his total, undivided attention.

The best part is he doesn't even apologize for making you wait so long because you are at his office, which is a doctor's office. Waiting for a long time at a doctor's office is expected so why bother pointing out the frickin' obvious? He's running on Doctor-time. You'd only be wasting your breath on the matter.

Well, Cuban-time is kinda like that. Only it applies to everything else in life, not just doctor's appointments. For instance, workouts at the gym run on Cuban-time. Trips to the beach run on Cuban-time. Visits to gas station pumps run on Cuban-time. Heck, even the buses in Miami run on Cuban-time because the drivers are most likely Cuban-timers themselves.

Thank God for movie trailers. For the non-Cuban-timers, the lengthy deluge of upcoming feature films may seem annoying, but those extra fifteen minutes are the key difference between a Cuban-timer either understanding a movie's plot or being completely lost for the rest of the film because they missed a crucial chunk at the beginning. In fact, I'm pretty sure no one in Miami has seen a full movie trailer for the past forty years.

The only exception to Cuban-time is restaurants. Cubans know better than to mess with a grumbling stomach; hunger induces anger and the last person you'd want to anger is a hot-tempered Cuban. (See I Love Lucy's often-miffed Ricky Ricardo as a reference point.)

I must address that Cuban-time produces unfortunate consequences if you happen to be employed. It doesn't matter if everyone else at the job is Cuban or of Cuban-descent: when you are late, YOU ARE LATE. I once had a co-worker who would arrive at 9:45 in the morning, sometimes even as late as 11 a.m., to her job. While she was an excellent employee, she was dismissed for being tardy so frequently.

Another downside to Cuban-time is that the lateness can get a bit carried away. While a minimum wait of fifteen minutes is expected, even considered normal, there are instances in which it expands into several awkward hours. On one particular anecdote from my childhood, I remember having a play date with a friend and spent the whole afternoon hanging out at her house. Around 6:30 p.m., I called home and asked my very Cuban-time-based Cuban father when he would pick me up.

He didn't arrive until close to 11 p.m. I even telephoned him in one-hour intervals to see when he would show up. Every time he picked up the phone, he assured me with the most sacred of Cuban-time lies mantras: "ya voy!" ("I'm coming!")

On the bright side, my friend's parents were Cubans and were therefore in the know of my Dad's tardiness. I  also remember having burgers and French fries for dinner at my friend's house that day so all was well.

Now, for you non-Cuban-timers who have recently immigrated to Miami and are at the end of your Culture Shock rope because you view being late as rude, inconsiderate, even irresponsible, you may wonder what can be done to cope with handling such a bizarre habit. A good way to battle against Cuban-time is to trick the Cuban-timer in question with the wrong time. Tell them that, in reality, the event will take place at least an hour in advance than it really is.

Even if you are not comfortable with telling little white lies, this solution becomes vital when it comes to appointments you simply cannot afford to miss. Indeed, lying to a Cuban-timer is crucial if you need them to be on time.

You think I'm joking about this?

Try having a wedding in Miami and invite a bunch of Cuban-timers to it. Go on. Try it.

Even though the time listed on the wedding invitation is 6:45 p.m., I guarantee that the first Cuban-time attendants will come straggling at  6:44 p.m. and that the ceremony itself will actually start at 8. Because, guess what? 8 o'clock p.m. was the real time in the first place. That extra hour and fifteen minutes listed on the wedding invitation were sagely factored in for the Cuban-timers.

Believe me, I've applied this practice to my own life whenever I deemed it necessary. In another vivid instance from my youth, back in my Senior year of high school, I enrolled to take the dreaded SAT (Scholastic Assessment Test) on a Saturday at a different location from my school, which was a good 30-minute drive from my home without traffic. The test was supposed to take place at 8:15 a.m. Since I didn't have a car or a driver's licence at the time, I had to rely on my very Cuban-time-based Cuban father as my mode of transport.

