The Best Piña Colada in Cuba
“Hay piña?” asks Chad Jnr. Jnr [1], a desperate look in his eye and a raspy tone to his voice. A man with a serious thirst. The barman, dressed in the island-wide hospitality uniform of a white guayabera shirt with Havana Club badge, simply stares back and raises a thick bemused eyebrow, heavy with sweat.
“Hay piña?” repeated Chad Jnr., assuming incorrectly that the barman had not comprehended his American accented Spanish.
Cuba is renowned for its rum and, of course, its rum-based cocktails – namely the mojito, daiquiri and cuba libre. However, we are obsessed with finding the perfect piña colada after becoming hooked on them at the Hotel Nacional. This cocktail may have originated in Puerto Rico, but we can be sure the rum used here is 100% cubano.
A compulsory watering hole for any visitor, the Nacional’s gardens offer probably the most picturesque scenery in Havana overlooking the Malecón. Lafonda was the first to sample a piña colada there but after both Chad Jnr. and I tried it we were all hooked.
IF YOU LIKE PIÑA COLADAS: Though the cocktails spawned that awful Rupert Holmes novelty song only a fool wouldn’t like the heady mix of pineapple, rum and coconut. The bar shown here is the Hall of Fame bar in Hotel Nacional, where one can sup away til the heart’s content while browsing the walls filled with Hollywood stars, music legends and, perhaps more dubiously, mafia members and despots.
And so our quest began. Henceforth, every bar we stopped at a piña colada was had and compared to the gold standard set by the Nacional. As a needless time-saving device, we shortened the cocktail name to simply “piña” – as in, “shall we go for a piña at Marina Hemingway?” After all, we knew what we meant. Lafonda and I had the wherewithal to realise such a shortening would not translate well in a bar situation, given “piña” means pineapple. Alas, poor Chad Jnr. - for he is a yanqui.
For the umpteenth time on our Cuban cocktail quest, Chad Jnr. is asking a barman for a pineapple and the withering look he receives in response is, understandably, deserved. While friendly and hospitable people, Cubans do not suffer idiots well.
We are at a roadside restaurant on the Autopista Nacional, midway between Havana on the north coast and Cienfuegos on the south coast. Having left the barrio of Playa later than planned, we began our little road trip with an empty stomach and a thirst for cocktails. Taking the wheel of our Geely Chinese rental car for the first leg – acquired on the rental black market - I suggested we carve a good chunk out of the Autopista before stopping for food. About 150 kms into the drive we were finally seduced by the rustic charm of a roadside restaurant called Para Tí, near the turn off for the town of Jagüey Grande. We were lured in by its cheerful green signage, pleasingly cheap prices and, more importantly, a gigantic board promising piña coladas.
“Piña coladas,” I interject, rolling my eyes at Chad Jnr.. “Hay piña coladas?”
Now, it may seem strange to ask the barman of an establishment advertising that it sells piña coladas whether indeed they have any piña coladas, but things are never that simple in Cuba. One only has to venture inside a Cuban supermarket to understand the Cuba seen from within the tourist bubble is very different to that of the locals. Rows and rows of empty shelves dominate because the hotels and paladares hoover up the majority of the food, including fruit. Including, as we’re about to discover, pineapples. We have lost count of the number of bars where our order for piña coladas has been met with an apologetic “no hay”.
We all look hopefully at the barman, expecting a smile to form and for him to get busy with the blender. Much to our disappointment, however, he shakes his head. “No hay.”
Indeed, there are no pineapples and, therefore, no piña coladas. Para Tí has misled us. We are so hungry by now, however, that we shrug off this minor setback and commit to eating here; we order mojitos as a poor substitute.
Para Tí offers a buffet to go along with the main meal. A buffet that has been sitting for who-knows-how-long in the humid plus-30 degree heat. Chad Jnr. and I opt for langosta a la plancha, while Lafonda choses the pork steak. Despite her protests that we not order seafood so far from the ocean, the lobster is delicious and, sure enough, by the time we are back in the comfort of the Geely we are all feeling considerably more chirpy.
CIENFUEGOS
Onwards to Cienfuegos then – the jewel of the south and home to famed band leader Benny Moré. We arrive in the middle of carnival season. The Paseo de Prado, the main road leading in and out of the city, is blocked off in order to erect all the tents and stalls, and so we zigzag through the back streets, south to Punta Gorda – the very southern tip of the city. Despite knowing it will be busy we decide it’s worth a punt; and so with the sun already below the horizon we begin knocking on the doors of all the casas south of the Hotel Jagua.
