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     Francois Cherif |
Had the strangest experince the other day. I woke up to find, in some odd John Travolta/Nicholas Cage "Face-Off" sort of way, that I was in France, and had become Francois. What a trip. There are a few things about the experience to report. As soon as the alarm went off, and I realize I am Francois - it's funny to yawn in French! - I slowly make my way to the kitchen to crank up the French Roast Coffee, which I shall prepare using the only reliable method: The French Press. As I use the French Press, I consider the other French Press, and whether there really was a second car in that tunnel. Ah, little I can do about that. So, instead I think about, and wonder, how my cigars are doing today. As I pour the coffee, I amble over to my closet and put on my favorite beret. I only hope that Jacques, my nosy neighbor, does not again stand nude in his garden watching me as I peruse the contents of my various humidors. Such attitude he has. He is a disgraceful Frenchman - I wish he had stayed in the Foreign Legion for a far longer time. I don the beret. Screw Jacques - he is no Frenchman! As I sip my coffee, I heat up some oil with which to fry small oblong pieces of potato which I had cut up the night before while enjoying a Romeo Y Julieta Cazadore. The potato pieces seem to bear a slight essence of the RyJ, which was a wonderfully tasty cigar with a beautiful capa. I have had these particular cigars since a short trip to Algiers 3 years ago - the hotel there had a fabulous selection of virtually every RyJ vitole, and I bought the Cazadores. A wise choice. As I drop the potato pieces into the oil, I decide to dip some small pieces of baguette into a few uncooked but scrambled eggs, and then cook the moistened bread in a buttered pan. I love this style of toast, and wonder when others will find out about my special recipe. As the bread and the pieces of potato cook, I think about cigars, adjust my beret, and look for Jacques. I eat. With my breakfast I enjoy a lovely 1982 Chateau Calon Sagur. It is a bit early in the day for a wine of this concentration, but as I still feel the lingering finish of the Cazadore across my palate, I decide it is a good choice. As I eat, I ponder the possible choices for first cigar of the day. I finish breakfast, and decide it is time to smoke. I shall not work today, for the striking metro workers will make my journey to the office difficult, and with that I do not wish to contend. The only travel I shall do today is to my humidors, and to the fields, where I and "Petrus," my trusty French Bulldog, will attempt to sniff out some truffles. I unlock the large, 17th century farmhouse which serves as my secondary humidor. Followed in by Petrus - who is never too far from me - I immediately spy an old cabinet of HdM Epicure Number Two's. I had bought this particular cabinet many years ago, and it now sits half full, as I find that, given my particularly special palate, this vitole no longer interests me. Realizing that they will likely sit there forever, I pull out two of them and, with a manner of insousiance befitting my French Manhood, toss the cigars to Petrus, who quickly gobbles them up. Some have Havana sniffing dogs, I smirk to myself, others have Havana eating dogs. The latter is clearly preferable. Given Petrus' delight with the Hoyo's, I decide to start the day with a Hoyo as well, and choose a "Particulares" which was boxed 17 years earlier. It is a beautiful cigar, and almost too special to smoke, but I have so many that now seems as good a time as ever. As it is too early to check on my holding in the NYSE, I sit in my garden, anjoying the cigar and reading a novel about a group of people selling heroin in NY. The name of the novel escapes me, but it was later turned into a movie with Gene Hackman playing a gendarme named Popeye Doyle. I discreetly keep an eye out for Jacques, prepared to run if he approaches and tries to mooch a cigar from me while naked. I tackle the Particulares rather quickly and decide, while thinking of booking a vacation to Club Med, that I need the second cigar of the day. Given the proclivities of the Club Med Genteel Organiseurs to use the word "super" again and again, I naturally choose a Punch "Super" Selection number two. From a cabinet of 50 which I purchased from a small duty free shop in Vietnam six years ago, the cigars are quite nice, with a lovely capa and a certain jene saif quoi. (What, because I'm Francois for a day means I can describe everything?) I continue reading my book, and note that as I smoke, I am beginning to tire. It has been a tough day so far; perhaps a nap is in order. After a refreshing three hour nap, I awaken a bit hungry and decide that rather than search the fields for truffles, I will merely call chef, and my friend, Paul Boscuse and have him send over a small tureen of onion