Montecristo No. 4
He hadn’t seen many of his friends for some time. As the tide comes and goes, so to his shifting vocation that will place him out of sight, hidden, and, very much in isolation. He was therefore pleased to see this old comrade. He had not sat with this outlook for some time either. He could have been anywhere in the world, though, in this moment, to celebrate his engagement, he was in the West Indies, where he had been many times before, where his family had spent centuries, cultivating olfactory wares. The trials and challenges that so troubled him for the most part were not found in him that evening, they were forgotten. In the near future, there would be no outlook, no illocutionary scene to enjoy, just the vastness of the ocean in its sad lament, and, his wife to be, wherever he would be, in his thoughts and within his heart.
So it was that he enjoyed his first Montecristo No 4 in twelve years. The vanilla pods were reminiscent of his own hand in the purveying of Bay Rum, not to complex, though just enough of a linger. The handmade work of a State that extolled leisure long before Batista’s downfall. This was to become the simplest of pleasures he could enjoy upon land. The taken for granted products of everyday life that so constitute our being. Over time, his palate was to develop a taste for the earthy, gritty, complexity of organic, natural Nicaraguan leaf that so captivated his family when they arrived in the region over 500 years ago, privateers and merchant class-men of the green and pleasant land, a world away East, the cedar of their vessels mirroring the cedar of the tobacco that had become his muse.
Cigars are indeed a conduit, complementary discursive devices that are to those that have not had the experience, something that Statesmen such as Churchills simply chomped, and to those, like this groom, who pensively anticipate each delivery, a window into history and tradition. No greater compliment can be paid to a man than to share his wedding day with the finest of company, the finest of cigars that have survived a revolution, relocation across the America’s, further revolution, and, the burning of livelihood. The perfect mediator of a celebration of love, aptly named, “My Father”.
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