I have smoked cigars in so many strange and improbable places that it would make a travel guide blush. Once, on a Mississippi riverboat, I shared a Havana with a man who claimed he had once dined with Napoleon—though I suspect he had only dined on Napoleon brand pastries.
The cigar, in such circumstances, became a confidant, for it listened without comment while my companion exaggerated his exploits. I puffed discreetly and wondered if smoke could mask fibs.
I once lit a fine cigar in a hotel lobby in New Orleans, only to have the clerk inform me that smoking indoors was forbidden. I protested that the cigar was innocent of any wrongdoing; he suggested I resign it to the street, where it might join the other tobacco exiles.
On another occasion, I shared a modest cigar with a pair of river pilots, who puffed vigorously and insisted that the smoke added flavor to their coffee. I suspect they were merely trying to intimidate the steamboat rats.
I have observed, with amusement, that some men smoke cigars to demonstrate wealth rather than taste. One such gentleman purchased a brand so expensive that I feared the cost would give him a coronary before the first puff.
To his surprise, the cigar was weak and watery, and he turned to me with a look of betrayal. I suggested, gently, that fortune sometimes errs in matters of tobacco.
There are, of course, men who should not smoke at all. I once shared a room with a fellow who coughed so violently that the smoke would have been lost in a hurricane. He persisted, convinced that effort alone conferred dignity.
I have smoked cigars while fishing, and found that the aroma mingles quite well with the Mississippi mud. One might even say the trout are flattered by the scent, though I suspect they would prefer bait over bouquet.
There is a story I must tell of a banquet in London, where I was seated next to a man who insisted on lighting cigars beneath the chandeliers. One spark descended upon the tablecloth, igniting a napkin in a most alarming fashion.
I managed to save the dessert, and the man saved face, though the waiters did not speak to him again for the rest of the evening.
I have smoked cigars in the company of poets, who muttered about “the divine inspiration of the leaf.” I do not doubt their devotion, though I suspect their verses would have been just as divine without the smoke.
In contrast, I have smoked with cardsharps who swore by cigars as tools of intimidation. They waved the stubs like sabers and puffed smoke in the eyes of opponents, which I consider a most ingenious form of distraction.
There is a kind of joy in observing a fine cigar struggle against a man’s clumsiness. I once handed a cigar to a friend who proceeded to drop it in his soup, to my enduring amusement.
The flavors of cigars are as varied as men themselves. There are earthy cigars, spicy cigars, sweet cigars, and those that taste of nothing but disappointment. One must experiment to discover which suits the moment.
I have learned that a cigar is best enjoyed slowly, with patience and reflection. Hasty smoking results in frustration, and one risks becoming a parody of sophistication rather than a participant in it.
I once attended a literary club where the smoke hung so thick that I could barely read the invitations. One member, a devout teetotaler and anti-smoker, claimed that my puffing was morally offensive. I replied that my moral offense was minimal compared to his opinions.
I have smoked in trains and in hotels, on stages and riverbanks, and have discovered that the cigar lends courage to the timid, patience to the hasty, and modesty to the overconfident.
I have known men who bought cigars with the hope of appearing sophisticated, only to cough themselves into humility before the first puff. A good cigar cannot be faked, though many try.
I have smoked cigars while dictating letters, and once nearly set my manuscript aflame when a spark leapt onto the paper. I learned then that cigars, like life, require vigilance.
There is a small delight in sharing a cigar with a stranger, for the tobacco is a universal language. I have conversed with men who spoke no English, yet the mutual respect for the cigar created understanding.
I have smoked cigars in the mountains of Virginia, where the air was thin and crisp. I noticed that the smoke curls differently in altitude, forming spirals that seem almost alive.
Once, I smoked with a man who insisted that the higher the price, the better the cigar. I allowed him to purchase the finest leaf in the shop; he promptly sneezed himself into obscurity, and I found greater pleasure in a modest, honest stub.
I have smoked in the company of women who enjoy the spectacle of a gentleman at leisure, though they seldom partake themselves. Their applause is often more gratifying than the cigar itself.
I once smoked a particularly pungent cigar in a crowded café in Paris. It was so potent that the waiter fainted, and the patrons fled. I alone remained, puffing serenely, and felt a certain pride in my endurance.
I have smoked with men who argue that cigars enhance intellect. I argue that they enhance reflection, patience, and occasionally courage, but never logic.
I have encountered cigars that are deceptively small, yet mighty in strength. They remind me that appearances can be misleading, both in tobacco and in life.
I have smoked with children observing from a distance, and I have smiled to see the awe in their eyes. I tell them, gently, that cigars are not toys, and some things are best left to maturity.
The ritual of cutting, lighting, and smoking is nearly as pleasurable as the cigar itself. A man who rushes this process is doomed to disappointment.
I once shared a cigar with a man who claimed he could smoke without inhaling. He coughed himself into a chair and learned humility, and I learned amusement.
I have known cigars to be companions in sorrow, celebrations, and quiet contemplation. They are remarkably adaptable to human emotion.
I have smoked in foreign lands where no man knew my name, yet the cigar allowed instant fraternity. There is a diplomacy in tobacco that surpasses many treaties.
I have seen men destroy a cigar by carelessness, and I have seen a man elevate a humble stub to artistry by patience and respect.
I have smoked cigars in libraries, where one must be discreet, and in smoky dens, where discretion is impossible. Both have their lessons.
I have argued with friends over which cigars are best, and concluded that argument is as futile as attempting to measure the Mississippi with a teacup.
In conclusion, let a man smoke wisely, moderately, and with reverence. Let him know the cigar is both pleasure and teacher, and let him remember that not all men—or all cigars—are fit for every occasion.