Sunday, April 9, 2006 | 7:32 a.m.
The other day I succumbed to what Las Vegas most promotes: self-indulgence.
I settled in for an hour of people-watching at the Forum Shops at Caesars, accompanied by an $18 cigar and a $14 snifter of Drambuie.
Only in Vegas, baby.
I might have been mistaken for a tourist because most locals seem to avoid the Strip for various reasons.
I hear it all the time: "Oh, I only go down there when I've got family in town and I have to play tour guide."
But I love the Strip. It's probably the best place, for instance, to smoke a good cigar and turn eyes.
Admittedly, I was teased by Cigar Aficionado magazine's rankings of good cigars. These weren't my college stogies.
"The finish resonates with cocoa and spice. Balanced and elegant," the editors said of one particularly fine cigar.
Wow.
"Warms to show rich, creamy flavor with wood, nutmeg and toast notes," the reviewers said of another good smoke.
Damn.
My last cigar, maybe 35 years ago, was molasses brown, crooked and had been soaked in something. It tasted like a marinated grass fire. I could do better now.
At the Forum Shops, I set out for Casa Fuente, named for an accomplished cigar-making family in the Dominican Republic. The store commands an elite status in the cigar world.
I found Casa Fuente at the base of an escalator near the Strip entrance to the Forum Shops. It has patio seating to accommodate the spectator sport of mall people-watching.
The store has its own bar and, naturally, a walk-in humidor.
I asked a sales clerk how I could best spend $5 and she told me the cigars ranged in price from $7 to $125. OK, then.
We settled on a full-flavored Fuente cigar made exclusively for the store. It was fat and long and cost $18. It would, she guessed, last me an hour. This would be my Vegas moment for the week.
She snipped off the butt end with a hand-held guillotine device and lit the front end with a miniature blow torch.
I took my first puff, stopped short of inhaling, and blew the smoke through pursed lips. I was back in the saddle.
In the outside patio, I sat at a small, marble-topped table and sent for a Drambuie. The syrupy Scotch whiskey liqueur would be the perfect complement to my great smoke.
I relaxed, self-absorbed in my decadence. I hoped people would wonder who I was, looking smart in coat-and-tie, with my big cigar and big snifter.
Nearby, three fellows in their 30s, with styled hair and flat stomachs, looked smug in their creased linen slacks, pastel colored knit shirts and designer loafers sans socks. They had jumped from the pages of a Neiman Marcus catalog. I didn't like them.
I turned to my drink and smoke for comfort. I was only slightly light-headed.
The cigar smoked smoothly and gently warm, but the spices were lost on me. I tried to get the smoke to curl out of my mouth, and then felt childish.
Instead of watching people, I obsessed on the stupid cigar. I turned it in my hand, watching the ash slowly grow longer. I felt conspicuous, puffing on it too much to make sure it stayed lit.
The Drambuie was within my comfort zone; the cigar, not.
But the reward came in the form of a tall, thin woman with thick brown hair. She strode confidently in tight blue jeans and a tighter pink sweater.
I was breathless. As she stepped onto the escalator, she looked my way and offered a warm, come-hither smile. I smiled back like a nervous schoolboy. To impress, I puffed on my cigar and lifted the snifter.
She loved it. Glancing toward me, she swung her hair, and I imagined a slow-motion television commercial for a hair volumizer.
I held the cigar smartly and smiled at her. She looked coquettishly over her shoulder toward me and smiled again. The cigar might have made me even more light-headed, but there was no mistaking the connection she and I had made.
As the escalator carried her from view, I appreciated the value of a quality cigar.
Vegas, baby!
And it was then that I realized she was toying with the three Neiman Marcus boys.
I blew smoke in their direction and headed home.
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