That early encounter with chicory coffee and all its bitterness was thankfully softened by warm whole milk.
As a native, I was weaned on café au lait and beignets. That’s the Cuban side of the family my other side’s roots are permanently “grounded” in New Orleans. It was this very Cuban espresso that made a man out of a boy my age. It tempered the strength, but I was still in love with the flavor. There were no cookies to add to the sweetness the cousins would have toasted bread drenched in butter and cut into finger-sized strips to dip into the coffee. But it was so amazing to watch the artistry at work in the coffee shops or grocery stores of Little Havana, as the coffee and sugar were swiftly stirred into golden, frothy foam. It’s a cheap thrill that only costs about a dollar. Sipping at cafecito counters is a daily social event in the Cuban neighborhoods of Miami. I’m talking about cups the size of spit cups at the dentist’s office. My father had no qualms about taking me to Miami when I turned 15, to experience his closest connection to his native Cuba: the infamous cousins! My cousins introduced me to the absolutely strangest practice I’d ever seen - all these men standing around at counters with coffee-filled styrofoam cups, pouring small shots into other minuscule cups, customarily called cafecitos. I believe I danced around all afternoon, wide-eyed and prematurely contemplating my next moves, but honestly with nowhere to go! However, at that age, I was more interested in reaching my hands into the other tin that I knew contained assorted butter cookies with heavy chunks of sugar. I can vividly remember the vibrant yellow and red tin container of Café Bustelo that sat on the shelf, and the pungent smell when Granny popped open the lid. Sometimes my pulse couldn’t just beat it had to race. The magical result of the first sips of brew laced with sugar was incredible. A sweet, caramel fizz coated the top of the cup - it’s the creamy head that Cubans call espumita. There was a whole ritual with demitasse cups laid out in perfect order along with sugar, a spoon and a carafe of whole milk. Immediately, it would begin to percolate. Granny would take out the steam-pressure coffee maker known to most as the Moka pot, and she would put it directly on the flame of the gas stove. As I grew inches taller, the percentage of milk lowered, and in rolled the caffeine. She repeatedly warned, “Don’t tell your mom I have you drinking coffee!” When I was that tender age, it was 80% milk, hot and steamy, with a few dribbles of coffee to nurture my developing taste buds. Saturdays with Granny were special, and coffee was our comforting little secret. Abuelo graduated from law school at Tulane, and only returned to the city for occasional visits. Originally from Amite, Louisiana, Granny met my Cuban-born grandfather, known fondly to us as Abuelo, in New Orleans, where he swooped her away from her collegiate studies at Newcomb and brought her back to Havana to live during those swanky decades on the island. Just talking about it, I can smell the aromas from here! But it is truly amazing what satisfaction coffee brings to the whole ritual of every gathering.Īs far back as I can remember, which is around the age of about five or six, a requisite stop for this grandson was the home of my paternal grandmother - “Granny” - in New Orleans. When it comes to things like coffee, or café con leche, or the darkest and most delicious of them all - the cortadito - the old ways die hard. My exiled Cuban family members, both in New Orleans and Miami, have long since made peace with the rhythms of life in those cities, but they’ve never forgotten their birthplace.
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