Where smoke dances, stories begin.
One goes on a journey with a suitcase, and the other with a matchstick. Instead of the act of habit, lighting up a cigar is a ritual, similar to a passport, that is not signed in ink, but in ash and using the smell. Well here in this filthy world of religion and slow simmered excess, geography is all.
Here goes, then, reader. It was not at an altitude on a plane but on a leather armchair. Today we are on our way through the fertile valleys of Cuba to the volcanic earth of Nicaragua one-puff at a time.
Cuba The Old Soul of Smoke
Had cigars been a capital city it would be Havana; there was no contest. Cuban cigars are the Beethoven of tobacco, classic, extremely rich and emotionally touching. The names are the guest list of a lavish house party: Cohiba, Montecristo, Partagas. They grew old, like a good lie–confident, and luscious, and blatantly rich.
The Cohiba Behike is another example. It never whispers, it purrs. It is made out of rare medio tiempo leaves, sun-drenched and attitude-packed. Light one up, and you are suddenly in a Hemingway novel, drinking rum, heartbroken, and charming, in a linen shirt which has a whiff of salt and of revolution.
Dominican Republic: The Come-hither Diplomat
Now glide southeastwards. Dominican Republic cigars are that pal who attended finishing school in Europe, smooth, well bred and never a braggart. Such brands as Arturo Fuente and Davidoff boast of consistency and balance.
The Arturo Fuente OpusX is a myth in silk gloves. Medium, to full-bodied, with cedar and spice, it tastes like a tango with a diplomat, intense, but playing by the regulations.
If Cuba is jazz, the DR is a string quartet. Refined. Measured. Exquisite.
Nicaragua: The Rebel With Char
Now cross over to the fire and brimstone of Nicaragua, the land where tobacco isn’t grown—it erupts. The soil, fed by volcanoes and political poetry, births cigars that punch, not pat.
Enter Padron 1964 Anniversary Series—a cigar that walks in like it owns the room and leaves when it damn well pleases. Peppery, earthy, and thick with confidence, it’s the espresso of the cigar world: not for everyone, but unforgettable for those who dare. My Father, Oliva Serie V, Joya de Nicaragua—these brands don’t seduce; they storm.
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Honduras: The Quiet Poet
Let’s not forget Honduras—the underdog writing haikus in the corner of the cigar lounge.
Other brands such as camacho and Alec Bradley make cigars which are earthier and darker. They do not need attention, they have to win it.
Fire up a Camacho Corojo and you will get a hard bite, a taste of sun and a hint of tale of a lesser sung land. It is a cigar, which would rather not be illuminated by a spotlight but a firelight, yet when you get on a wavelength with it there is no other way.
The Grand Finale: Smoke as Worldview
Cigars just like people are products of their origin. Cubans are revolutionary; Dominican, diplomatic, Nicaraguans, rebel, Honduran, poetic. It is all in mood-which is not actually a matter of taste, but which defines you today, and who you can be tomorrow.
And so next time when you are in-store, do not randomly select a cigar. Choose a nation. Choose an emotion. Envisage it with reverence. Allow it to talk.
It is because in the world that is addicted to speed and scrolls, a cigar is one of rare things that continues to ask us to spend time in it- to listen to it, to taste, and most importantly, to travel.
A puff a time.
