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Quest for Cuba's Finest Cigars
Steven Baker September 26, 2007PAGES: 1 2
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ROLLING SHOWN
Tabacuba—the government agency that runs the tobacco industry—keeps a heavy veil over its domain, so it’s not always easy to what happens when leaves arrive at the factory. The Cohiba facility, for example, is closed to everyone but VIPs (Tabacuba told me I didn’t qualify).
In fact, one of the only factories offering tours of the manufacturing process is Partagas, founded in 1845 and conveniently set near the capitol building. I check my camera as mandated and join the obligatory tour group, though not before a security guard says “Psst” and pulls a box of 5 “Cohibas” from his blazer. I shake my head.
The guide says this factory produces 20,000 cigars per day—all for export—under different labels; even Cohibas are manufactured here. We’re shown a room full of leafy bundles from the farms; 10 women sort them into piles as the guide passes around a binder leaf, which feels like vinyl.
The leaves go through at least a couple rounds of fermentation (leaves slated for Cohibas go through three), which reduces acidity, tar and nicotine; it’s a process that can take as long as a few months. In between, the leaves must be moistened, sorted and classified by size, color and flavor, with the best leaves reserved for the best cigars. They’re sent to a warehouse for anywhere between one to five years of aging, then blended. Tabacuba keeps their blending formulas as secret as Coke.
We’re led to a room with some 300 workers layering, moistening, pressing and cutting the leaves into perfect cylinders. Since other countries are growing excellent tobacco, expert rolling is where Cubans now stake their claim. These are no amateurs—the training process takes nine months—and even independent experts say it pays off, that Cubans are some of the world’s finest rollers. But the scene is depressing, with poorly clad (and, presumably, poorly paid) workers rolling like drones, some of them smoking the products of their labor, which seems like a bad idea with so many dried leaves around.
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As long as they make their quota—some 100 cigars per day, depending on the size and brand—they can smoke what they want and take home three each day (so yes, some real cigars do end up on the black market). The tour leader moves on, and a worker flashes me yet another small box of “Cohibas.” But with wooden latticework in between us, I can’t fathom how the transaction would go down. I follow the group.
We end up in the label/boxing room and then, of course, the gift shop, where I buy what the clerk calls a “very strong” cigar—a Partagas Series D #1, limited edition 2004—and take it to Floridita, a Hemingway hangout, figuring Papa would be proud. Hemingway has become a brand name in Cuba, and this bar is one of the only places with a neon sign (forming his signature). The restaurant is pretty in a heavy, formal way and serves theme dishes like tenderloin “Papa style” (with choron sauce) or “Gregorio style” (with ripe plantains and hunter sauce).
I sit at the bar and light up the Partagas; it’s so strong it makes me dizzy. Outside it’s a gorgeous day, and there’s something about being in this dark, tourist-filled bar drinking overpriced daiquiris that also makes me slightly queasy. I put out the stogie and step out into the sunshine.
PRIVATE’S BOOTY
Clearly, my quest is not going well. But things look up when I hear about a private club with a private beach in Havana’s suburbs. It seems the ideal place to smoke my Cohiba Siglo III, the highest-rated corona in Cigar Aficionado’s latest taste test.
Club Habana is the most upscale locale in the city, and possibly the entire country. Diplomats and VIPs flock to its Italianate buildings, protected waters, 100-meter-long beach, immaculate pools, Jacuzzis, and restaurants. Yes, it’s private, but $10 and my passport get me in.
I enjoy an afternoon of dipping in the pool, dining on fresh-caught fish, walking on the beach, cooling off in the ocean. It’s a relaxing place, but it’s sterile, absolutely lacking in character; and when as the sun goes down, all the people disappear. Disappointed again, I call for a taxi back downtown.
See our slideshow of Quest for Cuba's Finest Cigars.
My favorite time for a cigar is after a great meal, but a gourmand’s paradise Cuba is not. The few exceptions are the privately run restaurants, called paladares. One of those is a little place called La Guarida, where the Oscar-winning Cuban film Fres y Chocolat was filmed. Just getting here is a bizarre experience: you step into a dilapidated building, walk past dominoes players and rusted cars, climb a darkened staircase and arrive at a simple door.
Outside may be Syria, but inside is SoHo. Modern art hangs on red walls and looks down on a mosaic floor, as strains of Coltrane drift softly into the candlelit space. The food arrives with a combination of flavors that’s hard—if not impossible—to find in this bereft nation. I’m tempted by the pork medallions with mango but go for the swordfish filet with vanilla and saffron sauce—it’s the best meal I’ve had all week.
Sated, I walk back through the darkened streets of Centro Habana, determined to find a great place to enjoy my Cohiba. The Parque Central, a newer hotel, has a nice roof deck with a pool, but there are loud tourists there drinking heavily. I’m about to give up when I see a sign outside the Hotel San Miguel advertising a roof patio. The hotel is a 1920s mansion on the edge of Havana Vieja, and the fourth-floor balcony offers a dramatic view overlooking the city harbor and its forts.
What’s even better, I’m all alone when the bartender brings me a beer and offers to light my cigar. I ask him to light two: the “Cohiba” I bought from the taxi driver and the Siglo. He’s quizzical but he agrees, wafting the flame from a cedar stick deep into the dried leaves of both.
Left alone, I take a pull on the “Cohiba,” already so dry its leaves are flaking off. The loose wrap attests to its machine-made roots, and it tastes a bit like tar. I give it a rest and pick up the Siglo III: solid and tightly wrapped, it smells inviting before I even pull on it. When I do, my mouth fills with a rich flavor that reminds me of slightly sweetened coffee. Between puffs, I get a spicy aftertaste with a hint of chocolate. I’m happy.
I’m happy with my perch as well. Watching pedestrians and cuddling couples in the park below, it’s easy to feel like Fidel addressing the masses. A ’57 Chevy drives by, followed by a late-model BMW. It’s part of the confusing nature of today’s Cuba—mostly old, with international investment bringing a sprinkling of new. When the U.S. ultimately lifts its trade embargo, Americans and cigars will pass freely—and liberally—across the Straits of Florida. But will the Cuban mystique disappear when stogies flood South Beach?
A deep horn interrupts my thoughts—it’s a barge pulling out, chugging slowly toward the sea, probably laden with cigars. I watch its slow progress, enveloping my mouth with smoke, fully enjoying the moment.
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