CIGARS & PORT ON A TRIP TO LISBON

Photography & Text by Giovanni Zelko

From the moment my Portugalia Airlines plane touched down on the small international airport of Lisbon, I was itching for a cigar. But not just any cigar. A very special and hard to find cigar. Disembarking down the steps of the plane onto the hot tarmac with my only luggage, my trusty leather shoulder bag, I looked around the small airport made famous during WWII as an asylum for refugees escaping from Europe and spies sneaking back in. Quiet. Quaint. Mysterious. Almost eerie. I caught myself glancing around in search of modern day spies, or Humphrey Bogart’s girl, “Ilsa,” from Casablanca. It was here she escaped to from Morocco with her lover Victor Lazlo some sixty or so cinema years ago. But that was a long time ago, and, well, not real.

Nothing quite brings back the romance of travel as having a rustic lunch on a scenic train ride into the unknown.

The moment I checked into my hotel, the charming Marques family-run Casa de S. Mamede, I dropped my bag and headed for the city center while the summer’s long hours of daylight afforded me some exploration time. Aside from the ornate glazed tiles that adorn the facades of buildings, Lisbon’s most striking and memorable physical characteristic is the black and white stone mosaic work that blankets the city’s sidewalks and plazas. Potentially dizzying if you’ve had a bit too much to drink, the patterns of the sidewalks that turn bland pavement into functional artwork are always beautiful wherever you go in the city. The enormous mosaic of one of Lisbon’s largest plazas, the Praca de Dom Pedro IV, located in front of Lisbon’s opera house, Teatro Nacional de Dona Maria II, is especially stunning with it’s undulating waves. If you jog fast enough, or have had enough Port wine, then the waves will begin to move as if you were at sea, and the plaza will live up to it’s nickname: “the dizzy plaza.” It is across this plaza that I found my Cuban prey in a charming corner cigar shop.

The vaulted ceiling of the shop allowed for a vertical stockpiling that required a rolling ladder to get to an enormous array of tobacco products and accessories. The cigar selection, almost exclusively Cuban, was most impressive. The three gentlemen behind the counter were just that- gentlemen. The old European kind that are slowly withering away in large cities across the continent. I say “old” because even though Lisbon is a large city and the capital of Portugal, it holds onto a charming old-European sensibility in its culture and customs more-so than some of its E.U. neighbors. London, Paris, Berlin, Zurich, Barcelona, and Rome have all long become integral parts of the global community, and, unlike Lisbon, have all irrevocably paid the price for that inclusion. They have become cynical. There is a certain flaking away of culture that goes hand in hand with progress. Add mass tourism, like Lisbon’s European sister cities have, and a city has almost lost its soul. It is rarely a single incident, or a specific, tangible element that marks the loss of a people’s cultural identity, but somewhere in the blandness of everyday life as the decades slip by along the path to an improved existence, it happens. As a West-European backwater, Lisbon, and Portugal in general, is somewhat less susceptible to those exterior pressures, and thankfully so. It is what keeps Lisbon charming in a unique solitary way, lacking the explosion of Starbucks Coffee, fast food chains, and billboards of American Pop Stars coming to town. When in Lisbon, believe it or not, you actually feel as if you are in a completely foreign country.

When in Lisbon, believe it or not, you actually feel as if you are in a completely foreign country.

Back in the tiny cigar shop in the corner of the plaza, the gentlemen, all dressed in cufflink-shirts, suspenders, vests, and ties, were pleasant and helpful in answering all my questions in a Portuguese accent of broken English and some Italian. Alas, not seeing the specific box of cigars I was looking for, I finally asked with a glint in my eye: “Do you carry Hoyo de Monterrey Epicure #1?” With a smile, he said, “Yes. Of course we do! Please. One moment.” In a flash, he disappeared down an old iron spiral staircase in the corner that was worn down from over a hundred years of use. Returning in a few moments from the subterranean storeroom, he presented me with a few choices: “For your pleasure, Sir, we have either a sealed box, individual cigars from this opened box, or our popular packages of five.” As I was dealing with limited space and a tight budget, I opted for the five pack and a couple of loose sticks. Perfect. Seven cigars for seven days.

Heading out the shop with a smile, I began a casual stroll around the city, losing myself in Lisbon’s snaking narrow cobblestone streets, absorbing all the subtleties the city had to offer as a blanket of twilight transformed the buildings, streets, & people into a living dreamscape of shimmering shadows. Itching for a glass of Port to accompany my cigar, Bachus, who always keeps an eye out for me, placed me literally at the gates to the world of port: Solar do Vinho do Porto. Opened shortly after WWII, the parlor which is actually a Port Bar, is the government-created clubhouse which is the public arm of Portugal’s official Port Institute: Instituto dos Vinhos do Douro e do Porto. Port drinkers may recognize that name, as it is the official white seal placed across the cork of every bottle of port. Since 1756, the Institute has had the official word on which vineyards can produce Port, how much they can produce, and what type of port. They also decide which year may be declared a “Vintage Port,” which occurs only two or three times a decade. As the countries official bar of the Institute, Solar do Vinho do Porto is unlike any other bar in the world for two reasons: one, the cellar on the premises is a historical capsule of port history, containing more than two hundred types of port from every manufacturer Portugal has to offer spanning the last 100 years; two, it offers all of these amazing vintage years (dramatic pause) by the glass.

Solar do Vinho do Porto is unlike any other bar in the world for two reasons: one, the cellar on the premises is a historical capsule of port history, containing more than two hundred types of port from every manufacturer Portugal has to offer spanning the last 100 years; two, it offers all of these amazing vintage years (dramatic pause) by the glass.

