I HAVE never understood the concept of a boys' night. An evening spent in the company of people with facial hair is not one I embrace easily. Yet there is something about the warm scent of cigars and the soft whisper of single malt that makes me accept the absence of women.

It's not that it's a guy thing. It's just that there are few women I know who enjoy Scotch and cigars without making a fuss about it. Every time they light up, they have this look that begs to be noticed. Sort of a watch-me-I'm-so-different look. Men don't have the time for this. They smoke because they have long left penis envy behind them. This explains, in part, why UpperCrust has been able to find no women to join us this evening.

The game plan, if one can have one in these circumstances, is to sample a few choice cigars, sample a few choice malts, eat what turns out to be a superlative meal, and then smoke some more over coffee and cognac. The guests, culled from a list by editor Farzana Contractor and the Oberoi's Sanjiv Malhotra, are a selection of Mumbai's cigar cognoscenti.

The first to arrive at the Oberoi's Bayview Bar is Paddy Mishra. Paddy and I share a certain delight in our choice of cigars, both of us inordinately fond of the Partagas Series D robustos. Waiting for the rest, we start the evening with a Glenkinchie, a light Lowland malt that helps pave the way for the rest of the evening.

Our first cigar is a Romeo y Juliet Tubos No. 3. We are joined by now by Parthiv Kilachand, who opts for a Knockando with a splash of water, and a Rafael Gonzales. Parthiv finds the Romeo Tubos a bit small and a bit harsh. Paddy and I are inclined to agree, but have already lit ours.

Nana Chudasama, the most recognisable of Mumbai cigar smokers, is the next to arrive. Nana has long been an advocate of our local cigar industry. At the drop of a match he will extol the virtues of Trichy cigars. To the extent of telling you that Churchill, famed as he was for the stogie in his mouth, only smoked the Trichy variety. A few boxes worth went out to him as a regular parcel, even, if Nana is to be believed, until long after his death. It seems no one bothered telling a bunch of rollers down south that the old man was as dead as his empire.

Prahlad Kakkar, also a man with a passion for the extraordinary, smokes a part of the Romeo and then puts it out in favour of his own brand, the PK series. Prahlad has these made in the Philippines, hand rolled, so he claims, on the thighs of Filipino virgins. Personally I find this hard to believe. That there are any Filipino virgins in existence stretches credibility to its breaking point. Prahlad offers one of his Churchill sized cigars to namesake but no relation, Ashwini Kakkar. Ash recoils as politely as he can and reaches for a Havana instead.

Sid Khanna comes in, fresh from a Russian vacation. If Sid is to be believed the Cuban connection is lost, at least in St. Petersburg. Not a decent cigar to be had. Unlike a number of us, Sid is neither fussy nor fanatical about his smoke and leaves the choice to our host. Vikram Mehta on the other hand, not trusting what might be on offer from Habanos, has brought his own, but accepts Sanjiv's judgment in the end. Pramit Jhaveri joins Parthiv and Nana in a Rafael Gonzales and for the moment, the circle is complete. Almost.

With so many of us, the idea of a round table where minds can meet is dropped. At the Rotisserie, hurried changes put us at a long table that can seat us all, yet have us within easy reach of general conversation. There is a moment's hiccup when we find we can't read what's on offer that evening. And this is before the brandy.

There is rumour of a conspiracy to starve the vegetarians amongst us, until Sanjiv points out that the menu, encased in a cigar box, can only be read in the mirror on the lid. I think I hear him mutter something about the lack of intelligence at the table, but I must be wrong. The man is a perfect host. With a perfect chef.

The meal is a fine complement to the wine, the whisky that preceded it, and to the cigars that line the ashtrays on the table. The conversation, as with all such evenings, is all over the place and back. Although the one thing no one brings up is business. Nor is there any of the locker room talk that most women suppose is a part of the male bonding experience.

This evening is more about which islands offer the best dives. And which city has the best Grand Prix. Where to find Indian food in Beijing and Bordeaux. Where to find the smallest distillery in Scotland. And whether the Dominicans and Nicaraguans and Hondurans will ever make a great cigar. Which is a bit like asking if Japan will ever make a great whisky. Academic.

At the end of the evening, after the armagnac and espressos have been drunk, there is little left to do but thank the band. Who have sung their swan song often in the hope that we will leave. And our host. The chef has long gone to bed. And walking out I reflect on the difference between this evening and that in my opening line. Boys' nights are a bore. But in the company of men, I could find solace. Not comfort. For that nothing beats a woman. But solace is not a bad thing. Especially if you have a cigar to go with it.