Jack Bettridge
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A 2012 Cigar Calendar
Posted: Jan 13, 2012 12:00am ET
Over New Year’s a friend told me he resolved to give up cigars in 2012—except on special occasions. So I wondered what such a regime would look like for me, so I decided to craft the following smoking calendar for the next month, starting today, that would indicate special occasions on which I could smoke:
January 13: Well, I am not going to start quitting today as one should always taper into things of this nature. Smoke.
January 14:
NFL divisional playoffs (New Orleans vs. San Francisco; Denver vs. New
England). It is impossible to truly evaluate contests of such important
without the help of a good cigar. Smoke.
January 15:
NFL divisional playoffs. (New York Giants vs. Green Bay; Baltimore vs.
Houston). See above. Also 45th anniversary of Super Bowl I (Green Bay
35-Kansas City 10). Smoke.
January 16:
Martin Luther King Day. As this is a national holiday, it would seem
almost sacrilegious to observe it without the sacrament of a cigar. Also
93rd anniversary of first day of Prohibition: necessary to strike a blow for freedom. Smoke.
January 17:
Ninety-sixth anniversary of Professional Golf Association. Must show
solidarity with golfers whose only respite from anti-smoking regulations
is often on the links. Smoke.
January 18:
Thesaurus Day, created to honor Peter Roget, the author of the foremost
compendium of synonyms. What’s another way to say special occasion?
Cigar? Smoke.
January 19: Edgar Allan Poe’s birthday. Ever read those stories? This guy was clearly smoking something. Smoke.
January 20:
Fifty-first anniversary of inauguration of John F. Kennedy. He may have
embargoed Cuban cigars, but not before he first filled his humidor with
them. (Read the story in Cigar Aficionado, Autumn 1992.) Smoke.
January 21:
Thirty-fifth anniversary of pardon of Vietnam War draft dodgers. If
Jimmy Carter let them off the hook, can’t a guy get a pass for a cigar? Smoke.
Bloody Heaven
Posted: Jan 5, 2012 12:00am ET
A
popular line around our office is to refer to a cigar as a good
“breakfast smoke." That means it's an admirable cigar, but
mild-bodied—the kind of thing you light to wake up your palate in the
morning. Every New Year's I'm reminded of what the best "breakfast
drink" is. You can toast with whatever you want to when the ball drops
the night before, but in the harsh light of dawn it has to be the Bloody
Mary.
When
restoration after an evening of overdoing is in order, there is but one
drink to turn to: this colorful highball that combines vitamins (tomato
juice), stimulants (hot spices) and the fabled hair of the dog (vodka).
But, while it is the quintessential “breakfast drink,” I wouldn’t
exactly refer to it as mild-bodied, given its composition.
Predictably,
as soon as first light stirred the crust from my eyes in 2012, I
started the year with a Bloody Mary. I advise always keeping the
ingredients on hand as you never know when a bout of the Episcopal flu
might set in. In fact, in the tassel-loafer panhandle of Connecticut,
from which I hail, you'd have a riot if any of those ingredients were in
short supply on a New Year's morning-after—or for that matter at any
early-morning engagement—such as an orgy of Christmas-present unwrapping
(if you happen to be visited with children) or a brunch (if you happen
to be metrosexual)—at which one needs to be civil even while feeling
cranky and creaky.
(However, if you are
caught in short supply, certain substitutions can be made as emergency
contingencies. If you have no tomato juice, try ketchup. It allows you
to add more vodka for the purpose of dilution. If you’re out of vodka,
use gin. If your spice cupboard is bare, repair to a bar that opens
early.)
Anyway,
as the weather on New Year’s Day was still rather warm where I
live—it’s bitterly cold now—I decided to join that breakfast drink with a
breakfast lancero (a Macanudo Café Portofino I’d cadged from the
tasting for the December issue). I sat out on my deck and not only drank
a Bloody Mary, but read about the drink as well. It was my first chance
to peruse Jeffrey Pogash’s delightful treatise Bloody Mary,
which was recently published through the Thornhill Press Libretto
series. It’s a testament to both the drink and the book of the same name
that I had any will to read at all that morning.
From Russia with Gloves Off
Posted: Jan 3, 2012 12:00am ET
Not much gets a rise out of me in the way of smoking paraphernalia anymore, but I have to confess to being knocked out by one Christmas gift this year. It's handsome, it's clever, it's diabolical, hell, it may even be illegal.
No, it's not a Cuban cigar. It's a pair of cigar scissors that seems to double as brass knuckles (rather in this case, stainless-steel knuckles). On the one hand, you get a firm, three-fingered grip on the side opposing the thumb as you carefully cut your cigar. On the other hand, doesn't this thing look gnarly?