When you are in your last year of high school, you CANNOT afford to miss taking the SAT because, like the ACT, it is a requirement to getting into university. There was no way I would be late that morning.

So, what did I do?

What he meant by "6:30 tomorrow morning" was in reality "just kidding, I'll dawdle around the house while you wait for me to get the car keys and then we'll both panic as we rush to leave at 6:48 a.m., lulz."

That meant that I had not even a full half an hour to get to the location. Of course, since I knew what time the exam actually was, this didn't bother me too much, but let's assume what would have happened if it had taken place at 7:15 a.m. I would have been late, possibly excluded from taking the SAT altogether. Even if the examiners would have allowed me in the testing room, this wouldn't have included the extra minutes for taking roll call, finding a seat and settling my nerves prior to bubbling in the answers on the various reading and math portions. So it was a good thing that I had lied.

It wasn't until it was seven o'clock when the drive was well under way, Dad speeding his teal Toyota Tercel down the early-morning streets of Miami and muttering that it was a stupid move to schedule a test that early and that an incomprehensible idiocy as this certainly wouldn't have ever happened in Cuba, that I felt the pang of guilt for having manipulated my father with my own selfish needs. It didn't matter how little and white the lie had been; I HAD LIED. Strapped in my seat belt to the right of him, I revealed to Dad that the exam was, in fact, at 8:15 a.m. and not a whole hour earlier as I had claimed.

His reaction?

He smiled with relief and said:

"We have enough time" wasn't in my vocabulary that morning and I wasn't too keen on having my evil plan thwarted by own admission of telling the truth. I stressed this point to my father while politely disagreeing with him on the matter of going in the opposite direction of town to get coffee at his favorite cafeteria*.

*Cafeterias are, in essence, corner cafés in Miami. They are an essential watering hole for jazzing up on Cuban java and loading up on ham croquettes and the occasional cheese-and-guava-filled pastry while talking to the apron-wearing Cuban ladies who attend at the window.

In retrospect, we probably did have time to stop for coffee, but knowing my Cuban-timer Dad, I didn't want to risk missing that SAT appointment. It should have been no surprise to me that Dad would have even considered changing his route to get a cup of coffee. If he had extra time on his hands, he would make the most of it. This laid-back approach to putting life's events on hold only provides Cuban-timers with the means to thrive. Life is already stressful enough, so why bother having to live and die by the clock? Once I moved to Dijon, I got to experience an entire culture that truly stands by this.

As much as it may irk me to no end when someone arrives late, I have to keep in mind that I am of Cuban-descent myself and am therefore not immune to what comes naturally. Despite my good intentions and attempts at keeping a strict schedule, I often drove my punctual French friends crazy with my habitual tardiness. I admit that my former French boyfriend suffered the brunt from all the times in which I claimed it was only a few spare minutes before the bus reached a stop. A typical interaction often went like this:

French Ex: "Are you almost here?"

Moi: "Almost! I missed the first ride and this damn bus arrived two minutes late at my stop!"

French Ex: "Uh-huh. Suuuuuuuure it did."

Now that I think about it, my being late all the time may have been a key factor that led to our break-up.

In short, if you ever plan to make an appointment with me, give me a thirty-minute head start from the official time. Your sensibility at punctuality and the Cuban side of me will thank each other and forever live in perfect harmony.

Unless I turn around and stop for coffee. Then all bets are off.

Barb the French Bean

Coffee: The Rhythm of Life

Like a majority of people in the mornings, my day does not officially begin until I have my first sip of coffee.


However, a coffee like Folgers just doesn't cut it. It is much too...weak.

Perhaps I should take a moment to discuss my background. I live in the touristy city of Miami. In this town, the drivers on the road seem bent on mowing you down viciously if you drive too slowly (meaning "at the speed limit"). An excursion on the highway becomes an example of survival of the fittest; if the raging creatures careening in their status-symbol SUVs sense that you are a placid weakling with no instincts or reflexes, they will take advantage of this flaw and hunt you down.

