Of course, cigars cannot turn the base metals of this weary world into gold, nor cleave a woman in twain, nor conjure from a child’s ear the coin that buys wonder, yet they perform a quieter alchemy — the transmutation of fretful moments into calm. And that, perhaps, is miracle enough for any man who must daily wrestle with his own hour.
I have told many, and tell it still, that I do not sell cigars. I sell the experience of living — the small, glowing punctuation marks in the long and tangled sentence of a life. The fine cigar is not the thing itself, but the companion to the thing: to a man sitting in the cool hush of morning with an Ashton Cabinet #8 and a cup of cappuccino, shaping the day before him; to another who chews absently on a Perdomo Fresco Connecticut Churchill while pushing the mower through his own small dominion of grass; to the golfer, flushed and laughing, savoring a Fratello Bianco Nero as he recounts the three holes when the world obeyed his hand; to the son who, after Thanksgiving’s excess, shares a Cohiba Rubicon and a glass of Maker’s 46 with his father by the family fire — and in that smoke sees not haze, but memory rising, the invisible made visible for a moment before it fades into the dark.
Let Us Help You Enjoy Your Life’s Moments,
