I went to Barbados for one reason—rum.
Mention rum and the average person thinks of fruity drinks with tiny umbrellas. Granted, I’ve enjoyed my fair share of umbrella-laden rum and Cokes, daiquiris, pina coladas, and planters’ punches, but there’s more to the sweet toxin than I’d realized.
I’ve been to the islands enough to know that rum—the delicious, slightly sweet distilled spirit made from sugar cane by-products—is the Caribbean beverage of choice. I knew that the tipple of sailors and pirates has historically been the lifeblood of the islands. What I didn’t know, however, was that the lively “Kill-Devil” has been underrated.
An appreciation of rum is spilling beyond the tropics. Rum snobbery has become down right trendy. Even James Bond broke tradition by ordering a mojito (the lime, sugar, mint and rum beverage, introduced 100 years ago in Cuba) in Die Another Day in lieu of his trademark vodka martini.
I’d been dispatched to Barbados—considered the birthplace of rum distillation in the Caribbean—with the dubious task of reporting on the state of the island’s most recognized commodity.
I began my “research” at the John Moore Bar, a ramshackle waterfront rum shop in St. James, just a few miles from Cobblers Cove hotel, my luxurious home-base for the week. In Barbados the rum shop is the place where locals gather not only to eat or drink but also to gossip, discuss politics and cricket (an island obsession), or play games (usually dominoes). It’s the local coffeehouse, tavern or village pub; a natural community center and cultural icon for the past 400 years.
I mentioned my interest in rum to David, the friendly driver from Cobblers Cove who greeted me at the airport, and he suggested I drop by the John Moore Bar. The notorious rum shop is known to attract everyone from neighborhood residents and Bajan (as the natives refer to themselves) fishermen to the prime minister who’s said to stop by to say hello to “the boys.”
It should’ve occurred to me that “the boys” might not extend their welcome to outside visitors, especially those of the female variety. Traditionally the domain of men, the rum shops are more often owned or operated by women than frequented by them: “Men in de rum shop; women in de church,” the saying goes. But I’d been advised that if I really wanted to learn the drinking habits of Bajans, then I’d have to experience the rum shops firsthand.
It was 2 p.m. on a hot and humid afternoon when I wandered in. Initially I had to pick my way through a barrier of unfriendly glares to the bar’s back room for a seat. I’d been directed to the rear of the shop, I discovered later, by a customer who’d assumed I was there to use the bathroom. The tiny bar, perched above a fine white-sand beach and a stones-throw from the surf, seemed to operate in two different time zones. The front bar, open to the street, bustled with locals coming and going. But in the back, where heavy-eyed men sat atop stools before small wooden tables dotted with near-empty bottles of rum—or as was the case with one patron, laid out along a narrow wooden bench—a languorous mood presided.
Just about the time I realized I’d have to order at the bar, the proprietor, John Moore Jr., strolled back to introduce himself and asked if I’d like a drink. Playing it safe, I ordered a cold Banks, the local beer and second most popular brew (behind rum) on the island. Mr. Moore, dressed in a t-shirt, shorts and flip-flops, was friendly and unpretentious. Soon the boisterous conversation, which had stilled upon my arrival, resumed and I’d become part of the scene. They asked where I was from. I asked about island life. We talked of politics, the weather, and of course, rum.
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