What do Sharon Stone, Bo Derek and Demi Moore all have in common? Not only are they all old, but they also all enjoy the company of a fine stogie. This leads us to an important question in the cigar world today: Can women smoke cigars? For years, cigar smoking remained the sport of portly, wrinkly men sitting in unventilated rooms. Fidel Castro and his cronies would suck the smoke out of fine Habanos as though they were inhaling the vitality of the proletariat. But times have changed, and one need only walk into the Owl Shop on a Friday night to notice the results. Women sit on barstools with Long Island iced teas in their right hands and long, fat Cohibas in their left.
Some misogynistic cigar enthusiasts take umbrage at this perceived unwelcome intrusion on their lifestyle. For them, women should stick to dainty cigarettes. These people don’t understand that women can appreciate the complexities of a fine smoke — they clearly don’t understand women. So let’s try a different approach. Demi Moore, perched atop a comfortable stool at the Owl Shop, sits gazing longingly into your eyes while wrapping her delicate, milf-tacular lips around an Ashton Cabinet Series as clouds of billowy, mysterious, tantalizing smoke float around her. If even this image leaves the cigar chauvinist unconvinced, then I suppose sometimes a cigar really is just a cigar.
Review: Padron Serie 1926 no. 6
This cigar is a dream. Produced to celebrate cigar-maker Jose O. Padron’s 80th birthday, this Nicaraguan puro pleases from the moment it leaves the box. The wrap is impeccable, albeit slightly veiny, and the box press renders it perfectly snug for its throne between the index and middle fingers. The first flavor to hit the palate is the hint of chocolate that pervades this entire cigar. As it enters the second third, the cigar begins to adopt a light nuttiness, which is then tempered by an almost imperceptible but nonetheless important citrus flavor.
The burn is perfect and didn’t require even the slightest touch-up. My only complaint is that, by the end, I wished that there were another inch left to smoke. Rather than allow itself to linger and become passé, the 1926 Serie no. 6 extinguishes itself and leaves the smoker wanting more. I puffed until my fingers burned. A/A+