On the Sauce: Cuba Libres in My Living Room

YO HO HO! I like rum. I like it particularly tonight because it’s free. Not free for you–just free for me. Although you’re free to drink it, which is why you want to call your rum and Coke a Cuba Libre, chicos. If only I had some cigars, or even some Captain Blacks to go with my Captain Morgan’s, I would stink up my pretty apartment good. (Hey–that plastic tip on those cigarillos is a sign of class, yo.)

Anyway, the people at Captain Morgan’s have sent me over some swag. So I’m here at my house on a weeknight, drinking alone on the cheap.

I’m drinking alone because my boyfriend is out of town. And speaking of Cuba Libres, he’s in communist territory. Not a nice communist country like el Cuba, where they roll fine cohibas, drive turquoise retromobiles, and salsa their Havana nights away with Diego Luna. Nope. He’s not seeing too much cha-cha-cha. He’s probably not even splashing in any kind of pool. Which, for a girlfriend, is a reassuring bunch-o-facts. Except in this case.

Failed nuclear rockets ring some bells? Yeah, that’s where my dude’s at. I have the kind of boyfriend whose idea of a good time is vacationing in balmy North Korea. “It’s all fun and games until they kidnap you and turn the rest of your life into a series of migrating work camps,’’ I warned. He was all, Haha and, “I’m gonna eat eyeballs and intestines.’’ Not only am I pretty sure those so aren’t typical North Korean delicacies, but no doubt they’re stuffing the tourists with Michelina’s pizza and meatball subs. No bimembap for you, mister. Though I’m not sure since we have no contact because of North Korea being as bad at the Internet as they are at making rockets.

So probably he’s like been abducted by Kim Il Sung cadet tweens. And there’s like a 77 percent chance they’re forcing him at pistol-point to haul ass in some shanty juice factory right now, where he’s watching little frozen juicelets twirl, twirl, twirl around him on closed-circuit conveyer belts. Which is why I’m streaming indie rock and downing rum shots like a champ. Did I tell you the booze was free? As I am, technically. Free. Since probably my boyfriend’s defective over there. Defected. I mean defected.

Let’s focus on something more merry. Like the rum. This is what they sent over to me, special delivery-like: The regular Captain Morgan’s–the Original Spiced Rum, and the Black Spiced Rum.


Aged with Caribbean rum, spices and other natural flavors.


A blend of pot and continuous still rums from Jamaica, Guyana & Barbados and is aged in oak and has a dark, full-bodied colour and distinctive rich taste that are unmistakable. 


I like them both, but I have to say the extra spicy one is extra warming the cockles of my heart. It tastes Christmassy. And not Christmassy in a family fiasco your dad’s getting evicted on Christmas day, hypothetically, way. Christmassy in its most idyllic form: Sugar and nutmeg and cheer. And not just cheer because I’ve had a few. Hold the judgment, whydontcha. I find the delicious deliciously sincere.

I click my Sharon Van Etten on OCD repeat a few times. You should do the same–some tunes, some liquor. The loneliness isn’t so bad. It will keep things, like the rum, spicy. Anyway. The rum is good.


Related on The Smoking Jacket:
On the Sauce: Get the Girl a Stout 
On the Sauce: Drunk as a Monk