You and the Night and the Gurkha

Ah, wedding season! A joyuous excuse to laugh, eat, drink, and smoke cigars.

On Friday, however, I showed some restraint and didn't even take a cigar to my niece's rehearsal dinner. But when we got back home, I wasted no time in hitting the deck for a surprisingly satisfying Rafael Gonzalez while Sally slaved away in the kitchen preparing multitudinous quiches and salads for the next day's pre-wedding brunch.

Yes, I asked if she needed my help. No, she insisted that I keep her chain-smoking relatives occupied outside so she could concentrate on making the food. I took her at her word.

By midnight, Sally was done cooking and ready to relax. It was just the two of us, out on the deck, speaking softly and gazing up at the stars. Everyone else had gone to bed. And what did Sally choose to commemorate this most intimate of occasions? A Gurkha Class Regent torpedo. Good girl! Long ago I had tried a Regent and immediately began raving to everyone within earshot that it was THE BEST CIGAR I HAD EVER HAD. A few weeks later I tried another while in the throes of palate fatigue, and it had tasted as mediocre as everything else I'd had that day. (Note to self: Do not smoke three cigars a day, even while on vacation.)

Now I looked forward to glomming a few puffs off Sally and reformulating judgement on this swarthy brand. "Don't worry," I said as she stuck the daunting 6-incher into her mouth. "These things burn pretty fast."

I let her munch on it a minute or two, before commencing to glom myself. Upon which I was pleased to find this cigar just as exellent as the first one. Creamy, cool, elegant and fast-burning - an unlikely combination, but true. The Regent is so fluffy and downy, you'd swear it was made of goose feathers.

Sally and I grooved on it all the way down to the nub. I was tempted to ransack the medicine chest for a pair of tweezers, just to suck the last half-inch out of it. But, maintaining a shred of dignity, I put my arm around Sally, sighed and watched the final embers of this exotically named gem fade into memory.

Forget Paris, baby: We'll always have Gurkha.