All of my heart is in Havana. Havana club that is.

Cuban missiles have never concerned me. It’s their torpedos that do. The ones with the paper band around the middle letting you know its origin and blend.

My mums ability to buy gifts had no equal. The last gift she bought me before she passed was a cedar wood, glass topped humidor. My prized possession. My mum by no means advocated smoking, but she knew that my interest in cigars went deeper than that.

I had a teacher in the 80s that smoked a pipe in class. Even at such a young age, the smell and the pageantry that went with smoking it was fascinating to me. Not only can I see him smoking it as I write this. I can smell his pipe. His name was Mr Sweetnam, and what he lacked in academia, he made up for with his pipe and tweed accoutrements. 

Let’s be clear. Smoking is bad for your health. Drinking is bad for your health. But the peripheral benefits of both, can give life its colour. Sitting down is bad for your health, but the government can’t tax that, so it’s less topical.

I’ve had an interest in cigars for around 20 years. I always wondered who the people were that smoked them, and why cigar smoking was seen as celebratory or only for certain people. Sure, cost is a factor. But the people I saw smoking cigars, had something deeper about them. A class, a mystique, an appreciation for quality. 

We all possess different levels of price sensitivity, but when it comes to quality. Price becomes secondary.

I first saw a cigar smoked during Christmas in the late 80s. My dad and grandad enjoying a smoke to welcome in the festivies. Not only did they sit different, cigar in hand. Something about the act transformed them into cooler, silvertone filtered versions of themselves. I saw Steve McQueen and Roger Moore. 

Like all sacred acts, they require attention to detail. A cigar smoker is not in a rush. There is something contemplative about the process of smoking. For me, it centres around black coffee, a clean Havana Club ashtray (only ash, never something else that can burn and change the aroma), a cutter, and a butane lighter. There is sometimes the advent of a book or newspaper. This is my time to think, escape and indulge in the plumage of a sacred act.

As I land in Geneva for a business trip today. I may find myself this evening, on the water, with time to spare, single espresso in hand, and Havana filling the air around me…