The elusive call finally came.  I waited months for this. The familiar voice on the other end of my telephone urgently reported “We’re in, man, we got the invite. You will get another call with directions in a couple minutes.”  I was anxious and excited to join this clandestine operation. As promised, the next call laid out explicit instructions on what I was to do next. The directions to the secret spot were meticulously laid out for me.  The night sky was black.  Only a thin veil of winter mist separated me from the skyline of the Twin Cities and my ultimate destination.

I drove with great anticipation meandering through an historic downtown neighborhood. Images of prohibition-era bootleggers greeted my mind’s eye at every corner. These were long departed brethren in the protracted ideological battle against the “Nanny State.”  My last turn brought me down a dimly lit alley. The brick road had a dull sheen as it rolled up along turn-of-the-century warehouses.  I turned my head to the right and spotted my final clue.  A simple red light, perched above the door of an old sandstone building, shined like a beacon of freedom. Beautiful. I followed every directive right down to its seemingly ridiculous detail. My truck was parked several lots away and tucked around a small corner in the alley. I made quick time up the alley as my foggy breath punctuated every step in the chilly nighttime air.  By the time I reached the door, the password escaped my memory. Damn. What the hell was I so nervous about? Staring at the intercom outside the door drove me nuts. Reduced to last resort, I hit the button and gave the name of my contact. It was my only hope of getting inside. Cautiously, the disembodied voice on the other end asked me to repeat the name of the person for whom I was looking. I did. Nothing else was said. The door clicked open.

The smell was all I needed. That unmistakable sensuous smell of fine tobacco led me down a small flight of steps. I walked through the basement door and realized I had arrived. Hell’s kitchen lay at my feet. The room was thick with smoke. Peering through this silky haze brought everything into focus. To my left, dozens of cigar and pipe lovin’ guys leaning against a bar sipping from wine and fine booze. The background filled in nicely with a pool table and three large, flat-screen televisions, one with a hockey game, another with a football game and yet another with women’s pro beach volleyball. We all wanted to see their serves. To my right, a den of oversized leather chairs and couches. I settled in with a Balvenie single-malt scotch in one hand and a Honduran, maduro wrapped, Rocky Patel “Old World Reserve” comfortably resting between my fingers in the other hand. This was my first “Smoke Easy.” This century’s counterpart to the long lost “Speak Easy” of alcohol prohibition. This was our last great act of defiance against the “Nanny State.” It was definitely worth the wait. Politicians like to ban things. They save us from ourselves. Smoking bans are the latest fad. They are politically expedient and socially fashionable, yet, wholly un-American. The last thing we need is a nightlife nanny.

I can’t tell you where the “Smoke Easy” was, or still is today. You know the rules. I would have to kill you, if I squealed. 

Recommended cigar of the month:  Oliva Serie V - It’s a nice blend of Nicaraguan tobacco with a sun grown wrapper.  Strong flavor.