More Than a Drink: Cuban Coffee
The first time I had coffee in Cuba — after working as a barista in specialty coffee shops — its taste reminded me of Spanish torrefacto: harsh, overly roasted, far from the origin profiles I used to celebrate in London. But as I spent time sharing moments, conversations, and laughter with Cubans, I understood that coffee in Cuba isn’t judged by tasting notes or SCA scores. It’s judged by the hands that serve it and the stories that come with it.
It’s the invisible thread that weaves together conversations on Havana’s porches, the gesture of welcome in every home, the fuel for ideas in times of scarcity.
A cafecito — dark, sweet, and strong — is not just a brew: it’s an act of resistance, an everyday luxury no one can take away.
Yet behind that steaming little cup lies a painful paradox: Cubans barely get to taste the coffee they grow. How is it possible that a producing country doesn’t enjoy its own beans? The answer lies in a system that prioritizes export over sharing.
Cuban Coffee: Local Harvest, Foreign Aroma
Cuba grows high-altitude coffee in regions like the Sierra Maestra and Escambray mountains, with a unique flavor thanks to volcanic soils and humid climates. But almost all of the crop is exported by the state or sold to tourists in foreign currency. Meanwhile, in local stores, Cubans receive a blend of coffee mixed with roasted peas (chícharo) — a bitter substitute born of crisis.
Why?
State monopoly: Coffee farms are controlled by the government. Producers must sell their harvest to state buyers at minimum prices.
Tourism first: The best coffee is reserved for hotels and restaurants, where prices are out of reach for most Cubans.
Creative smuggling: Some farmers hide part of their crop to sell on the informal market or trade for other goods.
The Irony of Cuban Coffee
In a country where coffee is a symbol of hospitality, those who grow it rarely enjoy its quality.
But here lies the Cuban magic: even with chícharo blends, the ritual persists. Because what matters isn’t just the taste, but what happens around it:
The stovetop moka pot that’s been in the family for generations.
The spoon clinking against the cup as the sugar is stirred.
The stories, the news, the gossip shared with the coffee, drunk in trust.
A Ritual That Exile Couldn’t Break
This ritual knows no borders. I saw it when I arrived in Miami, where the cafecito not only survived — it became a flag of identity.
At the airport, I was offered a cafecito in a little cardboard cup. At the house where I stayed, I was welcomed with another. On Calle Ocho, at the Ermita de la Caridad del Cobre, everywhere I went: I always had that steaming cup in hand.
Here lies the most beautiful paradox: the regime kept the coffee, but couldn’t steal the ritual.
Cubans, on the island and in exile, turned this act of resistance, of community, of heritage into a bridge between generations. The same gesture that in Havana helps endure blackouts, in Miami celebrates freedom, heritage, and resilient community. The same little cup shared with neighbors on a porch there is shared with pride here.
Cuban Coffee: Two Shores, One Essence
In the end, I understood: el cafecito is not just a drink. It is:
Memory for those who stayed.
Root for those who left.
The resistance of a people who, even without top-quality beans, keep fighting for their dreams.
That’s why today, when I drink coffee from a moka pot, I no longer think of tasting notes. I think of freedom, of the beautiful community Cubans create, and of the resilience that keeps it alive.
I think of the grandmother brewing it with chícharo in Havana, and the grandfather serving it with pride in Miami.
Because some rituals — like Cuban coffee — are stronger than any system, longer-lasting than any crisis, and more eloquent than any political speech. They are, in the end, the essence of a people who refuse to be erased.