The Haze of Good Fortune

I remember the sound of it most. Not the murmur of conversation in the new lounges or the clinking of whisky glasses, but the particular crinkle of fresh cellophane, multiplied by the hundreds. It was the sound of discovery, of opportunity, of a fever breaking. In the mid-1990s, the humidors were perpetually full, yet perpetually emptying. Boxes of anything and everything arrived, stacked high on the floor, their logos a cacophony of new fonts and ambitious crests. To walk into a cigar shop then was to walk into a gold rush. The air was thick with the scent of raw, young tobacco, a green-tinged aroma quite unlike the seasoned, complex bouquet of a well-stocked humidor today.

It was a singular moment in time, fueled by a robust economy and a cultural shift captured on the glossy pages of new magazines dedicated to the pursuit of the good life. Cigars were suddenly everywhere. They were in the hands of actors, athletes, and CEOs. They became a prop, a status symbol, a declaration. This sudden, ravenous demand sent a shockwave through the industry, from the trading floors in New York to the fertile valleys of the Dominican Republic and Honduras. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to be in the cigar business.

And so they were. Brands materialized overnight, born from a marketing plan rather than a tobacco field. Names were chosen, bands designed, and contracts hastily signed with any factory that had spare capacity. The demand for leaf was insatiable, and the consequences rippled down to the soil itself. Tobacco that needed another year, another priming, another season in the curing barn was rushed to the rolling table. Fermentation, that slow, microbial alchemy that tames the raw power of the leaf and unlocks its nuanced soul, was cut short. The result was a flood of harsh, bitter, and poorly constructed cigars. We were sold a story, but the product often failed to live up to the narrative.

It was an education, though a harsh one, for both the producer and the consumer. We learned that a cigar is not an interchangeable commodity. We learned that the name on the band means less than the name on the factory door. We discovered the vital importance of the unseen processes: the years of patient cultivation, the careful selection of wrapper, binder, and filler, and the months, sometimes years, of deliberate aging that allows a blend to marry and cohere. The boom taught us, in its eventual and inevitable collapse, that a cigar's true value is not in its novelty or its marketing, but in its agriculture and its craftsmanship.

When the bust came, it was quiet. The crowds thinned. The magazines folded. The fly-by-night brands vanished, their boxes relegated to the dusty corners of clearance bins. The tourists went home, and the smokers remained. A more discerning smoker, I should say. Having waded through a sea of mediocrity, we emerged with a better-educated palate. We learned to identify the grassy, ammoniacal notes of under-processed tobacco. We learned the difference between a cigar that was merely strong and one that was complex. We started asking better questions—not "what's new?" but "what's good?". We learned to appreciate the consistent excellence of the established growers and the blenders who had resisted the urge to compromise during the frenzy.

The echo of that time still informs my own work. It is a reminder that scarcity of material and abundance of time are the true luxuries in this world. It is a case study in why the process—the slow, deliberate, unglamorous work of turning sunlight and soil into a transcendent experience—is everything. The boom was a fever dream, loud and chaotic. But the quiet that followed was more instructive. It left us with a deeper appreciation for the silence of the aging room, for the steady hands of a master roller, and for the simple, profound pleasure of a cigar that was made not for the moment, but for the ages. It taught us that the smoke eventually clears, and what remains must be built on a foundation of integrity.