Casa Amarilla is one of the last buildings on the point. After some negotiating (which consists of the owner Jose Luis quoting a price more than we want to pay, us walking dejectedly back to the car, and then him chasing us down the street to offer us a better price), we are all relieved to unload the car and retire to our rooms to freshen up.
Next door to Casa Amarilla is a restaurant called Villa Lagarto – a beautiful two-level restaurant and hotel replete with a live tree growing in the middle. The house speciality is barbecue pork; however, more importantly: ¡hay piña!
ON THE DOCK OF THE BAY: With one hand clutching a piña colada and the other smacking his forehead the above image captures the exact moment Chad Jnr. felt the dodgy lobster - consumed earlier that day in roadside restaurant Para Tí - work its magic through his digestive system. Even the view from the jetty of Villa Lagarto wasn’t enough to distract him. Four hours after this photo was taken he and I would, separated by a paper-thin wall, grunt in desperate unison as we both succumbed to the debilitating effects of food poisoning.
We settle into the brightly coloured wooden deckchairs located on the jetty, which looks east on the Bahía de Cienfuegos. Cocktails in hand, the water lapping at the shore, this was the best piña colada thus far. Served in bulbous glasses with spiky pineapple leaves as decoration, the drink itself was brilliantly frapped. Not too creamy. Strong taste of pineapple. A generous hit of rum. Chad Jnr. seemed fairly unmoved by the drink, still claiming the Nacional’s was better.[2] That said, we all crave a second each but are frustrated by the waiter’s response. Sure, hay piña, but they are not permitted to use the blender after 10pm on account of it sounding like a backfiring 1959 Chevrolet. The guests would complain. [3]
In hindsight it was probably a good thing. The next morning Chad Jnr. and I both discover the source of his poor critique. He felt the first discomfort in his stomach when drinking the piña colada, whereas I don’t until I awake early in the morning to an all-too-familiar feeling. Cuba has done this to me on my last two visits; this was the hat-trick. I roll out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom like a man on his way to the electric chair. With Chad Jnr. groaning in the adjoining bathroom next door, our synchronised diarrhoea and Lafonda’s lack thereof, means one thing. Damn you Para Tí and your contaminated lobster!
We are bed-ridden all day. In the past it has taken me a full five days to emerge from Cuban food poisoning. This time, however, I am prepared. Chad Jnr. too. We both knock back anti-diarrhoeal tablets and a medication prescribed to Chad Jnr. by his doctor father. Though weakened and unable to enjoy our one-day in Cienfuegos, we emerge the next day like child survivors of a weekend at Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch, nodding at one another in silence. The unspeakable horrors.
Worst of all, with our fragile stomachs and emaciated state, the very thought of trialling another piña colada at Villa Lagarto is enough to cause one’s sphincter to contract in fear. We leave Cienfuegos debating the merits of the cocktail: Chad Jnr. insisting the Nacional’s still ranks Number 1; me opting for Villa Lagarto’s; and Lafonda, having given Lagarto’s piña equal billing with the Nacional’s the night before, now saying the Nacional’s was far superior.
TRINIDAD
A day later we are in Trinidad, 82 kms east of Cienfuegos, and our recovery continues with a buffet breakfast at the Iberostar Gran Hotel Trinidad. We aren’t staying there, but after an aborted breakfast at a corner café at the foot of the stairs to Casa de la Musica (whose menu promised a reasonably priced breakfast including fruit and juice, but which didn’t state the aforementioned was for tour groups only) we traipsed indecisively around Trinidad, growing ever hungrier and ever more cranky. At CUC10 each, the buffet is not only excellent value but also excellent quality. [4]
Over the next few days we sample as many piña coladas as we can. At Sol Ananda, located at the south-western corner of Plaza Mayor, we try a real contender. The cocktail arrives in a decent sized glass and a good consistency to the blend.
On a rooftop paladar at the corner of Calle Cristo and Calle Alameda, Lafonda and I opt in while Chad Jnr. - never fully recovering from his dicky tummy - opts out. It’s an acceptable entry into the canon though nothing spectacular - served in Havana Club highball glasses usually reserved for mojitos. Gazing out over the terracotta rooftops while the sun sets, it is difficult not to confuse the quality of the drink with the quality of the view.