I got it from my nephew John Wilkinson, who's a sonar operator in the Navy. He spotted these scissors during leave on his last voyage, which took him to (where else?) Russia, and alertly procured a pair, knowing his favorite uncle was in dire need of such a thing.
It's not only a conversation starter, it could also be a conversation stopper. Imagine you're enjoying a cigar in your favorite legal smoking haven, when suddenly someone interrupts your reverie, saying something like: "Do you have to smoke that nasty thing around me?" You calmly slip on the Fist of Doom Scissors (not their real name, all the packaging was in the Cyrillic alphabet, so I have no idea what they're called) and "biff, bam, piyooooo...," debate over.
But, of course, I abhor violence and am not suggesting anyone use these scissors for anything but for their intended purpose of snipping the heads off of cigars. But it's nice to know you could if you had to.
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Walking in a Window Wonderland
Posted: Dec 8, 2011 12:00am ET
Almost two weeks into the season, and I’m already getting the holiday spirit.
Let me preface this by saying, this is very early for me. I’m not the guy who warms up for the next round of festivities as soon the last dish is cleared from the Thanksgiving feast. In fact, it’s usually late on Christmas Eve—just after downing several Egg Nogs and sobbing while watching It’s A Wonderful Life—that I can even bring myself to say “seasons greetings.”
I’m especially scorched by the whole hit- the-ground-running approach to gift giving with its insistence that Black Friday is a national holiday that warrants arising at ungodly hours to secure so-called bargains.
So I guess you could sum up my overall holiday mood up to this point with one word: Humbug!
But today I had a transformation of Scrooge-ian proportions. And it happened in the most unlikely of venues: in front of a store window dressed for the season. I know, I know. Holiday displays are usually cheesy come-ons, but this was one was different. For me, it conveyed the true spirit of the season.
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Suspense over: It was the window at Park Avenue Liquors in Manhattan, filled with $140,000 worth of high-end spirits. I felt like a little kid again, pressing my nose to the glass to get a look at a Lionel train, a Flexible Flyer sled or “a Red Ryder BB gun with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time.” Only, in this case, I was taking a gander at 24 beautiful bottles, including Scotch whiskies (a 57- and 60-year-old Macallan, a Bowmore 40-year-old and the fabled Black, Glenmorangie Pride, Highland Park 50-year-old and The John Walker blend that includes whiskies from two different distilleries that no longer exist) and Cognacs (a magnum of Louis XIII Cognac, four different versions of Hardy Perfection, Hennessy Richard and Martel L’Or De Jean Martel).
Sense of (Smoking) Place
Posted: Nov 15, 2011 12:00am ET
A
blog I wrote recently about having a cigar at New York's Explorer's
Club got me thinking about smoking venues and the idea that where—and
when—you smoke can be as important as what you smoke.
The
aforementioned smoking experience was so good because it was a)
virtually unplanned (cigar serendipity is always a delight), b) enjoyed
with friends and a whisky (don't get me started on the latter) and c)
partaken in a classic smoking atmosphere (the clubby ambience of a
venerable old institution).
Was
that the perfect smoking situation? I would say, “Yes,” except that
I’ve enjoyed cigars in many contexts that were far different from that
and which I also might regard as perfect. (At least I’m not ready to
assess the relative merits each and declare one better than the other.)
Does the Explorer’s Club experience beat smoking a cigar alone on my
deck? It did that night, but many’s the time I want that solitude and am
unwilling to share it.
In
the early days of Cigar Aficionado, we ran a column called “Great
Moments” in which readers would write about their prize cigar
experiences. So many of them described idyllic scenes like climbing to
the top of mountain and breaking out a long-saved Cuban or one-on-one
bonding (especially of the father-and-son variety) over Corona Gordas,
that I wondered if I were completely insensitive because I also
treasured situations that were more clamorous. As well as the
philosophical smoking moment, I also enjoy nothing better than playing
cards or pool with a bunch of guys who are just shooting the shit while
smoking up the joint to their hearts content. Could the two truths
coexist?
Years
ago, I wrote a Cigar Aficionado article about what were essentially the
cigar rooms of the rich and famous. I discovered that the
smoke-atoriums installed at some of the great Gilded Age estates were
all different. Some were little dens meant for a maximum two people to
smoke in peace while dressed in smoking jacket and fez. Others were
great halls where the male contingent of a large banquet would take
their postprandial cigar and Cognac, dressed in white tie and tails.
Obviously, both worked or they wouldn’t have built a mansion around each
idea. Different strokes—or should I say stokes—for different folks.
Re-Exploring the Room
Posted: Nov 14, 2011 12:00am ET
Back
in June, I wrote in this space about missing out on a windfall cigar
opportunity because I wasn’t packing heaters (as I normally would have
been before all this cigar regulation nonsense).
