Microbrewed Adventures - Charles Papazian [88]
Then I noticed the open-air porches above me on the second story of each home. The orange glow of a lit cigar slowly swayed in a silent and languid arc. In his rocking chair an old man bided time, as most Cubans are apt to do in these difficult times of “austerity.” Then I realized the night air was filled with dozens of these tiny orange, swaying, arcing embers. The embracing aroma of Cuban tobacco deliciously filled the evening. Laughing, crying, teasing, joking and serious conversation seemed to gently abide in every household visible and invisible.
We walked through a gate and into a secretly lit, small but comfortable home to have one of my first beer tastings in Cuba. But as I left those moments behind, I knew I would never forget them. They so typified my impressions of today’s Cuba: mysterious, intriguing, friendly, incredibly complex and a country constantly on the verge of anxiety.
I was 13 years old in 1962 during the Cuban missile crisis. I can recall listening to my younger brother’s six-transistor Sony pocket radio (a new invention at the time) in the darkness of our bedroom, wondering if the world were about to end. That was my first and lasting memory of Cuba. Now, with this educational and journalistic trip hosted by the Cuban government I was on my way, in search of the lost beers of Cuba. I knew that beer was being brewed in Cuba, but little else. In my pre-trip research through commercial literature and in conversations with international brewing colleagues, I was surprised to discover that there was virtually no outside knowledge of the Cuban beer market and brewing industry. Curious, I wanted to find out what very few knew. Months of preparation and attempts at organizing this trip proved mostly futile, but as I was determined I went unconfirmed, assuming the most but expecting the least. Through a series of personal and diplomatic contacts I was unofficially told that the Cuban government and the Minister of Food would officially host me as a journalist. Embarkation day arrived with nothing certain, except my determination.
I boarded an airliner in the tropical heat. I certainly could have used a beer, but only rum was offered. Cool air cascaded from overhead vents into the cabin. As it collided with the humid air, a cold, moist cloud mystically layered the aisle a foot deep. I was in the clouds before we took off. I must admit to a few fleeting moments of panic—“Where am I going? Where am I? Am I crazy?” These were real-time thoughts. My heart pounded with the anxiety of the unknown as we headed toward Havana. The clouds swirled both inside and outside the cabin at takeoff. I was on my uncertain way. But as I always realize, anxiety is a very highly overrated experience. Forgive me; I did not have a homebrew with me.
Approaching legendary Havana, I looked down with some trepidation. From high above and among the billowy clouds we glided past dozens of baseball diamonds and deep blue swimming pools languishing in the stillness below. “There has to be beer down there somewhere…there just has to,” I thought to myself. And with beer there are always fine people.
As I disembarked the plane I was met on the tarmac by a translator and the Ministerio de la Industria Alimenticia (Minister of Food). My bags, passport, visa and transport were being cared for through the diplomatic lounge as I was offered a rum mojita and introduced to the possibilities for the next few days: the breweries of Havana and the surrounding area, a flight to the eastern post-revolutionary city and brewery of Holguin, a road trip to Cerveceria Camagüey and a return by air to Havana for an opportunity to give a presentation to the marketing, operations and brewery managers of Havana.
Given several options, I chose to make the most of my visit and accepted an offer by my Cuban government hosts of a full itinerary. From this point on,