Cubanos

My friend and I met up in Cancun for a beach getaway, and during the trip, he was on a mission to find a gift. He had a close friend back in the US who was a true cigar aficionado.

While exploring the vibrant stalls of Mercado 28, we stumbled upon a shop that immediately caught our attention. It boasted a massive, glowing wall of premium tequila bottles and an incredibly inviting lounge area furnished with deep leather sofas. We wandered in and were instantly befriended by a charismatic salesperson. Beyond the tequila, we noticed the real prize: rows of beautifully arranged, wooden boxes of Cuban cigars, complete with elaborate, official-looking seals.

The salesperson was more than happy to show off the inventory. He brought out box after box, showcasing Cubans packed tightly in sets of three, five, or seven. They came in all shapes and sizes—from the long, elegant Churchills and classic Robustos to the tapered Torpedoes—bearing legendary names like Cohiba, Montecristo, and Romeo y Julieta.

Neither of us knew anything about the cigar market. We tried searching for retail prices on our phones, but the spotty internet wasn't much help. Based on a few quick glimpses of sketchy forums, we roughly concluded that $50 a cigar seemed fair for authentic Cubans. Trusting the upscale vibe of the shop, my friend bought a box for $300 to gift to his friend.

While we waited for the box to be wrapped, the salesperson decided to treat us to a tequila tasting. It wasn't just a polite splash, either. He kept lining up shot glasses in front of us. By the time we stood up to leave, we had sampled at least ten different varieties.

Later that evening, we had a reservation at an upscale restaurant and started driving towards the Zona Hotelera. Naturally, we encountered a notorious tourist-trap police checkpoint. The officers pulled us over, claiming our headlights weren't on. They ordered us out of the car and immediately tried to cite us for drunk driving. Even though our heavy "tasting" amounted to less than 50 ml of actual alcohol—well below any legal blood alcohol concentration level—the two officers refused to give us a breathalyzer test. Instead, they began a standard negotiation. The "official fine" magically started dropping from 25,000 Mexican pesos all the way down to a more manageable number. Eventually, they accepted 500 pesos (about $30 USD) in cash and waved us through.

The following afternoon, we took a trip down to Playa del Carmen. Walking down the main promenade, we were constantly accosted by street vendors selling Cubans. Out of curiosity, my friend stopped. One vendor offered an identical box of cigars for just $50. Walking just a block further, an established brick-and-mortar storefront offered the exact same box for a mere $30.

Seeing the staggering disparity in price, my friend was furious and decided to take the original salesperson to task for charging a 1,000% markup. We drove back to the Cancun shop and set all three boxes on the counter. Ironically, the salesperson couldn't even tell which box had come from his own inventory. When we pointed out that the exact same product was selling for $30 elsewhere, he quickly shifted his script, insisting that his box was the only authentic one.

Of course, there were no refunds. He claimed he was just a lowly employee without the authority to offer compensation, but smoothly invited us to return the following morning at 9:00 AM sharp to speak with his boss for a potential refund.

We knew better than to waste another vacation day chasing a ghost. The script was obvious: it was a well-oiled hustle designed to sell cheap, counterfeit Cubans for whatever astronomical price a tourist was willing to pay, greasing the wheels of the transaction with an endless stream of free tequila.

When my friend finally returned to the States, he presented the $300 box to his connoisseur buddy. The friend took one look at them, smiled, and promptly delivered the final verdict: they were completely fake.