Member-only story
CULTURE
“I Drink Coffee, Don’t Take Tea, My Dear”
I’m an Englishman in new shoes, that now fit like old slippers. Have I gone native?
I’m sitting under a palm tree on San Luis beach in Cumaná, Venezuela, gazing out over the Caribbean Sea as I clutch a cool bottle of Polar beer. I take a sip.
“Ah, life doesn’t get much better than this!”
My colleague Enrique nods, and takes a swig from his bottle.
“Bwah!” he spits out. “¡Qué asco!”
“What’s up?” I ask, assuming one of the swarming mosquitos has found its way into his beer.
“¡Está caliente!”
He stomps off to remonstrate with the barman about the fact that his beer is literally ‘hot’, and demand a replacement. I reach across to touch his bottle of Polar, which is dotted with beads of condensation just like mine.
Same temperature. Different expectations.
I’m an Englishman, from the land globally mocked since the days of Astérix for its supposed fondness for ‘warm beer’. The cellar temperatures that make sense for a cask ale in chilly old England obviously won’t cut it here in the Caribbean, but I’m happy enough if my beer is chilled. I’m not getting the Weights and Measures…