“I need a cigar,” I said to the tobacconist.
He gestured toward a locked cabinet. Behind its glass doors, cigars were arrayed floor to ceiling. The chocolate truffle recipe called for an inch of cigar, preferably Cuban, infused in heavy cream. Cuban cigars are illegal in the United States. I could choose a cheap cigar stinking through the glass like hell’s own aftershave, or do the bling thing and blow 30 bucks. Aiming for middle ground, I spent $9.
“For your husband?” The man asked, ringing me up.
“For a recipe.”