There are three material things I love greatly in life, three hedonistic focuses if you will. Coffee, Books, and Movies. I wouldn’t choose a life absent of any one of those things. Not that I’d give up my whiskey, tobacco, marijuana, cherry pie, or chocolate without a violent struggle. Those are just not really the hills I’d choose to die on, all things considered. But if you come for my coffee, my books, or my movies, well… you better be an army.
The ultimate pursuit of any hedonistic impulse is to discover “the best” of the pleasure in question. The best book, the best movie, the best coffee. A connoisseur recognizes this as a lifetime quest, that any decision about the best coffee, the best movie, the best novel, is a temporary condition at best. Until you have read every novel worth reading, seen every movie worth seeing, or tasted every coffee worth drinking, the “best” of them is really just “the best, thus far.” For the hedonist, this decision is likely even more temporary: the best cup of coffee is the one I am drinking, for example. Either way, the impulse to have another cup of coffee, or watch another movie, or read another book, is an undeniable impulse.
So I’m a bibliophile, a cinephile, and… what do you call a lover of coffee? While I am more than a bit addicted to caffeine, “coffeeholic” really doesn’t do me justice. For one thing, I’m particular about my brew, like an alcoholic who only drinks cognac, and won’t drink bad coffee even if I’m in the throes of withdrawal. “Coffee aficionado” strikes me as too pretentious (believe it or not, I have a limit). Besides, these focus too much on the coffee and the imbibing of same. It’s not just the drinking of coffee that appeals to me either, but the entire history and culture of coffee. There’s much more to it than just the thing and the consumption of the thing. In the same way by bibliophilic ecstasies are reached in bookstores and libraries, and seeing a 1970s movie at the New Beverly theater is like drifting on a gram of fine opium to me. My idea of “heaven” might be a bistro that serves excellent espresso, has a robust and diverse collection of books to borrow, and plays silent films (Chaplin and Keaton especially) on a screen where everyone can see.
When I used to travel (which I don’t anymore), there were three things I would do wherever I went: visit the largest local bookstore and/or library, see a movie in the oldest local theater, and spend each afternoon in a different local café. Almost every time I did this, some sort of adventure would ensue. More than once a chance meeting at a bookstore or café led to an evening in the company of a well-read woman (tourist or local). A screening of martial arts films (dubbed in Spanish) at a run-down art deco theater in Guadalajara led to a very interesting encounter with some students of Brazilian jiu-jitsu, which led to an evening of drinking with some local cinephiles, which itself led to a very late night of more tequila, some marijuana they said was from Jamaica (or maybe that was the cigars), and watching horror films in a tiny basement screening room, and then somehow I woke up in a park, my sports jacket folded and tucked under my head like a pillow, when a mariachi band started setting up nearby for the day.
Right away, of course, I needed coffee. The mariachis listened with sympathy and directed me to a nearby place. They told me which park I was in but it made little difference: Guadalajara is rich with parks, and a hungover gringo certainly could barely tell one from another without consulting his guidebook. Which I vaguely remembered setting afire at one point last night. So I thanked them, tipped them and stumbled away in the direction they sent me. My clothes were a bit damp and the morning was already warm and humid. It was a good walk across the park so I worked up a sweat. The cigars and tequila from the night before were redolent in my body aroma. No doubt I smelled like a good third of the tourists in the city this morning. For good measure I decided to put on my linen sports coat so I at least looked respectable. Scenes from Under the Volcano passed through my mind as I made my way through the park, across the street, and into the somewhat cooling confines of an open-air place named La Cubana.
Their specialty, according to the sign, was a coffee drink called a Cubano. I asked and was told it was a shot of espresso with steamed dulce de leche. He informed me the coffee itself is imported from Cuba. ¿A qué sabe? Es dulce, he told me. It sounded good to me. The waiter went inside. I watched him from the patio as he hand-pulled the espresso on an old machine behind the counter, steamed the milk and mixed the drink, then brought it out to me on the patio. He asked quickly if there would be anything else. I told him no and he walked away.
Maybe it was the hangover. Maybe it was the cigars and Jamaican weed from the night before. Maybe it was seeing the 1931 Spanish-language Dracula projected in 16mm black-and-white. Maybe it was the horror film with the masked wrestler. Maybe because I was feeling like Geoffrey Firmin on the Day of the Dead. Maybe it was all of the above.
It was the best goddam cup of coffee I’d ever had in my life.
As soon as I finished it, I picked up my cup and saucer and went into the bistro. The waiter seemed at fist alarmed. ¿Está todo bien? Sí, I replied. Por favor, I said. ¿Cómo haces esto? He smiled and began explaining but my Spanish wasn’t good enough to follow. Just then an old man wandered out from the back of the place. ¿Que pasa? he asked the waiter. Then he looked at me. ¿Quién es este gringo? The waiter explained that I wanted to know how to make the Cubano.
The old man looked at me. ¿Americano? I nodded. Sí. He pursed his lips, then turned to the waiter and ordered him to make me another one. As the waiter worked diligently, the old man motioned for me to sit at a table. I obliged. He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat. ¿Hablas español? I shrugged. Un poco. He told me he spoke English well enough and would oblige me. He took two cigars from the pocket of his shirt and offered one to me. Gracias. The label told me it was Cuban. Muchos gracias. We lit the cigars and began smoking. There are few combinations more divine than excellent coffee and a fine cigar. I suppressed a groan of both ecstasy and pain.
He began explaining to me that this was his place. He had come to Mexico in 1960 after the revolution. He was, he said, a disenchanted revolutionary. The coffee arrived and he kept telling me his story. For five years after his arrival he had worked odd jobs in the city. Then he impressed a man who had hired him to do some work. The man put him under regular employment. In a few years he had become a trusted lieutenant of the boss. There was a great deal of smuggling that went on between Mexico and Cuba. Legitimate shipments crossed the Gulf to the island regularly. Depending on which way the ship as going, various items and even people could be aboard. Eventually he opened his own travel agency. Immigration to and from Cuba was not as tightly restricted as with other nations. Over the years he saved his earnings and eventually built this café, which he told me is distinctly not a Mexican café but a café exactly like other cafes in Cuba.
His story was fascinating. I listened intently and quickly drank my coffee. Seeing I was finished, he called out to the waiter and told him to make three more and to join us at the table. We sat in silence as the waiter complied. As he was finishing, the old man called out and told the waiter to bring a can of coffee as well. To show the tourist.
The old man turned back to me, smiling.
If you think I boss him too much, he is my son, so it is okay.
Soon the waiter made his way over to us. He carried three full steaming cups on a tray, along with a can of Café Bustelo esperesso-ground coffee. He sat the tray on the table, pulled up a chair next to us and drank his coffee in respectful silence.
Have you ever been to Cuba? the old man asked me.
No, I answered.
Would you like to go?
I’m an American. Is it legal?
It is if you do it from Mexico. Do you have a passport?
Of course.
You’re not a communist, are you?
Not specifically.
It could be difficult for you if you are an American and a communist.
I’m not a communist.
What are you?
A Democrat.
He nodded.
If you want to go, I can get you there. It is only a matter of cost.
Why would you do that?
I like Americans. I think it is a shame, Cuba and America. This separation. Our countries should be more like brothers. Mexico, too. Plus, I have a good feeling about you.
And you will make some money from it?
Of course. It is my business.
You can understand why I might be cautious.
Certainly.
When can this happen?
As soon as tomorrow morning.
How much?
He named what seemed to me a very fair and affordable price that included roundtrip airfare and accommodations in Havana. I really didn’t see how I could say no.