Rainstorms, Rum, and When an “Avocado Salad” Is… Interpreted Very Literally
A Strategic Retreat (a/k/a No More Wet Rocks)
We officially decided not to do the tide pools.
As mentioned at the end of Day 3, we had simply reached our lifetime quota for gallivanting across wet rocks that tried to rearrange our ankles. Instead, I worked on the blog until Sleeping Beauty Sharon eventually wandered over, and we lolled around discussing absolutely everything (and nothing) over coffee (me) and tea (she). A strong start.
Lunch Plans, Interrupted by Weather
We intended to go to the food carts at the local SuperMax parking lot for lunch. There had been a lot of people eating there the day before, which is always a good sign.
However, just as we were about to get out of the car, a(nother) tropical rainstorm hit with biblical enthusiasm.
So . . . nope. At least it didn’t wait until we were sitting on the food-truck picnic benches to start the deluge.
Metropole and the “Avocado Salad”
Instead, we pivoted to Metropole, a restaurant that had earned what I’d call “plus and minus” reviews on TripAdvisor — always an adventure. We started with sangria, because who doesn’t? (I liked how they “zhuzhed” the straw paper.)
Being wiser travelers now, we ordered one order of shredded beef tostones to share, and two “avocado salads.”
Reader.
The “avocado salad” turned out to be a single, enormous tropical avocado, split neatly in half, served with a dusting of lettuce and half of a cherry tomato (for color? symbolism? moral support?).
Naturally, we lifted up the avocado to see if there was more “salad” underneath.
There was not.
We laughed a lot.
The avocado had absolutely no seasoning or dressing, so we did our best with salt and pepper and then contemplated what eating half of a tropical avocado the size of a small football might do to one’s internal systems. (Let’s just say: fiber. So much fiber.)
For context: tropical avocados are about 3x the size of a Hass avocado and taste… well. Green. And watery. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve experienced it.
The tostones were fine, the combination was extremely filling, and we concluded we had probably exceeded our daily fat quota — but it’s Good Fat, right? Right.
Sangria In, Rum Ahead
After our Avocado Salad™, we walked around a bit and then headed to our Bacardi tour (pronounced Bah-kar-DEE, as they will gently but firmly remind you . . . as does the accent v. dot over the “i”).
We arrived very early — but the tropical storm had followed us, so we sat in the car as it poured and poured. Each time we cracked the doors to make a run for it toward the large open-air Pavilion Bar, the rain escalated like it took that personally.
Eventually, at the official “half hour early” mark, we made a dash to the Pavilion, where we were checked in and given a coin redeemable for a Bacardi drink.
The Coin, the Drink, and the One We Couldn’t Have
The bartender explained that our coin could not be used for the current signature drink, which featured 8-year Bacardi, coffee, coconut cream, and coquito (Puerto Rican eggnog — without the egg). She gave us a taste anyway.
It was delicious. And dangerous.
We whimpered a lot. No dice — if we wanted that drink, we’d have to Pay.
Instead, we chose what our coins would allow: iced cold-brewed coffee, rum, simple syrup, coconut milk, and a few coffee beans plus cinnamon on top. I managed to “Take the Cinnamon Challenge” by sipping directly on the spice. D’oh! Sharon accurately described it as a “delicious adult iced latte.”
Given that we’d both had sangria at lunch and were hitting that familiar post-wine lag, the coffee component perked us right up. Especially Sharon. Her extremely adorable photo is now my cell phone thumbnail.
Touring Casa Bacardi
The tours were running a bit behind due to the weather, but eventually we boarded a tram and were driven around the sprawling Bacardi campus.
I only took a few photos — including the gigantic blue vats of molasses, the building where their priceless yeast is stored behind three locked security doors, and, in front of the main tour building, a Bacardi Christmas tree, because of course.
Bats, Luck, and the Bacardi Origin Story
Inside the main building, we were greeted by a fountain featuring a bat, Bacardi’s logo.
Bacardi was founded in 1862 in Santiago de Cuba. The story goes that when Don Facundo Bacardí Massó (Señor Bacardi 1.0) began producing his rum and eventually purchased a larger, abandoned distillery, his wife noticed fruit bats living in the rafters. Bats were considered symbols of good fortune, health, and family, and she insisted they become the company’s emblem.
One of Don Facundo’s sons planted a coconut palm in front of the original distillery, and legend held that Bacardi would rule the rum world as long as that palm lived. The palm reportedly died around 1960 — and shortly thereafter, the Cuban government confiscated Bacardi’s assets.
