Last night, I had a most wonderful thing happen. I walked into a cigar shop, said my usual “hello,” and proceeded directly to the humidor.
The shop-owner followed me in.
“Are you cool?” he asked. I spluttered a probably not-so-cool reply, and was told that as a regular customer of apparent coolness, I was entitled to ask for the key.
The key was to a buisness-like cabinet within the humidor. Inside that cabinet is a bounty not normally seen by us Americans: a stack of cigar boxes, each one with the wonderful word Havana prominently written across it.
Now, Cigar Aficionado and others tell us that Cuban cigars have declined in quality in the years since Castro took over. Many of us believe that the best Cuban cigar masters, like Jose Padron, picked up sticks and moved elsewhere when Cuba went over to the Reds.
Nevertheless, the mythology persists. While Cigar Aficionado laments the decline of Cuban cigars, if you check their ratings, you will see that the Cubans still dominate the highest ratings. Americans covet Cuban cigars like they were some sort of cure for cancer, instead of a cause.
So I got one, a Romeo y Julieta Churchill. It was to be my first decent Cuban ever, and it was burning a hole in my pocket all night long.
The bars closed, festivities ended, and I made my way home. Along the way, I ran into a couple of friends of mine whom I haven’t seen in almost a year. Lo and behold, one of them is getting married! Today! He was out having a last bachelor’s night, and he and his pal were finishing up the evening with a very long, staggering, contemplative walk home.
The Cuban knew what to do. Within seconds, that glorious, mythical smoke was out of my pocket and into my friend’s hands. I wished him luck and sent him on his way, happily puffing on my best wishes.
It was the best cigar I never had.
