José Andrés is digging through one of his cabinet humidors in his home in Bethesda, Maryland, stacking box after box of cigars atop a wobbly base as if he were playing a version of cigar Jenga. Out they come, Cubans and non-Cubans, Montecristos and Cohibas, Fuentes, Plasencias and Davidoffs. The tower grows ever higher, appearing destined to topple, but it holds just long enough. “Here,” he says, directing a visitor to grab half the pile and take them out back, his booming, accented baritone a voice of command.
He has a snow-white, perfectly trimmed beard and intense blue eyes and moves around his home with his feet bared and his shirt untucked. He has the build of a man who has been around food all of his life, ample of…