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

Getting Back on Track...Again

Tonight, I met up with a very good friend from my high school years. We had not seen each other in close to two years, so we decided to make our reunion a special occasion.

We went out to eat.

Ever since I got back from France, I have been progressively losing some weight (nearly 1 or 2 pounds a week). The size of my stomach is a good indicator of my success: I can barely eat super-duper extra extra extra quadruple large American portions. I'm not talking about McDonald's. My friend and I went to eat at a franchise of a popular chain of Cuban restaurants called La Carreta (Spanish for "the cart"). My teeth bit into the chewy heaven that is the medianoche sandwich with a side of fries. I finished with a "cortadito," a small cup of Cuban espresso with milk.

Hours later, I still feel this hefty meal sitting in my stomach. Ugh.

Tomorrow, I will eat better.

Of course, that is what I keep telling myself. Will I eat better is a different story. I notice that every few days or so, I slip up. I may miss an exercise session due to being completely blasé. I may purchase a treat that I shouldn't have. This week, for instance, I bought a box of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls. I have not eaten this icon of my childhood since I graduated from high school (almost 6 years). I credit my lack of wanting to munch on the spongy cakes simply because I have not craved them often. Even if I did get the urge to eat some, I resisted.

I remember once, last year, I had a job that was nearly a one hour drive from my house. For one entire month, I wanted to have a Swiss Roll. My mouth salivated at the thought of eating just one. As some sort of cruel punishment for these sinful thoughts, one day, after 5:00, I found myself driving behind a Little Debbie delivery truck for half an hour in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Debbie kept staring back at me. Teasing me with her stupid smile. The Shirley Temple ripoff almost seemed to say "If you buy my Swiss Rolls, then you can be as happy as I am!"

"Die, bitch," I thought.

Even then, I didn't buy them. I caved in this week. I purchased my first box of Swiss Rolls in nearly six years and eventually ate the wrapped pairs of caloric goodness in three days. Now I no longer crave them.

But I can't keep this up. I don't want to end up like this:

I have almost been like that in the past. I've even lost 80 pounds at one point. Then I gained back 50. Now, I want to lose 40 kilos (88 pounds).

When it comes to dieting, I view Sundays as my "Fresh Start" day. Sunday allows me to have the peaceful reflection that a hectic Monday robs from me. I remind myself that what I want to achieve is not just a diet. I need an overall change in lifestyle. That includes the way I eat.

I come from a family that equates food to love. If you refuse seconds, it is viewed as a personal blow.

The conversations between my mother and my childhood self often went like this:

Woe be unto you should you deny the woman carrying a large wooden spoon to feed you. However, I'm older now. I can prepare my own meals.

Realistically, my goal will probably take between one or two years to accomplish. I can do it.

Tomorrow is a Fresh Start. Again.

Barb the French Bean