People usually tease me when I ask for three sugars in my coffee. “It works better that way,” I insist.

There’s no sweeter coffee than a café Cubano, and although obviously the beans don’t come from Cuba (I bet I could write a separate article on the lure of forbidden provenance), the espressos at the La Carreta kiosk in Miami airport (terminal E, lowest level) are dense, sugary, smooth and sludge- and grit-free.

I ordered two. But I’ll go upstairs to eat after I check in. “Cuban” is mostly a terrible endorsement for food. Main exceptions: the Cuban cafe on Prince Street in NYC (get the Cuban press sandwich), the big La Carreta here in Miami (ropa vieja’s my thing, side of fried plantains), and the La Guarida paladar in Havana itself (which, um, a good friend of mine can tell you about in a few years once the statute of limitations on American travel to Cuba runs out or Helms-Burton is repealed).