1959 Pre-Embargo Montecristo No. 1
There are two ways to do day trips to New York from Atlanta, but they both require a terribly early start. It doesn’t make sense to spend the day in Manhattan if you’re not on the pavement before lunch, which requires a seven o’clock flight, meaning you need to be at the airport by five-thirty, leave your house at four-thirty, and wake up at a quarter to four. By the time the bird lands at LGA, you’ve been awake longer than most people slept the night before. The trick is to get out of the city on a six o’clock flight—not eight o’clock… or, God forbid, later.
My rule is to be heading southbound at cruising altitude while the sun is still up. Crossing the Mason-Dixon line at night means trouble for all things physiology. Nothing will disrupt your circadian rhythm more than touching down at ATL near midnight. Your brain knows good and damn well that a train ride through the airport is in store, not to mention a car ride home.
On last week’s trip to New York, I landed around 9:30 and was drinking coffee in Bryant Park an hour later. I had meetings at 12:15, 1:45, and 2:30. My flight back to Atlanta was at 6:00.
Since I had an hour to kill after my coffee, I went for a walk down 5th Avenue to Madison Square Park, where I sat on a bench next to a toddler in a designer stroller. Her nanny was chatting with another nanny while other nannies talked to other nannies. I did my usual little kid routine—crossed my eyes, stuck my tongue out, and made a funny noise with my mouth. The little girl, who looked like a perfectly plump cherub, laughed herself silly as her chubby little fingers grabbed for more goldfish. Her sheepish blue eyes and blonde locks won me over instantly. I put my thumbs in my ears and wiggled my fingers to great fanfare.
Afterwards, I walked to Gramercy Park before lunch at ABC Kitchen on East 18th and Broadway, which I HIGHLY recommend, though it takes a magnifying glass to see the microscopic restaurant name. I walked by it three times before finally finding it—which is frustrating as hell, but I get it.
My 1:45 meeting was with my CIA spy buddy at Devoción, a coffee shop on East 52nd and Lexington, which is the busiest café I have ever seen in all my life. Picture the foot traffic at a suburban Costco on a Saturday and cram it into a store 1/100th its size. Someone is making a mint.
Anyway, my 2:30 was a block away, and that is where a once-in-a-lifetime experience happened. I met with a gentleman who is… how should I put this… REALLY involved with cigars. Actually, I need a bigger adverb, let’s go with… indubitably. Yeah, that’s better. Five syllables are better than two when it comes to this guy. He is indubitably involved with cigars.
As goes with a lot of men I meet, privacy is numero uno, so no name or bio. We met in his boardroom, exchanged pleasantries, and fifteen minutes later, he unlocked a floor-to-ceiling cabinet that housed a collection of cigars that these eyes had not only never seen, but never dreamed of seeing.
When these words left his mouth, “We need to send you back with a few cigars,” my soul started floating away from my body.
We’re not talking about cigars that landed a coveted 97+ with Cigar Aficionado. Nor are we talking about their Cigars of the Year, all of whom are deserving and delicious. What we’re talking about is a 1959 pre-embargo Montecristo No. 1.
I’ll try to explain this to non-cigar people because cigar guys know what I’m talking about. If this cigar were an automobile, it’d be a 1963 Ferrari 250 GTO, and if it were a watch, it would be a 1941 Patek Philippe Ref. 1518—which is to say it’s rare and unequivocally at the top of its game.
I know of only one other guy who smoked one of these, and it was at a private event at the Bohemian Club. Again, these cigars are rare… very, very, very rare.
So, let’s address the elephant in the room: How did I get one? Good question. All I can say is what I always say—I was in the right place at the right time with the right man. I’ve got a knack for being in those situations.
After shaking hands and saying our goodbyes, the gentleman who gave it to me was nice enough to provide a vessel in which to transport it back. As I left his building, I walked up Park Avenue knowing I had something no one else had, and I was willing to fight to the death to keep it. This trip went from trying to get back to Atlanta before the sun set to protecting a cigar from any host of bad characters or unforeseen calamities. A litany of “what ifs” plagued my mind.
If you’ve ever taken a newborn home from the hospital, you know how I felt.
Luckily, I got back with the cigar intact, but to say it was burning a hole in my pocket would be like saying D-Day was your average everyday skirmish. I HAD TO SMOKE THIS THING—but where?
I certainly wasn’t going to have it after supper. It’s waaaaay too good of a cigar for something so trivial. Nor was I going to wait until my Georgia Bulldogs won another National Championship. I don’t plan on having any more kids, so that wasn’t an option either. All of a sudden, I was looking for milestones and willing to make one up if need be.
But an opportunity presented itself, and it didn’t require getting a gal pregnant. A friend invited me to drinks on the banks of the Chattahoochee River with a college buddy of his from W&L.
You see, when I say this stick was burning a hole in my pocket, it was partly due to knowing that every day it was out of the humidor in which it lived for the past half-century, it was being exposed to the elements—no different than a flower cut from the vine. Time was of the essence to ensure it didn’t become brittle and dry.
So, I met my buddy and his friend at Canoe in Buckhead. We sat in Adirondack chairs under a cool Southern night as the river lazily floated by.
I carefully removed the cigar from its case, my pupils dilated with an insane level of focus, like I was dismantling a bomb. I wasn’t leaving anything to chance. I even scanned the sky to make sure a bird didn’t swoop in and take it, though I did have a minor heart attack when the leather soles on my loafers slipped on the pine straw. For a second, I thought I was going for a swim in my suit, but I would’ve tossed the cigar onshore and smoked it soaking wet.
I toasted the end and gently took a few puffs to create an ember. The smell was immediately ravishing. My nostrils took in sixty-five years of burning tobacco like Chanel No. 5 on a lady’s neck. I know the smell of cigars is objectively offensive, but this one smelled like an autumn candle. It was pleasant enough that I intentionally breathed it in from start to finish. I can assure you that I have not only never done that, but it never occurred to do so.
The taste was a terrific combination of lightness and punchy flavors. I may be a writer, but I’m not a cigar critic. As I’ve said before, I just like to smoke ’em. But damned if it wasn’t a sensuous experience. I don’t recall smoking a cigar that I was so evenly yoked with. There was a warmth to it, and by warmth, I mean intimacy—a relationship bound by respect and curiosity.
You can’t help but wonder who rolled it sixty-five years ago. Was it a man or a woman? What did they do when they got off work that day in 1959? What was it like being in Cuba? Castro took over January 7th of that year. A million thoughts enter the mind when you’re smoking a cigar that old. Not to mention, what that cigar has been through while napping in the humidor.
By its 10th birthday, construction had started on the Berlin Wall, Martin Luther King Jr. gave his “I Have a Dream” speech, JFK was murdered, the first Super Bowl was played, MLK was assassinated, and Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.
By its 21st birthday, Nixon resigned, A Clockwork Orange was released, Apple was founded, Reagan was elected, and AIDS was on the scene.
By the time it was over the hill, Michael Jackson’s Thriller was released, the Human Genome Project was launched, the Soviet Union collapsed, Nelson Mandela became president, Tiger won his first Masters, and Google was founded.
It, along with you and me, went through the 2000s and 2010s. I’d rather not discuss war, social media, and the current state of affairs. I actually did it a favor this week by sending it up to the spirit in the sky.
On a brighter note, I enjoyed its company like no other cigar I’ve smoked. And I’ve accepted that I may never befriend another one. Unlike the 250 GTO and the Patek, when the last one is smoked, there will be no more, which is a shame. But in the spirit of the gentleman who gave it to me, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em! That’s what they’re for.
