In praise of the smoke-filled room

There’s a myth about cigar lounges, one wrapped in lazy assumptions, as if they’re just smoky sanctuaries for old men escaping real life. But step into a real lounge like The Cigar Shoppe in Montgomery, where I proudly serve as a Certified Tobacconist, and you’ll find something more enduring: tradition, connection, and reflection. These rooms aren’t escape hatches; they’re front porches of fellowship in a world that desperately needs more of them.

The act of smoking a cigar together is one of the oldest communal rituals in the Americas. Indigenous tribes treated tobacco as sacred. Later, cigar parlors became cultural salons in Europe and America, settings for politics, poetry, and planning. That’s where the term “smoke-filled room” was born, not from scandal, but from serious deliberation. From Churchill’s war room to Hemingway’s Havana, cigars were there, not as status symbols, but as companions to deep thought and long conversations.

Over the past two decades, a wave of anti-smoking legislation has swept across the country. Though often well-intentioned, many of these laws have had unintended consequences, crippling small businesses like cigar lounges that rely on responsible adult patrons. Alabama has resisted the harshest extremes of these laws, but elsewhere, cigar lounges are vanishing.

States like California and New York have placed heavy restrictions on indoor smoking, even in lounges specifically designed for it, undermining centuries-old traditions. These regulations often lump cigars in with mass-produced cigarettes, ignoring their vast differences in culture, intent, and health impact.

Let’s set the record straight:

• Cigar smokers don’t inhale like cigarette smokers, and cigars are not habitually consumed. A cigar might be enjoyed once a week, or even once a month, not several times a day.

• Premium cigars are artisanal, not industrial. Each one is hand-rolled, aged, and often made from organic tobacco without additives or filters.

• Recent studies even show a surprising social dynamic: Cigar smokers are statistically more likely to tip higher at bars and lounges than non-smokers, according to a 2021 hospitality report from the National Bar & Lounge Association. Why? Because cigar culture breeds respect, for the space, for the staff, and for the experience.

One of the most iconic locations in Alabama cigar history was Montgomery’s Bell Building. Built in 1907 and once the city’s tallest structure, its 12th floor hosted the Beauvoir Club, a private cigar and social lounge. It’s rumored a young Zelda Sayre (later Zelda Fitzgerald) once danced atop its rooftop while the Anti-Saloon League ironically occupied an office seven floors down.
The Bell Building’s cigar lounge wasn’t just a local hangout, it was a symbol of Southern sophistication and the quiet power of personal connection.

While Montgomery’s Bell Building stands out, other Alabama cities also boast storied cigar establishments:

Burnett Building, Birmingham – Constructed in 1912 by R.D. Burnett for his Cigar & Candy Store, the Burnett Building at 1816–1818 2nd Avenue North housed a thriving cigar shop on the ground floor and Cable Hall, a gathering place for civic groups. From 1913 to 1919, Cable Hall even hosted the Alabama Equal Suffrage Association, underscoring how cigar parlors often doubled as important social hubs in early-20th-century Birmingham.

Maxwell House, Tuscaloosa – Originally built in 1911 as the home of grocer Charles N. Maxwell, this mansion became R&R Cigars’ Cigar Mansion in 2013. A wrap-around southern porch, original woodwork, and multiple lounge rooms create a warm setting for cigar aficionados and whiskey enthusiasts alike. Listed on the State of Alabama historical registry, Maxwell House offers a three-level lounge experience that blends history with modern hospitality.

Perlitius Building & R.W. Drane Cigar Company, Florence – In 1914, Robert Wesley Drane opened a cigar manufacturing factory on the second story of the Perlitius Building (then a tailor’s shop). Drane’s factory, staffed by skilled cigar makers and equipped with humidors, produced over 56,000 cigars annually by 1917. This site became a landmark of the Shoals’ tobacco trade, linking craftsmanship with community commerce.

Perhaps no relationship is as underappreciated as the bond between the American military and cigar culture.
Throughout history, cigars have been a source of comfort, camaraderie, and even celebration for our troops. From foxholes in Europe to outposts in Afghanistan, lighting a cigar has offered soldiers a moment of peace, reflection, and shared honor. Victory cigars are a time‑honored tradition, lit not out of bravado, but out of relief, remembrance, and resolve.
That bond lives on through efforts like Cigars for Warriors, a nonprofit that collects and ships premium cigars to deployed military personnel. For many service members, receiving a hand‑rolled cigar in a faraway post is more than a luxury, it’s a lifeline to home and a reminder they’re not forgotten.

Step into a good cigar lounge and you’ll quickly notice: no two conversations are alike. These aren’t echo chambers, they’re crossroads. One moment you’re swapping SEC predictions with a retired linebacker, the next you’re hearing about deployment stories from a military colonel or joking with a tradesman covered in drywall dust. In fact, it’s not uncommon to see football legends like Alabama’s Danny Wilbanks sharing stories beside blue-collar craftsmen and veterans of every rank and branch, like my good friends Troy Carico and Col. Chuck Holland. These spaces don’t just cut across demographics, they erase them.

Few traditions in the South stoke as much fire, literally and figuratively, as college football rivalry week. For decades, Crimson Tide and Volunteers fans alike have gathered in smoky lounges and tailgate tents, cigars in hand, to celebrate victories and lament defeats.
What began as backyard celebrations evolved into full-fledged game-day rituals.

In the 1960s and ’70s, rival coaches and players occasionally met informally in nearby lounges for pre-game handshakes (and hand-rolled cheroots), forging an unusual camaraderie before the gridiron battle. Newspapers of the era dubbed it the “Smoke and Glory” week, where the air was thick with anticipation and maple-leaf wrappers alike.

Even today, Mason jars of bourbon and premium cigars are a common sight at tailgates from Tuscaloosa to Knoxville. Visiting fans and locals often share humidor tips, blending advice, and rivalry banter in equal measure. These moments show that, despite the fierce competition, the cigar community serves as a bridge, reminding us that respect and fellowship can endure long after the final whistle.

A proper cigar lounge isn’t just about the smoke, it’s about how you behave within it. Cigar etiquette is real:

• Don’t bring outside cigars into a retail lounge.

• Don’t cut someone else’s cigar unless they ask.

• Don’t blow smoke in someone’s face.

• Don’t treat it like a sports bar, it’s closer to a chapel than a pub.

And if you’re lucky, you’ll hear the clack of Cuban‑style dominoes in the corner. These games, rooted in Caribbean and Latin customs, aren’t just for fun. They’re community in motion, a rhythm of strategy, laughter, and tradition.

In Alabama, where faith, storytelling, and hospitality still matter, cigar lounges fill a unique space. They’re places where veterans and civilians talk like equals. Where fathers and sons learn to listen. Where strangers become familiar faces.
These are spaces of slow conversation in a world too eager to shout. They are, in the truest sense, sacred, not because of what’s smoked, but because of what’s shared.

Cigar lounges aren’t about status. They’re about slowing down. They’re not about ego. They’re about empathy.
They are places where a diverse Alabama comes together, not to argue, but to understand.

Whether you’re a veteran lighting up a victory stick, a young person learning from an old hand, or someone quietly enjoying the rhythm of dominoes on wood, know this: you’re not just in a cigar lounge. You’re in a sanctuary of tradition, humility, and human connection.

So next time you drive past one, don’t write it off. Step inside. Take a seat. Respect the room. Light a stick with intention. And if you’re lucky, let someone deal you in on the next round of dominos. You might just walk out better than you came in.