I would have made the same mistake again last week had not my illustrious colleague David Savona saved me.
We
were headed to the same venue—Manhattan’s Explorer’s Club—where I had
spent an early-summer evening wishing I’d brought smokes because the
society’s upper-East Side facility has a second-floor patio on which
smoking was permitted. (I suppose it isn’t such a stretch that an
organization that notoriously hosts dinners where such dishes as
earthworm stir fry and maggot-covered strawberries are served would have
an outlet for smokers.) On the subway ride there I slapped my head and
said, “Doh, we should have brought cigars.”
I
explained the situation, and Savona—a former Boy Scout who almost made
Eagle and is always prepared—said not to worry, “I’ve got you covered.”
Not only did he have me covered, he had enough smokes to hand out to
other guests willing to explore the possibilities of a great smoke and a
Scotch whisky, which as it happened was the theme of the evening.
Perhaps
you’ve heard of how several bottles of Scotch abandoned by the Ernest
Shackleton expedition in Antarctica around 1909 were recently recovered.
That dram—Mackinlay's Rare Old Highland Malt Whisky—is no longer made,
but there is a way to taste a facsimile thereof. Richard Patterson, the
master distiller of The Dalmore, analyzed the whisky that was recovered
and blended a replica of it using several Highland and Speyside malts
from Whyte & Mackay (the Dalmore owner). That effort is now
available for sale in a limited edition of 50,000 bottles ($175).
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Of Rock Legends, Tequila and Cigars
Posted: Oct 11, 2011 12:00am ET
“Oh, good luck taking over that gig!”
Mick Fleetwood is recounting one of his initial impressions of Sammy Hagar. He had just heard the Red Rocker was to replace David Lee Roth as the front man for Van Halen, and the founder/drummer of Fleetwood Mac, no stranger to difficult rock-band dynamics himself, was understandably empathetic.
Years later, Fleetwood’s feelings toward Hagar have turned from simple commiseration to admiration: “He’s the real deal. He’s a real musician and a great singer, very relaxed.” They are also now great friends, close enough that not too long ago when Hagar visited Hawaii—where Fleetwood lives—he phoned him up and the two got together.
Fleetwood had heard about Hagar’s latest project, Off The Record, a series of videos meant to pair rock royalty with buzzworthy emerging artists. “I felt compelled to ask him about his project,” says Fleetwood, and now he is appearing in the first of the series alongside Nicole Atkins, a singer/songwriter who performs personal material in a mix of styles. The conversations between the two, as well as musical performance, debut today on YouTube.
And that’s how that happened.
Why I’m on the phone call to Mick Fleetwood in Maui is a little more obscure. It has to do with my having gone not off, but on, the record as a fan of Cabo Wabo Tequila and my generally shameless sycophancy when it comes to rock’n’roll royalty. Cabo Wabo is a brand developed by Hagar, and it is under its aegis that the videos are being produced. When the promoters called and asked if I wanted to talk to a rock colossus, I said, “By all means.”
The video was shot in Fleetwood’s, the drummer’s soon-to-be-opened bar on Front Street, and features quite candid discussions. Atkins asks Fleetwood about the band’s first experiences on the road, and he responds, “When you’re in a band, it’s like a traveling circus.” Fleetwood then launches into an anecdote about narrowly missing being busted along with the Grateful Dead in New Orleans, when the then little-known Fleetwood Mac opened for the Dead, but got lost on the way to the post-concert party. (The Dead later recorded the incident in its song “Truckin”.) “If we’d have been in that hotel you’d have never heard of Fleetwood Mac again. We’d have been flung out of the United States,” points out the British musician.
Reunions, Reputations and Life Reassessments
Posted: Sep 26, 2011 12:00am ET
Three
weeks ago I agreed to go to my high school reunion—scheduled for this
Saturday—thinking that a month would leave me plenty of time to prepare.
I would use those 30 days to do what I'd been putting off for decades:
become a success.
It's
a nice sentiment that people go to these things to catch up with old
friends and relive the good old days, but let's face it, the sweetest
thing that could happen at a reunion is to return triumphant—to go back
to the scene of your not-so-glory years and be recognized as a screaming
success by the people who ignored you when you had zits. In fact, a
recent survey—conducted by me—proves that 95 percent of reunion-goers
simply want to shove their good fortune in the face of the star of the
football team, who is now a janitor. (The other five percent just want
to hook up with the school's hot chick—the one they never had the
courage to ask out.)
My problem vis a vis appearing
successful is that I'm basically doing the same thing I was in high
school: smoking and drinking. Yes, I have made a career of it, and I am
smoking and drinking better stuff than I was back then, but some of my
classmates are captains of industry now. And I smoke and drink for a
living. It doesn't seem that impressive when you say it out loud. I
might argue that I'm sort of a superhero, keeping the world safe from
bad cigars and shoddy liquor with my very important palate, but my wife
doesn't even buy that one.
