"People are trying to get me to open everywhere!" Sharruf says. But he and his partners are taking their time and being highly selective. "I don't want to open a store anywhere I don't want to hang out."

As we walk through downtown, Sharruf seems to be in his element - and to know practically everyone on the street, from restaurateurs to local businessmen. He hands out cigars - Cuban Cigar Factory, naturally - to a couple of acquaintances.

The Fifth Avenue store, with its well-worn wood floors, was the site of CCF's initial factory. "We had six makers and a couple of others on the main floor, and four more working in the basement, where we also did the aging and other stuff. We outgrew the space fast." They opened a second store six months later, and, in September of 1995, CCF took over the vast warehouse space. "We thought we'd never fill it," Sharruf remembers. "We filled it in two months." Outside the busy store, there's a shoe shine guy sporting a CCF shirt and cap. "I found him wandering the street with a box, so I set him up here with a bench," Sharruf says. It's all part of the store's hang-out atmosphere. A man in business attire sits on the other sidewalk bench, leisurely smoking one of the cigars he has just purchased. In the evenings, there's a musician who comes in to play his congas, along with CD music pumped through outdoor speakers. There's a cigar store Indian in the window, as well as plenty of colorful neon. And a sign: "Warning: Politically Incorrect Area. All PC Personnel Entering These Premises Will Encounter Gravely Offensive Behavior and Opinions. Rampant Insensitivity Authorized." It's further evidence of Sharruf as joker. (Not unexpected from the man who ran an appallingly politically incorrect restaurant in the Philippines called ""The Hobbit," where all the waiters were dwarves.)

Flags on the walls represent the various countries of origin of both the half dozen cigar makers and the tobacco: Mexico, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Ecuador, Honduras and the United States. A pair of love birds nicknamed Ricky and Lucy live in a glass cage, and a custom Nevada license plate reading CIGARS, a remnant from Sharruf's Vegas days, hangs on the wall.

There's plenty for sale beyond mere cigars at CCF. They make their own humidors ($100-$250), crafted from African Zebrano (after the zebra-like stripes of the wood), to Padauk and other exotic woods. Accessories for sale include a neon cigar, Tshirts caps, cigar holders, cigarettes and, of course, SMOKE Magazine. Sharruf's cousin has painted a mural of the store, which is used on T-shirts, match boxes and posters. And CCF will make novelty cigars, including a baseball bat and other odd and oversized shapes, for its customers.

The humidor room holds the full line of CCF cigars, including some vintage ones. A giant torpedo cigar, made of metal, hangs outside the glass doors. And there's a private humidor within the humidor for the high-end La Palma De Oros cigars.

Since there's a finite number of trained workers, Sharruf has begun working with Cuban immigrants and others to bring them into the field. "We train new people here, start them on preparing materials. After about a year of getting familiar, they can start putting bunches together," Sharruf explains. Cesar, the sixteen-year-old son of Rudy, a maestro, sits next to him at the shop, learning the trade, working a couple of hours a day. "Five to ten years ago, no kid wanted to make cigars. But where else can you go out and make $50-75,000 a year?" Sharruf asks.

We head over to visit the second store in nearby Horton Plaza, a large outdoor mall with a variety of shops. People stand outside the CCF store, watching the three young Dominican brothers, one sporting a Dominican Republic T-shirt, as they make cigars non-stop. Like the maestros at the factory and the other store, they use the traditional chaveta, a curved blade, to cut, roll and press the tobacco and cigars. Previously a candy store with a chocolatier in the window, this shop now has a very different, but equally addictive, odor-one that lures people in. A woman wanders in to buy a cigar for her husband, and engages the cashier in a discussion of the various types.

"Hands" - mop-shaped bunches of tobacco leaves - hang from the walls, more for decoration than real drying, along with framed antique cigar labels. A jar of "sweet dip" sits by the cash register. It looks like sugar water, and, Sharruf explains, "women particularly like it because it adds a sweet element to smoking a cigar."

The stores are not only places to sell, but also places to educate. "People really want information and education. They're looking at cigars as an art form, a finer type item, equivalent to wines or a really good meal," Sharruf says. "They're hungry for education about cigars, and we try to teach them."

"When people come into our stores, we explain how our cigars are made. We have people making cigars in the two retail locations. We're unique, different from other factories in that we do some retail, and part of the whole education process is that people can watch the actual cigars being made."

"Right now, there's a tremendous boom in the cigar business. I think a lot of these people will be around smoking for years: they're enjoying it, learning about it. We feel real confident about the longevity of the business." Customers aren't the only ones enjoying CCF's cigars. "This life is entirely more enjoyable. It's still a lot of work, but it's a lot more fun than dealing with criminals," comments Baker, referring to his former career as a criminal defense attorney. "Now we smoke cigars all day instead of dealing with criminals all day," Baker explains.

Sharruf agrees. "If this wasn't fun, I wouldn't do it. We have fun. It's like one big, extended family. Lots of birthday parties, good morale, oh yeah. I've had other businesses that made me millions, but I hated to go into the office."