There’s no way to adequately describe the pure bliss of sipping a Cuban coffee. You’ve just got to try it. My first sip was at this little mom and pop shop just around the corner from Enrique’s place. The sweet, old couple that ran it stood behind the counter catching up with Enrique in Spanish. The old man handed Enrique a styrofoam cup of liquid and four tiny, empty cups for sharing. Enrique thanked him, calling him “Campeón” as he walked to meet us at the table that my parents and I had grabbed in the corner.