Siboney Coronas

Description

The humidity in Havana does not just rest on you; it clings tightly like an old relative who’s seen too much and says too little. I was perched on the balcony of the Hotel Nacional, a venue so redolent of where-the-1950s-Hollywood-starlets-used-to-be-you-can-hear-them-whisper-over-the-wind-drifting-off the Malecón. I’d just closed a deal — a win, by any reasonable standard — that had consumed three years of circuitous back-and-forth, several dozen liters of superstrong coffee and far more patience than I believed myself intelligent enough to muster. I should have been on cloud nine. But as the sun began dipping slowly and luminously into the Gulf, I felt that familiar bittersweet tug. Success is wonderful, yes, but it almost always brings the hunt to an end. And I’m a man who has always liked the hunt more than the trophy.

Product Specifications

I fished my travel humidor out of my pocket and drew something from it that had no reason to be there. It was a cigar that felt like a tether, dragging me in from my home up there in the ice and into this sweltering, beautiful island. It was a Siboney Coronas, the one they call the Coronas Tip No. 3. You don’t see these anymore. They are like those old black-and-white photos that you stumble upon in a shoebox stored up in your grandfather’s attic — frozen forever, just a bit faded, yet laden with the gravity of history. I’d been saving this one for a time that felt like a period at the end of a very long sentence. This was it.

I sat with it, admiring the lithe, elegant stick in my hand. It was a Regional Edition for Canada, an odd little slice of Habanos history that seemed out of place in the sweltering heat. But then, I did too at that point. I unclipped the cap, felt the salt on my face and was ready to say goodbye to the project and hello to a ghost.

The Transition

That smoke? The Siboney Coronas (Coronas Tip No. 3)). It’s a vestige from when Habanos was fiddling around with how to keep the old brands alive by doling them out to specific regions of the world. It’s a lean, honest corona that doesn’t just try to shout over the conversation. It’s just sitting there, waiting for you to notice how good it is.

Product Specifications

Construction: The Vuelta Abajo Feel

Clasping a 40 ring gauge cigar between your teeth is not the same as biting down on one of those new “jaw-breaker” sticks. It feels refined. It feels you’re holding a penand not a club. The Siboney Coronas has that old, rustic Cuban charm. Its wrapper had a light Colorado shade—not entirely flawless, it’s true, but with a lustrous sheen that said the oils hadn’t entirely dried up over the years. It had no soft spots, was firm to the touch — a testament to the roller who put this together before it disappeared off into snowy Canada.

The pre-light draw was what I would expect from aged Vuelta Abajo tobacco. It wasn’t a tight — but it had enough give that would be something I’d have to work for a little. I detected dry hay, an edge of old library book — that distinctive mustiness that seems to come only from time spent — and a faint whisper of sweetness, as if the brew added dried orange peel. It smelled like a memory. I’ve always been a fan of the Coronas vitola, at 127mm it’s long enough to take you on a real journey and slim enough to keep things elegant.

I lit it with a single-jet flame, slowly toasting the foot. The smoke drifted up in thin blue wisps under the Havana wind. The construction remained solid; the burn line was wavy at first, as they almost always are with these old Cubans, but it straightened out when the cherry found its groove. The ash was a very light grey, and hung on like the thin gauge of this cigar would not let it go no more than inch away from the foot where tapped into my ash tray.

Flavor Profile: A Three-Act Play

The First Third: The Awakening

The first few pulls were, strangely enough, quite light. If you want a pepper bomb, you’re in the wrong place. It began with a very clean, toasty tobacco taste. I have to say, the age had knocked off all of that shrapnel. It tasted of a bright fall morning. There was an underlying nuttiness — not quite like raw almonds, but of that body anyway — and a floral quality that I typically associate with some of the lighter H. Upmann sticks. It was gentle. It wasn’t asking for my attention; it was inviting it. Sitting there watching the waves break, the smoke was zippy on the palate and finished clean without overstaying its welcome.

The Middle Third: The Nitty-Gritty

Second Third: The Siboney began to reveal its Cuban lineage. The flavors deepened. Which note of hay from the outset became more like warm cedar. There was a touch of creaminess that began to coat the tongue, and a very subtle saltiness — well, maybe that was just the Havana air but it had its place. The “win” I was celebrating began sinking in a little more as the cigar found its wheels. It’s not a complicated monster, but it is constant. You ever talk to someone who isn’t going to use big words but is going to tell you exactly what you need told? That’s this cigar. It’s honest tobacco. No gimcracks, just the flavor of San Juan y Martinez soil mellowed by a few years’ rest.

The Last Third: The Bitter Sweet Goodbye

When I got down to the nub, it was a higher strength level, but still not too strong or harsh.

The flowers had dropped out, it was now tandem with a dark black pedal. I perceived whiffs of roasted coffee beans and a little touch of leather. The heat remained in line, a real achievement for an outlandishly-tall 40 ring gauge. Most of the time this kind of stuff turns bitter at the end, but these Siboney have a stiff upper lip. I was starting to slow down, to huff less, to try and stretch those last inches out as much as I could. It would have paired perfectly with that bittersweet mood. It was a lingering, depressing reminder that all good things — the projects, cigars, brands — must come to an end. I was genuinely grateful when I finally set it down. It was a strong, staid performance.

Pairing: The Companion

When you’re smoking a piece of history like this, you want to show it off but not drown it in something too loud. I opted for a double shot of Cuban espresso — dark, sweet and punchy. The burnt taste of coffee was a perfect compliment to the wrapper’s natural sweetness. If you had a taste for something stronger, Nairobi would serve you a glass of Havana Club 7-Year-Old. The vanilla and oak in the rum would grab some cedar in the cigar and run with it. But honestly? Even a back-to-basics glass of sparkling water with a twist of lime would have sufficed. You want to be able to taste the tobacco, not the drink.

Conclusion: The Verdict

Is there a better-rolled cigar ever than the Siboney Coronas? No. But you don’t smoke it for that. You smoke it because it says something about a particular time in the history of Habanos —a brief period when they sought to come up with a home for a brand named after the island’s indigenous peoples. It’s a small tragedy that they stopped making these. As far as a Canadian Regional Edition, it’s a very “warm” smoke. It’s a testament to the fumada that it took me three visits before I noticed how sane and civilized a space El Cafe was, with its marble countertops, platelike vases of seagreen glass and serious leather chairs.

If you come across a box, perhaps in the back of some humidor or at an auction, buy it. Don’t think twice. This is not about the “unparalleled” experience; this is about a connection to the past. It’s a good, honest smokable that isn’t going to give you any trouble. It was the right choice for my balcony win in Havana, and it’s the right one for anyone who likes more of the quiet side of things with their leaf.

Final Thought: I wish we encountered these 40 ringers more often.

They force you to take notice, to pause and really taste the tobacco. The Siboney Coronas is an apparition — a friendly one. I’m glad there was time for me to sit with it for an hour before it disappeared forever.