Sketches from a cigar smoker’s diary: Rub-a-dub-dub

On New Year’s Eve, I made a promise to a friend, one Mr P. Spencer, that I would re-activate the ‘Sketches’ series (which sees me enjoying stogies in extraordinary places). Perhaps he is right, I certainly need to break up the protracted travelogue that I have spent eight wearying months writing! However, I initially felt at a loss, I’ve smoked some cracking cigars in the past year yet, I feared that I was not really going to add much to the discussion, is a pack of Cafe Cremes smoked on a Barge in the Ardenne that different to a Punch chugged on the Boisdale’s terrace? 

Troubled by such rumination and fruitless thoughts, I decided to run myself a nice hot bath. Not being a gentleman of any repute, I had to draw it myself, although, wearing a very fetching Turkish smoking jacket made me feel a little more chi-chi as I put a few drops of lavender soap in the tub. It was a brisk December evening and I was looking forward to a long soak, where the desired result is that your fingers and toes look akin to prunes. 

The evening was all about personal decadence - I had just polished off a dish of Gamberi Arrabiata (Spicy, Italian prawns) with crusty bread and plenty of roughly chopped parsley and a few glasses of Gavi. To round off a very agreeable evening, aside from the bath, I thought a wee dram or two of Bruichladdich were in order and a few pages of Dorothy L Sayers (the author of the Lord Peter Wimsey series)… and the bath.

I had once written a facebook message, expressing my horror at people who ate in the bath yet I allowed both drinking and smoking, it was time to put this rule to the real test. In the past I have enjoyed many alcoholic beverages in the company of water: the cheeky beer in the pre-night out shower, the G&T or Pimms in the swimming pool, the plastic cup of rose at the beach… you catch the drift. Smoking doesn’t really work in the shower and in proximity to water I’m usually more of a French cigarette kind-a-fella. I had smoked a few times in the bath previous, but these were cigarillos and the most adventurous I had got was a Villager Export, there’s something a little sleazy about it, a bit like Burt Reynolds at the Playboy Mansion in 1978. 

I had to give it a go with something special. Reaching into my humidor, I withdrew a fine NUB Cameroon, a short, stout cigar (much reflecting the writer’s current build!) for the purpose. 

As I slid into the bath I was enveloped in a plume of steam, I like ‘em hot and I started to question as I sweated from the heat, whether this was a great idea. A slug of the Scotch persuaded me that it definitely was and I set to work lighting up and drawing deep from this ever reliable cigar as I read my murder mystery and bouyantly poured myself a large measure (the tub has a very convenient and spacious pair of corners just right for an ashtray, a bottle and a cut glass tumbler. 

I languished, relaxed, pondered, read at leisure, it was all going so well until a very rude, vulgar but ultimately important sound roused me from my sedate position. The agonising beep of the smoke alarm, tested to its very limits decided to kick into action. ‘For F%$&s sake’ I exclaimed, almost sending the tumbler crashing to the floor, as I emerged from the bathroom starkers with a cigar clenched in my jaws (probably much like Burt Reynolds at the Playboy Mansion sans the medallion and moustache). Perching clumsily on a chair I managed to disarm the wretch, damn those machines pack a punch and settled back to my bathtub to continue this very indulgent pastime. 

As I soaked, I wondered, would I recommend this to others? In a word… Yes! It’s cracking good fun and one of the best mediums in which to smoke, whether it is a Turkish cigarette or a Romeo e Julieta Churchill, consider the bath a certified smoking den for the connoisseur!  

The January Man

A new year should be all about new resolutions and January is the time to start acting upon these, a time of remorse and self-pity where everyone feels compelled to tell everyone else that they are ‘detoxing’ and ‘being good’... until February! How sanctimonious!  That is why I have taken the opportunity this month to shun convention and carry on as normal... and what fun I have had. So while these ‘holier-than-thou’ carrot munchers quaff their wheatgrass smoothies and pop their cod liver oil tablets, I declare ‘boo-ya-sucks-to-you’ in this joyous post focusing on some of the hedonistic highlights of this month. 

Nothing is more comforting on a chill winters evening than a quiet pint of tepid bitter in an old fashioned boozer, and while such establishments are few and far between in South London, there are a small few that still offer a very convivial and warm setting for a civilised drink. The Alexandra (or the ‘Ally’ as it is known locally) is one such place, a large but friendly pub fifty metres from Wimbledon Station with a killer selection of bitter which includes my favourites: Young’s Special, Winter Warmer, Wandle and Junction as well as a few craft ales from the Meantime Stable along with the ubiquitous selections of commercial lager. Okay it might not be the gastropub that so many now crave but it served a lovely, frothing pint in a jolly atmosphere which is helped by great staff. 

For those looking to step back in time even further, I recommend a seedy, scummy little pub in the grand surroundings of Duke Street St. James, Chequers. A regular haunt of mine this pub is perfectly positioned being a five minute walk from Green Park Station, JJ Fox and Dukes Hotel’s legendary bar. Only last Friday you would have found me there under the searing blaze of their outdoor heaters indulging in a fine cigar, a NUB Sungrown. The stogie was full bodied and rich smoke with a thick plume of smoke wrapped and filled with some very fine Nicaraguan tobacco, well worth the £13.00 it cost. I coupled this with a very reliable pint of London Pride and a little nip of brandy to warm to cockles of me heart with, of course, some great banter. Inside it is somewhat dated with beer stained carpets, badly kept urinals, gin and tonic served in goblets and no room to swing a cat. Hear of ‘Tavern’ brand crisps? Neither have I and, after sampling them I cannot say i will be recommending them to anyone! 