While there may be debate about the best piña colada, there isn’t when it comes to deciding the worst. This dubious honour goes to the fabled Casa de la Musica, which tourists flock to at night time to sit on the steps, pretend they like smoking cigars, throw back some cocktails, listen to salsa music and maybe, just maybe, hook up with a local. When I first visited Trinidad the police used to gather at the foot of the steps and ensure the locals didn’t fraternise with the tourists. More than one was led away to the local station. Another sign of Cuba’s tourist apartheid. Mind you, it’s here I saw a local man riding a bicycle alongside a group of young Norwegian women while he simultaneously navigated the cobbled street and masturbated.
As the piña coladas arrive I can already tell they won’t make the Top 10. Again served in the mojito highball, the drinks haven’t even been frapped. Instead, the barman has poured the mix straight over manky-looking ice cubes and it’s hard to determine whether the insipid yellow colour of the cocktail is due to dirty ice or a secret ingredient. Looking over at the bar I spy a carton of Tropical Island piña colada mix. Now, I have no idea whether all the other bars use the same mix, but I do know they at least make an effort. Chad Jnr. and I nod at one another and go for a sip. I cringe and push the glass away to the middle of the table, while Chad Jnr., acknowledging it was bad, keeps drinking. It’s a watery mess.
Suddenly Chad Jnr. winces and retrieves a small piece of plastic from his mouth which he’s sucked up though the straw. “I’ll complain,” I say, calling the disinterested waitress over. I tell her what Chad Jnr. just found swimming in his cocktail cesspool and the waitress looks at me as though I’m lying. She offers to bring us two new drinks but we’ve had enough. Chad Jnr.’s unsure whether in a Communist country one is able to simply complain about a drink and not pay but that is exactly what we do, hurrying down the stairs as fast as we can to Lafonda who has been utilising the Internet hotspot in Plaza Mayor. Again, she is not surprised when we tell her our story.
KEY TO A GOOD PIÑA?
We visit Cayo Santa María, too, crossing back to the north coast. Connected to the mainland by a 50km road built a few metres above sea level, Cayo Santa María is everything that is wrong with Cuba and everything that is right. We arrive knowing nothing about the cayo and soon find out there are no casa particulares here, only sprawling hotel resorts. The workers who keep the resorts functioning are not permitted to live on the cayo; instead, they must travel to and from work every day along this singular road, often travelling much further than Caibaríen (the nearest town on the mainland) and often needing to hitch a ride.
CAYO SANTA MARIA: Set in the Sabana-Camagüey Archipelago along Cuba’s north coast, Cayo Santa Maria is notable for being one of the few keys one can reach by car. The journey begins at a check-point where authorities check travel documents before a 50 km drive along a road which stretches surreally out into the ocean. It certainly does look beautiful, but the surrounding flora is mostly mangroves, while Santa Maria itself is full of soulless hotels offering all-you-can-eat glutton-fests and poor quality cocktails. Above, a couple shelter under fluorescent towels and wonder why they bothered.
We are turned away from the first hotel we stop at, the Melia Cayo Santa Maria, because the concierge takes one look at us and decides we do not have the financial clout to afford it. He is utterly right, but that does not make his appraisal any less stinging. We are directed to the tour company at another desk who can provide us with more *ahem* appropriate accommodation. My preference is to drive back to the mainland and find a casa in Caibaríen; however, I am overruled. We find not unreasonable lodgings at Hotel Starfish, all-inclusive for around CUC40 per person. Sounds great, but when it comes to enjoying the drinks we are crestfallen to see the piña colada is a premixed slushy that tastes like it has never been near a coconut or pineapple. It probably should rank worse than Casa de la Musica, but at least the barman there had to go to the effort of mixing the drink to make it taste so bad. At the Starfish the barman simply opens the nozzle and lets the fluorescent chemical slurry fill the cup. Like frapped uranium. All three “cocktails” are used to water the shrubs behind the bar. In fact, so bad are all the included drinks that we resort to buying a bottle of Havana Club Siete Años, which prompts a flurry to the bar by like-minded guests.