Apart from the drivers, navigating in a city like Miami requires extreme concentration. As you try to dodge the bullet-speed lions zooming past, your attention is diverted to seeing where you are headed. Unless you are a local who truly embraces the Miamian lifestyle, you will get lost trying to find your way. One moment, you think you are on the correct path, but then in a few seconds, you are forced to make a right turn because the street becomes "right turn only." By the end of the famous Calle Ocho, you are faced with a labyrinth of turns that never go in the direction you want. You become a mere pawn to the inebriated fool who designed the city's plans.

Or, in my case, this concentration is needed when your mother frantically calls you from her job to see if you can quickly record the start of FIFA World Cup when you have NO IDEA how to work a frickin' recorder. (Thanks, Mom.)

As I stated, Folgers does not suffice for the Miamian way of life. That is why the locals imbibe the Cuban-style expresso of coffees Bustelo and Pilon. This coffee ties in with the significant culture of the island expatriates. They have the café con leche (coffee with milk) in the mornings and supply their afternoons with a caffeine buzz from a shot of colada. The colada is essentially an extremely sweet expresso that must moderately drunk in shots. If one were to drink an entire cup of this black elixir, one would remain in a jittery wide-eyed state for the rest of the week. The potency of Cuban-style coffee is so well-known that the locals have dubbed it "Cuban Crack."
How effective is café Cubano? One sip and I was jamming to Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie."

Coffee is also prevalent in France's culinary culture. I quickly learned the difference between un café and un crème. The crèmes come in either petit or grand and have milk. Un café is just straight-up coffee, and not at all as liquid as American coffee. At the end of their extensive-course meals, the French opt to have un café. I also noticed that, unlike Cuban coffee, the French present their coffees without adding a drop of sugar. The cafés ration you to two cubes per drink. I admit that I had to adapt my taste buds to using less sugar in my drinks.

Some of my best memories of France are based on the many hours I spent with friends drinking a petit crème at Dijon's Café Les Grands Ducs. We would walk in front of the impressive Palais des Ducs set on Rue de la Liberté and then make way to the brasserie-style establishment situated only a few feet away. Mirrors everywhere and comfortably lit, I would spend time staring at the café's stained glass tributes to the four Dukes of Burgundy: Philippe le Bon, Philippe le Hardi, Jean sans Peur and Charles le Téméraire.

My friends and I would order our drinks, pay for them and then sit at the tables discussing our lives. I remember that when we weren't talking about possible trips to Paris, Lyon and Italy, we spent our time plotting out ways to remain in France (legally). We would do this a couple of times a month. As the visa's expiration date breathed down our necks like a ravenous monster stalking us, our conversations switched from joyful trips to our imminent return to our home countries...



One of the last places that I visited in France was a café in Paris. I met up with a friend who also faced a long plane ride back. We walked around the Parisian streets trying to find a café that sold reasonably-priced coffees. By Dijonnais standards, Paris is indeed very expensive. In Dijon, a crème would have cost between 1.50 and 1.80 euros, and one would have been able to sit down to drink it. We eventually found a place that sold crèmes priced at 2.30 euros au comptoir. A word to the wise: places sometimes charge you more by where you decide to sit. If you are frugal (or just a flat-out monetary cheapskate), you will opt for having your drink at the bar. At the bar, my friend and I glumly drank our coffee and stared at each other blankly. Gone were the days when we would joke about leaving France; that moment had arrived. Standing near the comptoir, we looked like a couple of sad alcoholics.

"Well," I said "since we are already here, why don't we also order a few beers to help us drown our troubles?"

We didn't order the beers. We only went in for a coffee.

One Métro ride and a kiss on each cheek later, we said our good-byes and returned to our hotels.

Charles de Gaulle airport (Roissy) has probably some of the most expensive crèmes I have ever purchased.

I spoke to my friend today and we both yearn for the days when we would shelter ourselves in Les Grands Ducs from the rainy and frigid Dijonnais weather. That is something that will never be erased from our past.



Barb the French Bean