Looking a little later into the evening London in January offers no end of entertainment, a veritable mix of iniquitous dens where one can dance and drink the nice away. Bart’s Bar is one such place, a ‘speakeasy’ on Sloane Avenue it is a room in an apartment complex decked out in weird objet d’art and hunting memorabilia. Potent cocktails and spirits on the rocks are the order of the day at this late-night watering hole as well as the presence of many uber-chic glamour pusses. Far too cool for me but sometime riff-raff like me are allowed to make an appearance.The same could not be said of Sugar Cane on Lavender Hill, a far from salubrious place, in which the smell of stale mojitos mingles uneasily with an atmosphere of passive violence and cracking knuckles, not the place for a drunken, shrinking violet like myself! After too too many badly made cocktail it was difficult to remember much of the decor, and indeed some of my more riotous and dangerous dance floor moves, but needless to say it was like a Tiki bar designed by someone devoid of all sense of taste! But then again, what do you expect of a place by three AM in the morning? 

Well that’s your lot for this week, but if you, like me, have decided to stick two fingers up at the broccoli brigade then please feel free to comment below and tell me about some of the places that you have been this January, I am always on the lookout for recommendations! 

That was quite a Christmas!

Those of my readers who saw me over the break will attest that I had quite a Christmas, jam-packed full of good wine, good food and great cheer. In fact this might have been the most boozy and certainly the most sociable I have spent this year. So now, in the dark depths of January, as I lean upon a coppice gate (like Hardy in his Darkling Thrush) munching on a stick of celery and drinking a glass of oh-so-healthy carrot juice, I think back to that hedonistic Christmas season and all the fine riches that it brought to me...

December 24th - Christmas Eve began ominously, the wind and rain battering our Sceptred Isle with all the force Mother Nature could offer. A quick call to the office and I was warned to baton down the hatches and work from home for the rest of the day. Tasks completed and work finishing at a generously early 15:00 I was set to make the most of my Christmas Eve. A quick trip to Waitrose to purchase some last minute Christmas groceries provided the first cigar of the period, a very pleasant Montecristo Petit Edmundo (for more info check out my collected Sketches from a Cigar Smoker’s Album) and a pretty generous tumbler of Grant’s, ginger liqueur and Canada Dry with a twist of orange peel over ice. To keep me entertained as I braved the elements I had Trevanian’s excellent Shibumi a rip-roaring thriller about the world’s best assassin and his battle against a consortium of the world’s oil and gas companies. 

Dinner soon came around, a beautiful pheasant gratin (large morsels of game bound with a stock and white wine infused roux, topped with crisp-fried bacon and breadcrumbs and set under the grill until bubbling) with fine green beans accompanied by an excellent bottle of Villa Maria’s Gewurztraminer (Waitrose, £9.99). It certainly brought about some tidings of comfort and joy, a perfect start.

December 25th - I woke up to a plethora of very useful and much needed presents including Thomas Keller’s fantastic book on baking (which would knock the socks off anything produced on that tosh on the BBC) some very welcome NUB Cameroon cigars and a fantastic bottle of 1949 Madeira! ‘Lucky fellow’ I hear you cry. 

Following a bit of prep work and and some sous-chefing in the kitchen, I heard the first pop of a Champagne cork around 11:00 and enjoyed a chilled glass of Christophe Herbelet with some delicious smoked salmon sandwiches as I trimmed the sprouts. 

Lunch was a veritable feast, and, as I had to do two Christmas meals that day (the inevitability of divorced parents), served at the far more civilised time of 13:00. The turkey was complemented with the usual suspects as well as two stuffings (basic herb & Chestnut, bacon and mushroom) and lashings of delicious homemade gravy. To go with this there was a healthy selection of good wine including: 1982 Chateau Talbot, Gewürztraminer Reserve 2007 Trimbach and a 1977 Sandeman’s Silver Jubilee Port... simply heaven. I topped all this offer with one of the NUB Cameroon’s I had received, savouring the heady smoke and rich, spicy taste of the stogie ahead of round two of Turkey later that evening where I polished off another line-up of goodies at my aunt and uncles house!

As I fell asleep at the dinner table, party hat at a jaunty angle, fit to bursting with food and booze, I drowsily reflected that this had been a very good, if excessive, Christmas Day. 

December 26th - Boxing day hit me hard, my head hurt and I was reminded (Waugh fans must forgive me if I misquote) of that great line from Brideshead Revisited: ‘It was neither the quantity, nor the quality, but the variety that was at fault’. Feeling somewhat woozy, I shakily made myself a cup of coffee and readied myself for another influx of guests. 

I noticed another couple of bottles of the 1982 Talbot on the table and realised that I would have to buck up before a lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. A cold shower followed by a strong espresso and a well appointed Plymouth Gin & Tonic at midday kicked me into action before the guests arrived.

Lunch was another affair full of jolliness and lots of laughter, The Talbot and a bottle of 1985 Graham Port slipped down very nicely after a feast of rolled sirloin with all the trimmings. Another cigar followed (NUB Cameroon), before I felt decidedly knackered and longed just to sit with my book and sog out... 

Christmas had been and gone for another year and I felt decidedly decadent as I sat enjoying a 1941 Armagnac as my cigar gently burned in the dying embers of the main part of the Christmas holidays.