Every night, my favorite customers engage in cigar rituals. We share knowledge, trade sticks and divulge our newest discoveries...

... that’s on top of reading extensively, talking endlessly and enjoying hundreds of smokes in the quest to find that core group of sticks that fit any situation.

We are all looking for just the right wrapper, in the perfect format, for the proper balance to the filler to suit our taste — and maybe one day guide us to the new adventurous choice that may oust our prized bellicose from its lofty top spot.

Recently, after a large event here in the City, I was drowning in cigar experts contradicting each other, arguing about their perception of cigars. At that moment, one particularly vocal out-of-towner decided to take me under his wing for an evening of tutelage. He reached in his vest pocket and, as if lifting Excalibur from its scabbard, removed a Churchill. I neither recognized the band nor the name as he reeled it off.

“This is the best cigar on the market,” he declared. “Money cannot buy a better smoke.”

Feeling silly that I had theretofore missed the best cigar ever made, I took a closer look.

The wrapper was, well, yellow. As I hesitantly raised it to my nose, I was to find the odor wasn’t unpleasant . . . it was just non-existent, with all the olfactory stimulation of notebook paper.

Not wishing to offend him — or worse, damage the precious specimen — I gently returned his prized cigar to him and offered my cutter. He waved off my mortal blade in favor of a razor-sharp, self-maintaining, titanium-alloy cap-removal device. It might as well have been laser-aimed.

As he completed the cutting ceremony, I heard a sickening crack like a redwood falling. The unmistakable sound of a wrapper splitting reminded me of leaves underfoot in Central Park in November. I felt bad. My instructor had been so excited to show off his cigar, and in one cut it had all been ruined . . . or so I thought.

In attempt to be heroic, I said, “That’s too bad. Tell you what — let me get you a stick on me. I think you will really like it.” How was I to know, or how could I know, that I was about to be chided for my obvious ignorance?

“Why?” was the indignant exclamation. “Let me show you something.” He motioned me over to his ashtray, dangling his poor dehydrated, broken and defeated smoke over the glass receptacle. “Look at this,” he demanded, and began to peel away the wrapper from his former cigar.

“This happens all the time,” he said as my eyes practically fell out of my head. He proceeded to crumble the most expensive, and arguably the most important, leaf of the cigar. The final remnant drifted into the ashtray and with strange wisdom he said, “If you look really close, it’s only one leaf.”

Then he lit the pitiful thing. And proceeded to spend the next hour smoking it, meanwhile imparting his knowledge to all those who would listen. Astonished, I wondered what he possibly got out of his experience that evening.

Then it hit me. He got the same thing I did out of my cigar — he enjoyed it. The real problem had been with me, believing that simply because my way of smoking was orthodox and well researched, that it was somehow superior to his enjoyment. I guess it takes all of us — the quiet, the loud, the educated, the instinctual, the unconventional — to make a cigar community. As with a cigar, every part is important if you want the full and rich experience.

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