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There are men who wage wars. And there are men who guide themselves through the pleasures of life: eating, smoking, drinking. Occasionally — and this is rare enough — it is the same man. Winston Churchill was one of them. And he lived to be ninety. Despite it. Or perhaps because of it. Even so, any doctor today would likely advise against his lifestyle.
We have grown accustomed to reducing him to iconography: cigar, champagne, pathos. That is not wrong — but it is imprecise to the point of distortion. Let’s look more closely, and the picture sharpens.
Churchill ate plainly. Clear soups, strong broths — and yes, it sounds odd but is nonetheless true: turtle soup, which he even served to President Roosevelt. One might call it eccentricity; one could just as well call it habit. A mind in constant motion does not necessarily seek surprise at the table. Anyone who wants order in his thoughts should not undermine it on his plate. And cheese — Swiss Gruyère. Do try it.
He drank — openly and without apology. Champagne, preferably Pol Roger, was as much part of his day as whisky. But the decisive point lies not in what he drank, but in how. Alcoholism, of course, is no trivial matter. Still, to be fair to the man: his morning drink was reportedly heavily diluted, and historians agree that he was rarely truly drunk. Pleasure that destroys one’s availability is not luxury — it is a poor investment. And one thing is worth noting: he despised cocktails. You may file that away.
The cigar was a ritual of deceleration. One sits. One stays. One smokes as if there were no reason to be elsewhere. In an age of constant acceleration, that borders on provocation. Churchill discovered his fondness for Havana cigars — especially those made Romeo y Julieta — working as a journalist in Cuba. Back in London, he ordered his first Cuban cigars from Robert Lewis on St James’s Street — today the shop is known as James J. Fox. Estimates speak of roughly 200,000 cigars over the course of his life. In the Churchill War Rooms, an oversized ashtray still stands beside his bed. Perhaps power is often nothing more than the ability to take one’s time without having to justify it. Pause. With or without a cigar.
What is often overlooked: Churchill was not merely a man of the mind. He was a man of the hands. Chartwell, his home, was a place of work. He painted regularly and designed the gardens, ponds, and layout of the estate, originally built in the sixteenth century. A man of many talents.
His relationship with work followed the same quiet clarity. Churchill was enormously productive, but never constantly busy. He understood phases, rhythms, withdrawal. He wrote in bed, dictated, rested, worked again. Those who are perpetually occupied often mistake movement for direction.