soup. As I wait, I decide that perhaps some champagne is in order. Indeed, I have always believed that once one thinks of champagne, one must drink some. As a Frenchman, I have always felt that the man who says no to champagne, says no to life. And so I climb down the stairs to my cellar and proceed immediately to aisle 17 - I feel like having some Dom Perignon with my onion soup, and need a bottle from the '85 vintage. Thankfully, I have many cases still left, but I rue the day when I run out of '85's. Naturally, when the soup arrives, and I pour the champagne, I must light up a Dom Perignon. Petrus and I amble to my primary humidor, which is securely covered with a huge tarp I rescued from the infield at the old Comisky Park in Chicago. After I uncover the 'dor - actually a small house once owned by neighhbor's whom I bought out in '64 when my collection became a bit too large - I go right to the Davidoff section, and choose a lovely lightly colored cigar, thinking that it's characteristic light flavor will meld well with Paul's complex onion soup. The tarp replaced, I sit down to eat. The soup is lovely, the cigar pristine. It has a lovely capa, and the band is slightly yellowed. Ah, such a glorious color. As I eat, the intercom goes off, and I hear John Chunko's voice trying to ask me some inane question about some arcane Havana packaging style. Where do these questions come from, I wonder? I remind myself to disconnect the intercom once lunch is over, and to light up a Montecristo "B" immediately thereafter. The "B" is indeed delcious, a rare cigar from a cabinet which I obtained from Gerard not to long ago when he and I toured our mutual holdings in a mid-sized warehouse outside of Geneva. I still am amazed to find that I indeed have so many Bolivar Gold Medals in storage. With the completion of the "B," I decide that I should exercise a bit, and so I turn on the computer. I am delighted to see that as I am in France, whenever I begin to write a followup to one of the many funny Yanqui questions on ASC, the followup begins with the author's name and the word "ecrit." I like that. I am indeed feeling extremely extremely French at the moment. And thus, I decide to utter in English, for no good reason at all, just a few discreet curse words. Ah, that feels good. I love the way the accent sounds. After taunting the American ASC'ers with stories about Cuban cigars, it's time to consider dinner. I am still a bit full from Paul's soup, so I decide to have for my meal a number of cigars and some pastry made by my college roommate Gaston LeNotre. What a beautiful fucking pastry he makes!! (OK - so I slipped there. You can take Francois out of Brooklyn, but you cant take the Brooklyn out of Francois!) I smoke a number of cigars consecutively. Among them a delicious La Gloria Cubano Taino. Usually a nice daytime smoke, all the talk of El Credito on ASC made me want a La Gloria. But as though I would smoke any of those made by Ernie! It's nice that Saka sent me a bunch of them, but really - can you imagine that the poor Yanquis think this is like a Havana? I laugh to myself. Again, I sudenly feel very French. It is nice. It is time for a Montecristo Number Two. A true torpedo benchmark, I always say. But lately, quality seems to have been slipping, and so as I look at the Number Two's, my mind figuratively wanders into my Perfecto Humidor and I start loking around. That happening, I decide to forget about the Monte, and see if I have any nicely aged Partagas Presidentes or RyJ Celestiales Finos. As though I really need the answer to that question! I look at my collection of each, recently enhanced by a delightful find in Budapest - dozens of aged boxes of both cigars for less than the current prices in Madrid. I choose a Celestiales Finos, which is so aged it has no date code - only the words "Claro" and "cello" stamped on the bottom. It is a wonderful cigar, with a beautiful capa. It is well aged, and I am happy. And, with the pastry I've eaten, nearly full. Time for one more cigar before I go to sleep. Ah, I know, just the right one. I proceed to my auxilary Ramon Allones humidor and take out the perfect final smoke of the day: "The Bits of Havana." Such a beautiful capa! These are truly among my favorites, and provide a richness and smoothness of flavor which are absent from almost anything else in my humble collection. As I smoke this delightful cigar, I realize that I have totally disregarded my wife all day, who has been busy around the house and garden. Thus, as I prepare to go to sleep, I put out the cigar, smile at my wife, and give her a kiss. French, naturally. And the rest, I shall leave to your imagination. It's a real shame when I wake up the next day and find that I'm no longer Francois. Ah, but there's a train strike here at home, and I have a coolerador full of great cigars............... All the best, Once Francois cherif@pipeline.com |