Nothing quite compares to an even whiskey pull and a pristine hand roll of a cigar. It’s not just indulgence. It’s a ritual. One that I fell into after inheriting my grandfather’s old vintage whiskey cigar holder, tarnished brass and a scent of old oak and tobacco lingering like the dusty conclusion of a life well lived.
It all began one summer evening when I was exploring the contents of an attic trunk — dust, cobwebs, the whole thing — and there it was. A small, vintage piece that appeared to have sprung directly from a speakeasy in the1930s. It had a glass and a cigar notch on the side. Elegant. Functional. A little showy, but in a good way.
So I apologized and decided to pour some single malt into a glass, clip a mild Nicaraguan cigar and sit on the porch. I got it. The whole vibe. The ease. The class.
These were not just about convenience. The vintage whiskey and cigar holder was a gesture — a wink at slower evenings and good conversation. People crowded together, related their marathons and seized the moment.