I once had the opportunity to sit in Havana’s El Floridita bar, where Hemingway still holds the house record for downing 16 double daiquiris at one sitting. The drink’s recipe to this day is known as the Papa Doblé. 

  I’ve never sought to challenge Papa’s prowess for daiquiri consumption or for his command of the English sentence, though Carol has upon occasion strongly suggested my competitive capacity for at least one of those capabilities. (As far as the other, when pressed, she has pointed to my beard with a wan smile.)

The waiter’s blank expression was to be replicated across the bars along the beach. One wasn’t sure he could serve it that way (he could). Another thought he understood (he didn’t) and returned with two glasses. Still another simply returned with the same ample single pour.

  It was on our last visit to Rota that I decided to streamline ordering my dry white wine (vino blanco seco). Mind you the single pours are usually generous and cheap ($2.50-4.00/glass). But within the friendly confines of Rota’s many beach bars (chiringuitos) several of which have become second homes to Carol and me, the frequency of re-ordering even those generous pours probably match those of Hemingway’s that night at El Floridita.

  Now by French waiter standards Spanish meseros are positively ubiquitous in their attentiveness. It was the frequency of re-ordering that struck at my empathy for the waiter’s plight at serving my table.

  Taking a page from what was no doubt Papa’s desire for the same efficiency, on one particularly prime day for drinking wine and staring out at the waves (that is, almost everyday), I decided to ask for a vino blanco seco doblé. The waiter’s blank expression was to be replicated across the bars along the beach. One wasn’t sure he could serve it that way (he could). Another thought he understood (he didn’t) and returned with two glasses. Still another simply returned with the same ample single pour.

  But over time (the next day actually) the concept found traction and I was cheerfully being brought a double serving that 

matched Carol’s single, which now meant our re-orders were in sync and could be filled at the same time. The waiters seemed happy and so was I, though Carol continued to eye me with a studied contemplation of the principle of unintended consequences.

  And just like it had worked for Papa, it now worked for me. I had only to appear at the entrance of one of my favorite chiringuitos to be immediately recognized with “¿vino doblé?”

  That was last spring. Now on our fall trip, I wondered if my new identity had carried over the summer crunch. I needn’t have worried. Four months after my last visit,I walked into the Sunset Bar, a familiar waiter immediately spotted me, smiled and asked, “vino doblé?”

  I hopefully asked Carol if she thought it might be my beard that triggered the recognition. She glanced at it and then at my substantial girth and said (with that same wan smile) “No.”

  Still, it’s a pleasant delusion to maintain as I drain my glass and signal for another. One thing for sure, though. I do not wake up with the hammering hangovers and dry mouth I bet Hemingway did. My sentences remain sad comparisons as well.

  Oh, the waiter’s name is Elmer, as Carol found out after asking.