No,
what I realized three weeks ago was that what I needed was some great
deed, gesture or achievement that would put my career in a better
context. But then I found out they don't announce the Nobel Prize
winners until October 3, two days late for my purposes. And besides, it
turns out there is no prize in Spirits and Cigar Literature. I quickly
gave up on that.
Another
option would be to return rich. Money always impresses people. I could
make a few savvy investmests, maybe get in early on an LBO for the next
Facebook and go show up in a Ferrari sporting a big wallet. But, my
rotten luck, the reunion has to happen during a raging recession. I
tried looking up that fellow who's hedge fund was making people rich a
few years ago, but it seems Mr. Madoff is out of business. No, a month
wouldn't be enough time to secure a fortune.
An Open Letter to a Brother-In-Law
Posted: Jul 1, 2011 12:00am ET
Dear Thatcher,
Thanks
for the invitation to bring my family to your place for Independence
Day weekend. It's not every brother-in-law who is so generous to his
extended family, and I would like to offer some small token of my
gratitude.
It
is a modest gift of something I think your otherwise lovely home is in
sore need of. I've observed that because of its proximity to the water
your property tends to be infested by hordes of insects during this time
of year. I've discovered a product that can remedy this. It comes in
cylinders of leaves rolled around each other. It comes in various
lengths and widths, according to your needs. Don't worry, the
composition is purely organic. I'm told the product is made from
specially raised tobacco leaves that have been carefully aged and cured.
When slowly burned they create an exhaust that repels insects quite
effectively.
Some
user-participation is required, however, as the product tends to burn
out when left alone. Happily, this problem can be easily avoided by
occasionally drawing air through the unit's unlit end to keep it
smoking. I suppose that you could use some kind of bellows contraption
for this purpose, but I find it easiest to resuscitate the unit orally.
From
my own observations with this outstanding product, I can conclude that
if we were to dutifully keep two of them operating on your outdoor deck
from sundown into the evening we would be able to lay down a smoke
screen that would effectively protect your house and its inhabitants
from harassment by insects.
The
repellent works best when used in conjunction with a dedicated glass
vessel that is held in the unused hand and filled with alcohol (and ice
if the weather suggests). The liquid I use has been carefully treated
through years of containment in wood casks. As fumes are released from
the wide mouth of the vessel, they combine with the smoke and, for
reasons that science does not yet fully understand, further ameliorate
the repellent function of the first devise.
To Pack, or Not to Pack, Heaters
Posted: Jun 22, 2011 12:00am ET
A
lot of things have improved for cigar smokers in the past decade-better
quality smokes, better availability. But one aspect has changed for the
worse and it's had a profound effect on my behavior.
Back
in the boom years, I wouldn't walk around the corner without a pocket
humidor in case the opportunity for a smoke arose. When I was expecting
to meet people, I'd carry a lot more than that in case some poor,
unfortunate souls were without smoke.
But
since the proliferation of smoking ordinances I've backed off on
packing heaters when I leave the office. What would be the point? The
occasion to smoke hardly arises now as the number of cigar bars and
restaurants has plummeted and you can't even stroll your smoke through
the park. Used to be that several pubs and one steakhouse within walking
distance were safe havens. Now I have to get on a subway for a whiskey
and a smoke.
One
of the downsides of not carrying is that every once in a while the
opportunity to smoke rears its lovely head and I'm left empty handed.
That happened when I was at an event for Canadian Club in New York's
Explorers Club. Normally, I would have thought of it as the perfect
clubby, old boy's venue for a smoke, but alas you can't indulge there
anymore. Except that it turned out the party was held in a room with an
outdoor deck overlooking the city on a summer's evening. Perfect! But I
wasn't packing. Hell! I had to stand by and wistfully watch cigarette
smokers puffing away.
Yesterday,
I was at a luncheon for the Art of Shaving at Masa in the Time-Warner
Center. Once again, in the old days I would have thought:
"Shaving-men-cigars." But this day, it didn't even occur to me. And as
it happened I was seated with someone who expressed an interest in
cigars when he heard what I did. He didn't smoke-except cigarettes-and
was wondering what entry-level smokes he might try.
I
talked him through outstanding mild cigar brands and discussed shade
wrappers as a stepping off point. But nagging at me were shades of the
old day. If I were loaded up with cigars, I might have been the hero,
reaching into my breast pocket, pulling out an Avo or something and
saying, "Try this on for starters." And he might have walked his
newfound friend down to the Carnegie Club and gotten his smoke on right
away.
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