Correlation is not causation, of course . . . but still.
Bacardi relocated operations to Puerto Rico, where Casa Bacardi stands today.
How Rum Becomes Rum
We learned about the distillation process, including charcoal filtration, which smooths the rum and removes impurities.
One of the demonstrations involved spraying two different “pre-rum” distillates onto our hands. One smelled like pure rubbing alcohol; the other had actual aroma. When you rub your hands together, you experience — in very simplified form — what Don Facundo figured out back in the 19th century.
Barrels, Weather, and Time
Bacardi buys American oak whisky barrels (apparently originally Jack Daniel’s, now Woodford Reserve), thoroughly washes them, and then ages the rum inside.
In the tropical heat, the barrels expand and the rum seeps into the wood. When it is cooler or rainy (like today), the barrels contract, pushing the rum back out — enriched with flavor from the cask.
I asked about the yeast — their true “secret weapon.” The guide confirmed that it is a single-strain, top-fermenting yeast, descended directly from the strain carried from Cuba and guarded obsessively to this day.
Tasting the Good Stuff
At the end of the tour, we were served a small pour of Bacardi’s top-tier rum — one that takes years to produce.
We learned the proper way to drink aged (“añejo”) rum: swirl, inhale the aroma, exhale, and then sip while breathing out, so the alcohol fumes don’t overwhelm your senses.
It works.
We were walked conceptually from:
- Bacardi Superior White Rum, charcoal-filtered twice and aged for a minimum of one year in American white oak barrels — intentionally designed not to dominate other ingredients, making it ideal for cocktails like mojitos
- to Bacardi Añejo Cuatro (aged at least four years; “Cuatro” means four), with light vanilla and toasted oak notes
- to Bacardi Reserva Ocho (aged at least eight years), a rich sipping rum — especially, according to our guide, with a large ice cube made of coconut milk
- to Reserva Ocho that had been wine-cask-finished for eight months, adding orange peel notes and making it excellent for an Old Fashioned
- to Bacardi Gran Reserva Diez (aged ten years; smokier)
- to Casa Bacardi Special Reserve, an exclusive blend aged 8–12 years and finished in oloroso sherry casks (≈ $170/bottle)
We only tasted the Special Reserve, because life is cruel.
(NOTE: The ticket you purchase says that you will get the “Legacy” tour, and then can choose a “Mixology” event where you learn how to make rum cocktails, or a “Tasting” event where you get to taste the rum. Um, nope.)
The Gift Shop Test of Restraint
In the gift shop, I admired a T-shirt with the Bacardi bat on the front and the words “I’m not old, I’m añejo” on the back.
(I have enough T-shirts. Said no one, ever. But I persevered and did not buy it.)
Sharon contemplated a jeans jacket with a bat on the back.
Back Home, Early Night
We drove back to the Hyatt, where I am now typing — too full for dinner, entirely content. Sharon, however, headed to the very respectable on-site restaurant for a real salad — the kind with multiple vegetables, presumably to balance out the one-ingredient situation from lunch.
Tomorrow we’re up early: out by 8:15 a.m. for our bay swim adventure. The advertisement is pretty amusing:
“We snorkel in an open and free-range area, not a zoo. We do not have the animals penned up. They come and go as they choose…
There is no boat. People think there is; there isn’t. So here we are, discussing a nonexistent boat.
Be on time: if you arrive on time, you are already late. Please arrive ten minutes early.
AGAIN, there is NO boat. We swim.”
Apparently, they see sea turtles 100% of the time; you can request manatees or dolphins, and if you don’t see your preferred marine mammal, you get a coupon to come back another day.
(I am firmly Team Manatee.)
As I type this, it’s only about 8:30 p.m., which feels downright civilized after last night’s midnight missive written while waiting for the laundry to finish.
Huzzah.
LA LA LA . . . it’s after 10:o0 p.m. and I have been [expletive deleted] for an hour and a half, trying to get the photos to load onto this blog.
It must have to do with doing this on the iPad, versus on an actual PC.
Sharon and I have talked about it; I think that once I’m home and it’s after the Holidaze, I’m going to take advantage of some “blow out sale” or another and just get a light, portable PC to use for travel. This is complete nonsense.
With that said, the “blue boxes” above are supposed to be photos (I can see them, even if you cannot)… So, to save the rest of my sanity and stop me from pulling the last hair out of my head, HERE is a link to the photos for this post. You need to click on one, then you can scroll through them all. So sorry . . .
AND another update (it’s 11:20 p.m. now): I think I fixed it. We’ll see.