The True Cigar
Smoking is now considered to be such a noxious and antisocial habit that anyone who has a good word to say about tobacco risks being beaten round the ears with a rolled up copy of the latest surgeon general’s report. The cigarette has been condemned as a villain. To a certain extent, its longer, fatter, deep-brown cousin has also been brushed by the same tar, and this is unfair. Smoking a cigar is altogether different from dragging on a cigarette: the smoke is not inhaled, and therefore the body is not affected in the same way; the absorption of nicotine and other substances is infinitely less. Yet the enjoyment, for the man who knows how to treat a cigar, is infinitely greater. It is the difference between a sandwich at your desk and lunch at Lutéce.
Of course, it has to be a true cigar. We are not concerned here with those small mud-coloured tubes wrapped in recycled paper, coated with syrup and tipped with a plastic appendage. These may be called cigars, but they bear little resemblance to the real thing, and we shall leave them in decent obscurity, where they belong, on the candy-store shelf.
Good cigars come from several parts of the world. Brazil, Mexico, Jamaica, and Holland, for example, all produce a respectable selection, varying in length and strength from the little Dutch Schimmelpennincks to the more impressively sized Jamaican Macanudos. But as worthy and well made as these undoubtedly are, there is no real argument about where the best cigars come from, and that is Cuba—home of the puro. The writer Bernard Wolfe has described the whole island as a natural humidor; no other place on earth possesses that special and precise combination of soil, sun, wind and water that is so perfectly suited to the cultivation of tobacco. And that is why no other place on earth breeds a cigar that looks, feels, smells, and tastes as satisfying as a genuine Havana. Unfortunately, that holdover from the JFK days, the ban on Cuban trade, has rendered Havanas hard to come by in the United States—you’ll have to leave the country to buy them legally; but it’s a worthwhile excursion.
Even before you come to grips with the cigar itself, there are small pleasures to be enjoyed, starting with the box—an ornately decorated yet functional relic from the days before the invention of plastic. A true cigar box is made from cedarwood, which allows the tobacco to breathe and to continue maturing. It is sealed with what looks like a high-denomination bank note (the export warranty of the respective government), and it is often covered with the kind of baroque graphic art that conjures up thoughts of brandy and boudoirs: curlicues, gold embossing, vignettes of white-bosomed ladies and bewhiskered gentlemen, florid typography—everything, in fact, that nineteenth-century pop artists could lay their hands on.
When you open the box, your nose is treated to a classic aroma, a bouquet that deserves a few quiet moments of appreciation before you proceed any further. It is a particularly masculine scent, and men have been known to line their clothes closets with the thin leaves of cedarwood that separate the fat rows of cigars. (The thought of walking around smelling like a human corona may not appeal to all of us, but there are, God knows, worse things to smell of, as anyone who has been ambushed and sprayed on his way through the cosmetics department at Bloomingdale’s will confirm.)
Now we come to the cigars, looking as prosperous and well filled as a group of investment bankers after a killing. This is the beginning of what should be at least forty-five minutes of unhurried enjoyment. Cigars should never be rushed, or puffed absentmindedly while you’re doing deals on the phone. The more attention you give them, the more pleasure they will give you, so if you don’t have a quiet hour or so, save the cigar until later. The leisurely ceremonial of preparing and smoking one of nature’s minor triumphs is worth the investment in time.
A knowledgeable smoker will always inspect his cigar before committing himself. This is not an affectation; good cigars are made by human hands, which are fallible, and are sometimes stored in unsuitable conditions, which can be fatal. A cigar in its prime will feel firm as you roll it between thumb and index finger, and slightly elastic as you squeeze it. Brittle cigars will not taste good, and should be put aside for less discriminating smokers, such as politicians.
If the cigar pleases your eye, your nose and your fingers, the next step is to make an incision in the wrapper at the head so that the smoke can be drawn through. Surgical techniques vary from smoker to smoker. Rambo, should he ever do anything as un-American as smoke a Cuban cigar, would probably bite off the end. More delicate souls will use a cigar cutter or even a sharp fingernail to make a small opening. The cut should be clean, and not too deep; if you stab a cigar in the head with a penknife or a toothpick, you will create a funnel, which results in a hot, bitter smoke.
