Last Night We Met an Old Cuban at Oddfellows Cafe

We had come from the place that sells tacos for two dollars down the street. The fish tasted of the sea and salt air and we became thirsty, so we visited the cafe called Oddfellows where a man we knew sometimes made drinks. He was not named Smith, but he worked as well at a bar called Smith, so we will call him that here. When we saw Smith polishing a glass through the window we motioned to our friend that we should go in, and he nodded, and at first we began with a beer and talked about how things used to be. It grew late and the candles shone brighter on the cocktail list and on the sweet concoctions that hid the bitterness of Fernet Branca until it was too late. Fernet Branca is a man's drink, or an old woman's; one can wear it like a pipe or a shawl. But we did not drink it that night. We asked Smith what he wished to make, and he thought perhaps something with champagne. Champagne, we asked, do we look like we are in a wedding party. You will like this, Smith promised, and he went away and bruised some sprigs of mint which confused us because we did not want to believe he was making a mojito. He began pouring rum into a glass which we saw also but we made ourselves be patient. Then the champagne. It is called an Old Cuban, Smith said, handing us the drink, and we took a sip that reminded us of citrus groves and sugar cane and of humid mornings when the waves came high on the beach when we were younger. The drink was crisp from the mint. There are not many drinks we want to have served at breakfast, we told Smith, but this is one. He smiled, and ran a cloth over the bar. It was enough.