MATANZAS
Lafonda made a promise to her family that we would treat them to a day out in Varadero, some 342 kms west of Cayo Santa Maria. Massively underestimating the time it would take to get there, we set off the next morning, barely able to stomach any of the buffet breakfast on account of the other guests’ gluttony. It is late afternoon by the time we get there and finding a casa for all seven of us is impossible. We cut our losses and drive further west back towards Havana, though, spellbound by a spectacular sunset as we enter the city of Matanzas, we decide to stay for the night at a casa with space for us all. Only the fact the family dog - a huge but seemingly friendly Rottweiler - was named Hitler suggested the family’s friendliness was just a facade [6].
We eat at Restaurante Arrebato, specialising in Italian. Of course, no hay piña, but they do serve an unexpectedly excellent daiquiri.
In the morning we all visit Cuervas de Bellamar. Spying piña coladas at the bar beforehand, we promise ourselves one after the caves. I enter into an argument with the tour guide because, having objected to a CUC10.00 surcharge to take a camera down, I attempt to sneak it in. When the guide spots it just before we descend the stairs (which, incidentally, look like a London underground urinal) I point out that everybody – I mean everybody! – is using the cameras on their mobile phones without having to pay the fee. There’s a minor argument which he, being in charge, wins. I take the tour in a foul mood, which is not calmed at the end of the tour when we discover that even here, no hay piña.
Fortunately, the day is not an utter blowout, piña wise. Driving from Matanzas to Havana, we stop at the spectacular lookout at el Puente de Bacunayagua, Cuba’s highest bridge. If there appears to be a correlation between our favourite piña coladas and the view on offer it’s probably because there is one. The piñas here certainly aren’t the tastiest, but they win the prize for best presentation, coming served in the empty husk of gutted pineapples. Even better, they make them with Havana Club Siete Años. Better still, the bar has a serve yourself policy – the bottle of Siete Años is left on the bar and we are free to pour as much or as little as we want into our cocktails.
PUENTE DE BACUNAYAGUA: Winner of our prize for best presentation, the piña coladas at this mirador roadside bar notable for (a) being served in an actual pineapple, and (b) for setting a bottle of Havana Club Siete Años on the bar and allowing one to pour as little or as much as one wants. It’s best not wonder whether the barmen recycle the empty pineapples once you’re done with them. The is superb too.
Onwards to Havana, then. It being Chad Jnr.’s last night, we promise ourselves a piña in the Nacional. First, however, we enjoy the sunset at Torreon de la Chorrera overlooking the Malecon. A Jamaican steel drum band adds to the summer vibe, but it can’t account for the lack of any kind of cocktail, or the ham sandwich that Chad Jnr. orders and arrives dripping in mayonnaise and looking like whale blubber in a bun.
We finish up quickly and walk to the trendy Fabrica de Arte Cubano – located in an old olive oil factory. It costs CUC2 to enter- yes, it’s that trendy! - but is well worth it. It’s three floors of art, music and dance and multiple bars selling pretty decent cocktails. I know I ordered a piña colada here at some point but I don’t remember it very well because I also have a daiquiri and that is very good.
So, back to the Nacional. The evening is set to be capped off with the ultimate piña colada of our travels. We’ve even managed to snag a garden table which offers the best view. The waiter carries three glistening piña coladas towards our salivating faces. It looks just as we remember it; however, on sipping for the first time we’re reminded of the wildly varying degrees in quality in Cuba, even within the same establishment. This piña is watery and not as creamy. It was made at the Rose Nautica Terrace bar in the garden whereas our gold standard, we soon realise, was made in the Galeria bar.
For Chad Jnr’s sake we drink like it’s the best cocktail we ever had.
[1] Not his real name. In order to conceal his true identity I have elected to give him the most generic American name I could think of.
[2] In fact, he was surly all evening.
[3] A baffling rule when one considers Cuba is built on noise and disregard for one’s personal space.
[4] Like a saxophonist playing free jazz who, to the uninitiated, appears to not be able to play for toffee, the fact they can play means one must give consideration to what the musician is trying to do. It’s not enough to dismiss it. Similarly, dining in a plush hotel wouldn’t - on the face of it - appear in keeping with the Glorified Gypsy’s backpacking mantra of keeping it real. Therefore, before you write in to call me a hypocrite, think: am I a hypocrite or am I adding something new to the backpacker game?
[5] Site of the famous plan to plot Castro’s downfall.
[6] Fortunately Chad Jnr. chose not to disclose his Judaism and Hitler (the dog) was unbothered by his presence. Still, none of us risked asking the blond-haired and blue-eyed family why they chose such a name for their dog.