Gregory Mottola
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Bad Oysters and Pity Smokes
Posted: Aug 20, 2010 12:00am ET
“Tell Jorge to save me a Padrón Family Reserve,” I managed to say. It was my last request before bolting out of John Besh’s Restaurant August in New Orleans to vomit up the first few courses of a perfectly good dinner.
Let me rewind.
That afternoon I was strolling the French Quarter the day before the start of the IPCPR trade show. To avoid getting soaked in a summer downpour, I ducked into an oyster bar with the intentions of nursing a beer or two until the rain subsided, and who happened to be there at the counter—Carlos “Carlito” Fuente Jr. And he’s eating raw oysters. Lots of them, judging by the pile of empty shells. Before I knew what was going on, he put an OpusX Lancero in one of my hands, an Abita beer in the other and ordered me a dozen raw gulf bivalves. “They’re fine,” Fuente assured. “ I eat them all the time and I never get sick.” The rain stopped, I slurped down my last oyster and was on my way.
Fast forward back to that evening at Restaurant August on Tchoupitoulas Street. I’m at a small dinner of only eight people, including Jorge Padrón and his wife, Mary, and Litto Gomez with his wife, Ines. Two courses was really all I could get through before I fell into a cold sweat and started drifting from the conversation.
First course is served. Some hollowed out egg, with—I don’t know—foam? Veloute? Summer truffles? I’m sure it’s great but my stomach gurgles so I send it away and sip some ice water with false hopes of relief. Next course: pork belly topped with cooked peaches. “Yes, that’s right, Ruston peaches are in the height of season now,” I say to myself as if reciting this will somehow erase my nausea. It looks great, and although my stomach was saying “Don’t you dare send that down here,” I did anyway, knowing full well the consequences. I had to excuse myself. “Are you alright?” I hear somewhere in the distance. I guess I couldn’t hide it any longer. Senior Editor Dave Savona orders me a club soda, but it’s too late. Associate Publisher Barry Abrams escorts me to the door, and before I leave, I belch out my last request: “Tell Jorge to save me a Padrón Family Reserve.”
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Trying to Smoke in Chicago
Posted: Mar 5, 2009 12:00am ET
I'm going to spare you the usual Sinatra references to Chicago and get right down to it—Chicago is not the town I left. It has been six years since I last had the pleasure of freezing my tail off on wind-raked Michigan Avenue. The only difference was, six years ago, one could come in from the cold and light up a cigar at pretty much any steak house, bar or hotel lounge. If you didn't have a pocketful of your own smokes, not a problem—every place had a humidor. That was six years ago. Since then, a smoking ban has wiped the city almost completely clean of any indoor smoking. Forget cigar bars, for there are none. All the indoor smoking is done primarily in shops, most of which were never meant to accommodate lounging patrons.
On my brief stay in Chi-Town, I had one afternoon to assess the smoking situation. I started by returning to one of my old standby cigar shops on Hubbard Street. I used to buy cigars there when I'd stay at the Renaissance Hotel on Wacker Drive. The scene was heartbreaking. Not that there was anything wrong with the shop: it still had all its charm and plenty of inventory, but I was told that I was not allowed to smoke inside. The landlord recently changed the conditions of the lease, which makes no sense. It is a cigar shop. People smoke cigars in a cigar shop. That is how the shop pays the rent. So I ended up talking about cigars in the little store instead of smoking them, because talking about cigars is all you're allowed to do. That and drink coffee and read a magazine about cigars. What sadness. I bought a Fuente Hemingway Work of Art Maduro and was on my way. Had the weather not been so cold and windy, strolling the downtown area with a lit cigar would've been delightful. Not an option.
I thought I could walk to the financial district from Hubbard, but that lake-effect winter wind just menaces the downtown area and took the fight right out of me. A quick cab ride later and I was dropped off between two stone statues on a promenade leading to the Chicago Board of Trade building on West Jackson Boulevard, a bustling art deco structure that houses tobacconist Jack Schwartz Importer. It's a small shop with a few highly coveted chairs and some standing room usually overtaken by the handful of patrons wishing to stick around. It is a handsome shop as well, very becoming of its financial clientele. Like the stock market, Jack Schwartz closes at five and is not open on weekends. Even though I had the Hemingway in my pocket, I bought a Padrón 1926 No. 35. The 35s looked like a good batch of naturals and I didn't want to smoke something purchased elsewhere.
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Smoking and Boxing for Tuesday's Children
Posted: Jun 15, 2007 12:00am ET
New York's boxing fans have been forcibly separated from their cigars since the smoking ban took over the city, regardless of the fact that cigars and boxing have always had a complementary, almost poetic relationship. It's a tragic breakup that I still mourn. Look at old photographs of boxing gyms, training camps and arena fights and you'll see that cigars and cigar smoke were practically characters playing a role throughout the history of the sport. Granted, the smoking ban is probably better for the fighters in the ring, but the ritualistic puffing of a good cigar while watching two prospects slug it out is now a fond memory and finable offense, which is why the Heroes and Legends…A Night at the Fights fundraiser was such a special event.
Penthouse Pets Krista Ayne (left) and Kimberly Williams clowning around with
fight fans.
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Held on Thursday, June 7, by Tuesday's Children, an organization dedicated to raising money for families who lost a parent in the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, the event featured seven amateur bouts at the Sheraton Hotel and Towers in Manhattan. Seven officers from the Los Angeles Police Department went up against seven officers from the New York Police Department, giving the event an East Coast versus West Coast theme. All the policemen were legitimate amateur boxers scheduled to fight three-round exhibition-style bouts while the spectators enjoyed a three-course dinner.
The evening started with a cocktail hour in an adjacent room where I met up with Jermaine Gurvin, brand manager for General Cigar Co. General was sponsoring the event and provided cigars for each guest, as well as a box of Partagas Decadas for the evening's auction. I've had mixed feelings about boxing events sponsored by cigar companies since the smoking ban. The companies' hearts are in the right place, but you're never allowed to smoke the cigars at the event. You either take them home, or you go outside, forced to choose between watching the fight or smoking a cigar. It's a frustrating choice to make, and cigar-sponsored fight events essentially end up being a big tease.
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