The last stage before lighting up is optional. Should you remove the band—that miniature work of art just below the head—or should you leave it on? When it was first invented (credit is often given to Gustave Bock, a Dutchman), the band had a practical purpose, which was to prevent the outer wrapper from coming adrift as the cigar heated up. Nowadays, with more reliable gumming methods, the risk of losing the wrapper is very slight, so it comes down to a question of aesthetics. Do you prefer your cigars to be decorated or totally nude? Either is fine, and only pendants make a fuss about it.
So you’ve rolled and you’ve squeezed and you’ve sniffed and you’ve cut, and now you are ready to light up. Once again, a certain finesse is required, and certain laws of nature should be observed. The most important rule is never to use a petrol lighter unless you like the taste of petrol fumes. Similarly, don’t be tempted to lean across the dinner table and gaze into the décolletage of your beloved as you light up from a candle. Wax and tobacco don’t mix. Use a match. When you have the cigar in your mouth, bring the flame close to the end (about one third of an inch away) and rotate it so that you make an even burn that starts at the rim and spreads to the centre.
You can now settle back and take the first luxurious puff. There is a richness of texture to cigar smoke that makes inhaling quite unnecessary: it is enough just to hold the smoke in the mouth for a few seconds before blowing it gently toward the heavens. And as you watch it hanging in the air, thick and blue-grey and aromatic, you can easily imagine that what you are smoking was hand-rolled on a Cuban maiden’s long brown thigh. (I doubt that this delightful practice still exists in the cigar factories, but a man can dream.)
“The cigar smoker,” wrote Marc Alyn, “is a calm man, slow and sure of his wind.” You will never see an experienced cigar man taking quick, agitated puffs. He is concentrating—albeit in a relaxed and sometimes even trance-like fashion—on the pleasure of the moment. This mood of leisurely well-being that is induced by a good cigar is perhaps its greatest attraction. It even has social benefits, because this mild euphoria makes heated argument almost impossible. Nobody but a clod would waste a £25 Havana by waggling it around for emphasis or stubbing it out in anger.
Despite a good cigar’s tranquillising effect, it doesn’t kill conversation. Quite the contrary, since it encourages contented and appreciative listeners. (Why do you think cigars are handed out at the end of formal dinners? Obviously, to render the audience benign, no matter how long and terrible the speeches are.) Stories told over a cigar are funnier, observations are more profound, pauses are comfortable, the cognac is smoother, and life is generally rosier. An hour with a good cigar and a couple of friends is a vacation from life’s nonsense.
Of course, there is a right and a wrong way to wear cigars, and anyone serious about them will do well to observe the following rules:
The cost of cigar-induced pleasure will obviously depend on how often and how seriously you take it. If all you want is an occasional treat, it’s best to buy your cigars one at a time from a reputable merchant. It doesn’t make sense to buy a box if you anticipate smoking a mere half a dozen cigars a year, because dry heat or air-conditioning will spoil the rest. Annual expenditure, therefore, is unlikely to be more than about £100. A regular smoker, however, can easily spend this much in a week, and a passionate smoker will have to add on the price of board and lodging. Good cigars need to be kept as carefully as good wines.
The climate preferred by cigars is warm—between 65 and 75 degrees—with a humidity of 75 percent. Few of us live permanently in these conditions, so they have to be artificially maintained in a humidor. There are, it’s true, simple and inexpensive humidors that will do a perfectly adequate job tucked away in a corner of your living room. But sooner or later reports will reach you of a cigar Utopia, where the conditions are not just adequate but perfect. Needless to say, the inconvenience and extra costs involved in keeping your cigars in such a place add substantially to their appeal. And so you find yourself going to one of the great cigar houses, such as Dunhill in New York, to reserve space in a humidor room.
Not only will your private stock be kept in the best possible conditions outside of Cuba, but you will have the immense satisfaction, when that young smart-ass in the next office wants to show you his new Porsche, of excusing yourself as follows: “I’m sorry,” you say, “but I have to go and visit my cigars.”