Cuba looms on the horizon for any lover of the Caribbean. While I’m not old enough to have bellied up to the bar at Sloppy Joe’s in the Batista days, I did visit the island in the days when Fidel was still making day-long speeches in the Plaza de la Independencia. It was back in the days of the Carter presidency when, for a few brief moments, travel to Cuba was legal for all Americans. I went with a group that stayed at the former Hilton and we traveled through the country.
Cuba was a marvel for me. Upon exiting the aircraft and the terminal, I looked around and realized that Cuba was indeed a Caribbean nation and a huge one at that, with a large African cultural component and a huge brown-skinned population. I was amazed that there were masses of people who looked just like my relatives and me, and it was a shock. The size of this country was a marvel to me, and its capital city, although showing signs of its age, offered hints of its glorious past and its former cosmopolitan sophistication. I also understood the fierce love of country of all Cubanos because it is truly a beautiful place.
Cuba’s tourism plant had not ramped up to the international traffic that the island now hosts and so sightseeing consisted of drives through old neighborhoods in Havana, walking around the plazas, and visiting Hemingway’s home, la Finca Vigia. Located about twelve miles outside of Havana, the home was kept as a shrine to Papa Hemingway and we stood outside of the windows on the steps provided and peeked in voyeurlike at the house. We peered at the spines of books looking for hints of sources, mentally catalogued the liquors on the bar, and smiled conspiratorially at the notations of weight and blood pressure written on the bathroom walls.
Later on the trip we found other evidence of Hemingway’s preferences at a small restaurant wallpapered with business cards, where we were served a simple, yet delicious meal of pork with black beans and white rice. It was La Bodeguita del Medio, home of one of Hemingway’s favorite cocktails, the mojito. I recall sipping my first one and being charmed. I watched carefully as they were prepared and took note when the bartender reminded all that it was prepared with yerba buena (similar to spearmint—not peppermint, as many use). This was my kind of drink and it even came with a pedigree. I immediately added it to my list of Caribbean favorites along with the ’Ti Punch that had won my heart in Guadeloupe. Later in the trip, we would visit La Floridita, where Hemingway met the daiquiri for the first time and there, too, I would be charmed. But “the little shop in the middle,” as La Bodeguita’s name translates, had a local flair and neighborhood flavor that the grander establishment didn’t. Perhaps it’s my love of pork and black beans, or perhaps it’s the warmth of the bartender and knowing the mint hint, but next time I’m in Havana, I’ll be taking my mojito at La Bodeguita with Papa’s ghost.