By Steven Baker

updated 4:24 p.m. ET Sept. 28, 2007

“Take a look. Cohibas.”

I’m sitting in a taxi, speeding along the Malecon with windows down. The night air smells heavy with salt; the few lights that mark Old Havana sparkle in the distance. My driver had urged me — oddly — to sit in the front seat, then suggested I look in the glove box. Wrapped in a white plastic bag is a box of cigars. “Originales,” he assures me.

Uh-huh. These “Cohibas” cost $20 each in the government-run stores, but my new friend is offering me a “deal”: “$60 for all 25,” he says with a smile. “Or $5 each.” In the dark of the cab, I can’t distinguish the cheapness factor, but they must be knockoffs. I buy one for amusement and step out into the bustling Plaza de la Catedral.

Tobacco may only be Cuba’s third-largest export, but the cigar defines Cuba more than any other single product. It’s a $240 million industry, offering work to farmers, scientists, rollers, and exporters (and of course the omnipresent phony-stogie hawkers): each year, the country produces some 150 million cigars, exporting most to Europe.

But though some say Honduran or Dominican cigars have eclipsed Cubans, they maintain their famous mystique. The combination of quality, the forbidden nature of Cuban travel, and the regal air of those who have enjoyed them — from JFK to Fidel — have combined to make the Cuban stogie the ultimate symbol of prestige.

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So I flew to Havana for a look behind the smokescreen and to have a seemingly simple experience: find some great cigars and smoke them in cool places.

Leaves of class
Cigars have a storied history on this island, dating to the 18th century, when the first plantations arose in the east and moved progressively to the west. Though sugar was king, tobacco quickly grew in popularity, with Cuban natives (who named cigars cohibas) using them for religious, political and social ceremonies. It didn’t take long, of course, before word — and demand — spread to Europe; soon thousands were toiling in the tobacco fields.

I figure those fields are the logical place to start. I wait for a ride out there at the Hotel Ambos Mundos in Old Havana, where Hemingway did some toiling of his own (and where his preserved room is on display). The faint air of colonialism still lingers in the woodwork and swirling fans of this open-air lobby, the perfect place to light up a Romeo y Julieta, Churchill’s preferred brand.

As horses, buggies, and 1960s Chevys pass outside, I take in the smoothness of the Panetelas. “Nice, right?” says the man next to me. He’s a Canadian named John and says he comes to Cuba several times a year. Though these stogies are legal in Canada, he buys boxes here — they’re a bargain. “So you come back to buy cigars?” I ask. “No,” he says. “Just to vacation.” But when tell him I’m a journalist and casually ask why he comes so often — and what his last name is — he grows uncomfortable. “Smith,” he says, and annoyingly storms off, tamping his stub in the black plastic ashtray.

Steven Baker Tobacco grows best in the western highlands of Cuba, making for high-quality tobacco and a gorgeous day trip from Havana. Rent a car (it’s easy) or take an organized tour from your hotel. The farmland and small towns begin to appear, and after a couple hours you’ll see limestone mountains begin to jut skyward.

I’m doing the same when my ride arrives to Pinar del Rio — tobacco country. I travel west from Havana, and it isn’t long before mountains appear in the distance and thatched roofs by the side of the road. The scents of eucalyptus, orange and grapefruit trees commingle in the humidity, which hovers around 70 percent year-round — ideal for growing tobacco.

In November, the plants were just starting to peek through the soil, but in the spring, there would be an explosion of leafy green. When farmers harvest, they pick leaves lower on the plant for lighter-flavored fillers and binders, saving those that have received the most sun for full-flavored fillers. The large leaves are cured on racks (traditionally inside thatched-roof huts) for a month or more; heat and shade reduces the sugar and water content and prevents them from rotting.

While some use more modern drying methods, it’s not surprising that this land of old cars still uses traditional drying huts. Looking out over the gorgeous Vinales Valley, I see these thatched sheds dotting the landscape, while in between, farmers struggle behind lumbering oxen. Beyond, exposed limestone mountains block the horizon, trees jutting out of them with rounded tops that look like Brobdingnagian broccoli.

Steven Baker In 2004, the Bush administration severely tightened travel restrictions for Americans, and while you can apply for a license from the Treasury Department’s Office of Foreign Assets Control (OFAC), applications are being closely scrutinized. You can still avoid OFAC and go under the radar by flying through to Toronto, Cancun, or Jamaica (something many Americans do every year).

As the sun begins its descent, I head back to my hotel, the Nacional. Built in the 1930s to resemble the Breakers in Palm Beach, the Nacional quickly became the island’s home of celebrity and royalty. The walls advertise their fabled guest list: Nat King Cole, Churchill, Jean-Paul Sartre, John Wayne, and more recently, Kate Moss and Hu Jintao.

But like most of Cuba, the Nacional retains merely a shadow of its former grandeur: rooms are dowdy, carpet has been patched in, the pool is dirty. Perhaps not surprisingly, the biggest names the hotel could claim by 2002 were two members of the Backstreet Boys, and by 2005, the governor of Nebraska.

I step out on the back patio, where the calm and serenity make up for the hotel’s shortcomings. Looking out over the Malecon and the water beyond, backlit by the setting sun, it seems the perfect place for my Montecristo No. 5.

I order a mojito and light up the short cigar. It’s rather like an aperitif itself: smooth, medium-bodied with hints of leather and oak. It’s almost a shame the smoke drifts off toward the hotel’s towers. I’m very content, but as darkness settles, the patio lights flicker on and suddenly I’m surrounded by fluorescents. This is romance, Cuba style. People continue their conversations, unaffected, but for me the mood is lost and I go inside.

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