Not a stranger to the world of port wines, I knew exactly what I wanted to accompany my Hoyo de Monterrey Epicure #1: a very hard to find 1977 vintage Taylor Fladgate. It is one of the best and most coveted ports of the century, and thus one of the most difficult to find. I was in luck, because the sommelier, (no “bartenders” here!), had decanted a bottle only a few hours before for another party, and there was about two port glasses left. I say lucky because I couldn’t afford the high price to purchase an entire bottle, so I was left at the mercy of there being a bottle already opened that evening. As amazing as the Institute is, they will not decant a bottle of some of their most sacred wines for a customer who will be having only a couple glasses, and rightly so. I was further in luck because the bottle had been properly decanted some two hours ago, allowing it to breathe for the ideal amount of time. Bachus was truly watching out for me tonight!

Sitting at a table under an old tapestry across from an even older fireplace, I soaked in the nostalgia of the three hundred year old stone parlor with a smirk on my face. I was in the fabled city of Lisbon on a warm balmy night in a one of a kind bar in the world. I had one of the world’s finest cigars in one hand and one of the world’s finest port wines in the other. As an added bonus these days, far away from the smothering laws of the new world, I could actually smoke a cigar inside a bar. I was as giddy as a virgin on prom night. After turning the cigar over and over in my hand, admiring its beautiful construction, I ran it beneath my nose to inhale its delicate tobacco aromas. I then brought the glass of port to my nose and inhaled the sweet berry aromas that had been trapped in its genie bottle for nearly thirty years. Lighting a blade of cedar wood, I touched the flame to the tobacco and slowly rotated the Epicure until it was evenly lit. The draw was perfect. The angle cut I used was perfect. The sip of port I took was perfect. This night was perfect, and it had just begun!

I had one of the world’s finest cigars in one hand and one of the world’s finest port wines in the other.

A few puffs into the Hoyo and I knew I had an exceptional smoke ahead of me. A smooth, even draw began to immediately open up a creamy bouquet of spices. The silkiness of the smoke was mild on the palate, which was the perfect companion to my glass of port. When sipping a fine port, especially a powerhouse port like this Taylor 77, I’d rather not have a cigar that smothers the delicate notes of the port. Like all great things in life, a balance must be found. I found that balance here. Twenty seven years of patient aging in dark, damp cellars, the Taylor Fladgate was as silky smooth and mellow as its much younger, but equally impressive, counterpart, the exquisitely constructed Epicure #1. It burned perfectly and had a white ash that was one of the longest I’d ever seen. Creamy with hints of spice, it remained pleasantly mild and elegant to its very end with a pleasant after-taste that lingered on for some time.

Exiting the Solar do Vinho do Porto, I was pointed in the nearby direction of the Barro Alto for dinner and some entertainment. The Barro Alto, one of the oldest quarters in Lisbon, is a network of narrow winding cobblestone streets and alleyways that house many a starving artist, much of Lisbon’s night life, and the most famous expression of Portugal’s music: Fado. Portugal’s traditional folk singing, usually accompanied by a viola and one or two guitars, is performed most commonly by a woman, and the art is said to have stemmed from gypsies. Entering Café’ Luso, one of Lisbon’s most famous Fado café’s, I was in for a treat. This café’, if it can be called that, is especially unique in that it is located in the arched vaults of the stables and cellars of the 17^th century palace of St. Roque. Like so many spirits of Fado singers gone by, the flickering candlelight dancing upon the vaulted brick ceilings was especially breathtaking. The fact that you are watching a beautiful raven-haired woman sing her soul out while hearing her haunted song echo across the vaulted brick ceiling of a 300 year old room and wash over you in waves of sorrow, only furthers the sense of awe you can’t help but feel. Did I mention that are all the while eating an amazing meal? I had the free-range veal porterhouse in, yes, port-sauce.

The fact that you are watching a beautiful raven-haired woman sing her soul out while hearing her haunted song echo across the vaulted brick ceiling of a 300 year old room and wash over you in waves of sorrow, only furthers the sense of awe you can’t help but feel.

After a couple of days of aimless wanderings about Lisbon, getting lost and unlost amidst it’s winding cobblestone streets, I loaded my leather bag with a bottle of port, cheese, dried figs, dark chocolate, and some bread. Supplies in hand, I began a panoramic train-ride up the coast heading north. Nothing quite brings back the romance of travel as having a rustic lunch on a scenic train ride into the unknown. The next four hours was spent glancing between the magnificent azure Atlantic on my left, and down at my book on the history of port wines. As if I was back in college, I was cramming information to prepare me for the next leg of my journey. I was heading to the birthplace of the most famous, delicate, and mysterious of desert wines: port. My mind danced with images of old boats laden with barrels of port at anchor in the mouth of the famous Duoro River, their sails and barrels painted with the names and logos of their famous cellars: Taylor Fladgate, Grahams, Ramos Pinto, Sandeman, Calem, Cockburns, Croft, Offley, Noval, Vasconcellos, Kopke, Ferreira, Krohn, and others. The clattering of train wheels on tracks and the occasional whistle blow from the conductor was bringing me closer and closer to the end of my pilgrimage. During the next four days, I would visit countless port shrines, meandering through their damp cellars, learning their histories and secrets, and tasting the many different blessings they had to offer. I was heading to Oporto, the Mecca of port. But that is a story left for another time with another cigar.