Cuban Cigars in Midtown Manhattan

Are Cuban cigars really that good?

I get that question a lot when someone finds out I smoke. And the answer is YES.

It’s inevitably followed up with, “Why?” And this is often accompanied by a squint of the eyes and a curious tilt of the head, as if we’re trying to figure out the answers to life’s biggest questions.

I’m not a botanist, nor am I a tobacconist. I just smoke these things. For someone who’s as detailed orientated as I am, I choose ignorance when it comes to this particular topic. I simply want to enjoy a cigar and not think about it. And nine times out of ten, I don’t care what brand of cigar I smoke. Hell, I’ve been a fan of Backwoods since college. I may be a snob with clothing and antique typewriters, but I’m a lunkhead when it comes to cigars.

Over the years, I’ve heard that western Cuba lies in the crosshairs of the ideal longitude and latitude lines for growing tobacco. In my mind’s eye, I see Indiana Jones holding the Staff of Ra as the light of God penetrates the headpiece, narrowing to a laser-like ray of sun that points to the location of the ark on a perfectly chiseled subterranean map, but in this case it’s Demeter, the Olympian Goddess of agriculture, floating in the cosmos with a seven-foot-tall cigar as a staff and a golden cutter as the headpiece. That, my friends, is how I’ve understood Cuba’s relationship with the Almighty when it comes to growing tobacco: that the Creator handpicked a swath of land on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere to grow a cancerous leaf to be loved the world over. Though it’s a bit odd that God would give it to a sworn atheist.

I’ve also heard rumors of a burlap satchel that holds the actual seeds of Cuba’s most valuable export. This national treasure is locked behind a ten-ton steel door at the base of a mountain, guarded around the clock by illiterate mercenaries in flip-flops and track shorts. Inside the satchel is the byproduct of years of crossbreeding scientifically engineered variations of the leafy seed of God. Furthermore, it’s said that government leaders – an unprecedented body of unelected dunces who treat dick-measuring as an Olympic sport – spent a significant portion of their GDP perfecting this strain. Its value is so astronomically high, so vital to the survival of the communist dream, that Castro issued an edict, known among his dilettantes as the “Cojones Ordenanza,” declaring that the punishment for another nation getting their hands on these seeds starts with castration and ends with a series of medieval tortures that Europeans abandoned centuries ago because it was sure to send a man to the bowels of hell.

Couple geography and science with a two-hundred-year-old culture that holds the identity of a nation in its weathered hands, and you get a world-class product.  

But all of that could very well be bullshit. Man has a way of inventing stories when pesky things get in the way of what he wants – like embargos that last through twelve U.S. Presidents.

But I am curious. If I were a cat, I would’ve died before I was legally old enough to buy a cigar. So I did some research and I found several “experts” who confidently argue that Cubans aren’t what they used to be. These days, cigars from Central America and the Caribbean are at least as good as any produced in Cuba, according to the “experts.”

Personally, I don’t put a lot of faith in the opinions of experts, especially those of the political class. As for cigar “experts” … I’ll give them a little more leeway than talking heads on antiquated forms of media, but not much. “Experts” tend to have an agenda. And an ounce of agenda is akin to a drop of poison in the village well – it pollutes completely. I’m sure these guys made valid points, but in the end, all I can offer is my own experience. And I am NOT an expert. I am a lunkhead.

So…here goes. I’ve only smoked the equivalent of one box of real Cuban cigars in my lifetime. A box usually contains 25 sticks, so I’m basing this on a relatively small sample size. Also, I’ve only smoked Cohibas and Montecristos. For a non-smoker, that’s akin to saying, “I only date Playboy centerfolds and Victoria’s Secret models.” It is what it is – I got the best of the best with no effort on my part, like James Caan at a Midsummer Night’s Dream Party.

A few nights ago, a friend in New York flew in from Paris and invited me to his penthouse on 57th and 6th for a cigar. At the time, I was home trying to cool down, pleading with the air-conditioning units to work harder, “Be a team, dammit…y’all gotta give me more!” The high was ninety-six, and the humidity was stifling. As I’ve learned, ninety-six in New York feels a lot hotter than ninety-six in Atlanta. But when the bat phone rings with an invite for a cigar, you throw on your trousers and get to high-stepping. So, I walked down 5th Avenue, hooked a right onto Central Park South, and walked a few blocks toward Carnegie Hall. To my surprise, I was met with a gift from Cuba (by way of Paris): five beautiful Montecristos in a yellow box.

Scottie and I sat on his patio, which wraps around the entire southeast corner of his building, for a couple of Cubanos in the heart of Midtown. Now, for starters, I’ve clearly gotten used to the quietness of the Upper East Side because this spacious apartment came with all the sounds of New York: horns, sirens, and the general wear and tear of Manhattan. But I gotta admit that he LIVES in New York, whereas I live a bit outside of it. And by “New York,” I mean the energy. The UES is quiet – shockingly quiet. I quickly got used to it and forgot that the heartbeat of one of the biggest cities on the planet is only a few blocks away.

Anyway, from Scottie’s patio, you have an unobstructed view down 6th Avenue to the World Trade Center, and to your left, you have a million-dollar view above Central Park. Sprinkled in the mix are Radio City Music Hall, The Plaza, and hundreds of skyscrapers of various shapes and sizes, which, when the sun sets, illuminate the skyline with the beauty of a sparkling diamond. IT IS SPECTACULAR. And to no one’s surprise, it’s one of my new favorite places to smoke a cigar.

Back to the cigar – I got off track. First, every Cuban cigar I’ve smoked has been rolled and packed perfectly. They’re tight, but not constricting, like a mix between a down pillow and a firm handshake. Trust me, this is important. Second, they burn symmetrically (on account of number one). The ash accumulates like a cumulus cloud, which, as you can ask any smoker, is the mark of a quality cigar. There is never any tunneling (picture the cherry boring a tunnel through the cigar). Third, there is a pleasant and distinctive taste that remains constant. Those three characteristics are all I need in a cigar. I’m not smart enough to detect hints of toffee, honey, or cedarwood. I simply enjoy the fellowship that cigars cultivate. But, when the cigars are born and raised in Cuba, flown in from Paris, and smoked in the Big Apple … well, that’s about as good as it gets for this lunkhead.