I don’t remember the day we met, but it was during the fall of 1995. The air was crisp, yet I was wearing shorts. My Grave’s Disease wouldn’t be discovered for another four months so I was always warm. I spent time at a Mom and Pop deli/liquor shop located at the intersection of Gower and Sunset Blvd; the locals call it the Gower Gulch. A Starbucks replaced the deli many years ago, but no amount of Pike Place Roast can take away the memory of meeting Al Capone.
I don’t know how many times I walked in and didn’t see him. Then one day I went to check out and there he was sitting on the counter in his sleek, black box beckoning me with his fancy yellow signature. He winked as if to say, “I’m Al Capone, and you know you want me.” Of course I was immediately attracted by his cockiness. I picked him up and asked the cashier what he had heard about Al Capone. He shrugged and said the man was no different from the others. That clerk was misinformed.
When I placed Al against my cheek, his pleasing smell of sweet cognac and bitter tobacco wafted up my nose. I had to have him despite the sticker shock of $10 per pack and the complete lack of funds in my bank account. Ten dollars for ten Al Capone cognac-dipped cigarillos. I was gambling that Al would be worth every penny.
By the time I walked the five paces outside, I had removed the plastic wrap. By the time I sat down on a patio chair, I had opened the case. I pulled out one hand-rolled, naturally wrapped cigarillo. Hello Al. I caressed my new love with my fingers sighing at my indulgence and admiring his lack of filter. Finally, I lit him up and placed him between my lips. The liquor and smoke performed a dance in my mouth; the savory, acrid partnership of opposites formed the perfect pairing. I closed my eyes. I forgot I was poor. I forgot I was barely employed. I forgot I was sitting at the Gower Gulch wearing shorts in the winter looking like a hot mess. Al took me somewhere else … no comment necessary.
The funny thing about my love affair with Al is that I don’t consider myself a smoker. I didn’t have my first cigarette until I was 21 years old, and it was a Benson & Hedges Ultra Light Menthol. I remember sitting in a car with a male coworker who didn’t believe me when I said it was my first cigarette because when I inhaled I didn’t choke. My father was a smoker my entire childhood so I figured my lungs had already adjusted. The reason that I waited so long to try a cigarette is because my Grandpa—my father’s father—died of lung cancer when I was seven years old.
I remember some things about my Grandpa. He was a big man, not obese, but large. I can swear he had a black overcoat and a hat, but maybe my childhood brain is tricking me. However, I never forgot the way he smelled. Sweet and bitter like my Al. Born in 1911, Grandpa served in the Army, survived a tank explosion, and endured almost five months as a German POW after being captured during the Battle of the Bulge. He also liked his beer, smoked Lucky Strike cigarettes, and wore Old Spice. I can recall sitting on his lap and hearing him call me Andi. Though I didn’t see him often, I remember thinking no one else smells exactly like Grandpa. His scent stayed with me even in his absence.
I smoked my first cigar not long after my first cigarette. Neither addicted nor excited by cigarettes, I thought cigars would be more appealing especially since their smell reminded me of Grandpa. (I’m not sure why.) However, the first time I had one I inhaled so deeply that I coughed for a full minute afterward. Despite my 60-second bout with emphysema, I liked cigars, but I didn’t fall in love with them until I met Al. One time at a birthday party, Al and I stepped outside to smoke. When my very non-smoking friend Jonathan spotted me, his jaw dropped.
I explained Al was for special occasions, and I didn’t inhale. Then I said, “Just smell him.”
“Wow,” Jonathan smiled. I grinned. Al has that effect on everyone.
“I know,” I replied, “he tastes good, too.”
Jonathan shook his head, “You know even when you’re being bad Andrea you always do it with class.”
To this day, I consider that one of the best compliments I have ever received. Of course, I owe it all to Al.
Unfortunately, I ended my relationship with Al about a year after it began. My sister Adrienne and I were living in a large studio apartment with three rooms: a kitchen/office, a living room/bedroom, and a walk-in closet that connected to a bathroom. After Adrienne fell asleep at night, I often sat in my office chair reading or writing. With the kitchen window open, I would smoke one-third of one Al at a time because I couldn’t afford the luxury of a whole one. One night, Adrienne, who I thought was asleep, said, “I wish you wouldn’t smoke anymore.” I immediately said goodbye to Al and didn’t see him again for seven years.*
Last week at Burbank Ladies Night Out, I met a musician who was playing guitar at Encore Nouveau as part of the entertainment for the evening. I introduced him to Al because I thought they would like each other. When Mr. Musician saw the brown wrapper, his eyebrow cocked, and a sly grin appeared on his face as he asked, “Are you giving me a doobie?”
I laughed. Me? The girl who’s never tried pot. “No,” I replied. “Trust me. It’s an Al Capone cigar. Cigarillo actually. So don’t inhale.”
He chuckled, “Oh I always inhale. Thanks!”
Ten minutes later, he found me as I was about to leave the store. “Man, thank you. That is the best thing I have ever tasted! What was it again?”
“Told ya,” I smiled. “Al Capone cognac-dipped cigarillos. That one was filtered, but I prefer the non-filtered. There are other flavors, too.” Mr. Musician nodded and continued thanking me.
I laughed. Another convert. I don’t mind sharing, but Al is still my man. 
AWW — XoXo
*Thank you to my best male friend Tony for reuniting Al and me in San Francisco in July 2003.
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