Then, one day, I'm walking through the barracks, and I hear some music. I walked in, and saw the Army band practicing. I said, "Hey, I'm a musician," so they invited me to play. After they heard me play piano, they took me out of Basic and put me into Band Training. So instead of getting out of bed at 4:30 in the morning with the sullen sergeants, we were waking up at 7:30 to eat breakfast, practice, and play.

Unfortunately, the good times didn't last for long. We all knew our assignments were coming up after graduating from Basic. At the time, about five percent went to Alaska, some went to Germany, and the rest went to the Korean War. I got Korea.

While I was in Basic, however, I had formed a trio that would play at the Officers' Club. This was essential, as we got paid $20 a night to play. My monthly salary was $80, so playing in the club meant an extra $100 or so a month. One night, the General's aide-de-camp asked me if I could play "Back Home Again in Indiana" for the General, who hailed from that state. After I was done, the General came up to me and said, "Son, that was the best I've ever heard that song played. It would be nice to have you back at headquarters!" Naturally, when the General suggests something, it's an order. The next day, I found myself transferred to Governor's Island.

My wife and I lived in Forest Hills Queens, at the time. I would drive to work every day and practice with the band. Unfortunately, one of the tasks we had to do from time to time was march in parades. Naturally, I couldn't play the piano in the marching band, so they gave me the cymbals. After dropping them several times during parades, I go demoted to the glockenspiel. One day, we were marching in a parade up Fifth Avenue. We were supposed to turn on 56th Street. I was in the lead, right behind the baton, and I was so wrapped up in trying to play this glockenspiel that I turned on 54th Street, and the whole band followed me. The guy with the baton was left alone on 55th Street. The next day, my CO [commanding officer] called me on the carpet. He said, "Okay, Buster, I know you don't want to march with the band anymore. You're going to become Company Clerk."

The CO was a very nice guy. We would go drinking and play golf all the time on the nine-hole course on Governor's Island. Suffice it to say, the new Company Clerk assignment was going well. So, while I'm enjoying the nice life on the Island, I get a call to go to headquarters. There I am, sitting in front of three full colonels. They said, "We see that you have a very interesting background, with many different languages." (I took language tests to get out of Basic Training when it was cold). They wanted to commission me as a Captain in the Intelligence section if I would stay for another two years. I declined, and my military career ended there. I was dis-charged in 1952.

For the next several years, I designed jewelry for my father-in--law. When he passed away, I had to go to Puerto Rico to look after some factories he had there. Eventually we sold them, and I found myself back in the music business - this time playing piano for the opening of the new Palmas Del Mar resort. Once they heard me play, they offered me a four-month contract. I enjoyed the work so much, I stayed there for 14 years.

My daughter Karyn was born in 1983, and we went to Switzerland to have her christened at an Armenian church. After the ceremony, her godfather and I were out to dinner, and ordered a couple of Cuban cig-ars after the meal. They charged us $24 apiece! That got me angry, so my friend suggested that we make our own.

I came back home and immediately booked a trip to the Dominican Republic, to see if I could find a factory. For two years I traveled around the country looking into different factories. Finally I found Henkie's (Hendrik Kelner, president of Tabacos Dominicanos, or TABADOM), and he made me my first samples. I said to myself, "If I'm going to go into the cigar business, why would anybody buy an Avo cigar? Nobody knows it!" So when Henkie presented me with a quote for the cigars, I told him, "I'm going to give you 25 percent more than you asked for." This way, I knew Henkie would make sure I got his best tobacco and rollers.

I only had about $5-6,000 in investment capital at the time, and my first order came to about $4,500. Around the same time, I was fortunate to hook up with Michel Roux, the Frenchman responsible for bringing Absolut vodka into the United States. He told me, "Avo, if you're going to get into the cigar business, do it the way I got into the vodka busi-ness - make the most expensive cigars, and make sure they are also the best cigars. And make sure the packaging says that your product is the best." He helped me get my label designed by the graphics guy who did the Knockando scotch label. I was the first cigar band that was immediately distinct from other bands on the market. I sent cigars to the Davidoff shop in New York. They sold well, because it was Henkie's cigar, and the Davidoff people knew how to sell it. They ordered more.

The first year, Davidoff sold about 120,000 cigars. The second year, it went up to 250,000, and the next year we sold 450,000. When sales reached 750,000 a year, Davidoff proposed to buy my brand for European distribution only, with me keeping the U.S distribution. I figured, if they're going to buy it, why not buy it all? So we worked out an agreement, and now I concentrate on the promotional aspect of the brand.

It's funny; I think that one of the reasons why Avo has succeeded is because of my hat, which I bought on my honeymoon in Acapulco in 1950. Being a pianist, and knowing how to connect with the audience, you establish a relationship with your customers. When I'm out promoting my brand, I am also promoting the good life; the white suit and the hat just seem to go along with it. For some reason, the image has really stuck with people.