It should go without saying that tobacco is deadly and addictive and ought to be consumed in moderation. Anyone who tries to dismiss the deleterious effects of the plant is blowing smoke. But if the danger of tobacco is undeniable, so is its exceptional flavor. One afternoon, Vincent and Gaëtane invited a neighbor to join us for lunch, a typical Ardennes dish of endive wrapped in ham, then smothered in béchamel and baked to a crispy finish. Vincent set out a sampling of beers, including the legendary Westvleteren, and as we gathered around the large wooden table, the conversation drifted between the savory qualities of Belgian food, beer and tobacco.

I was struck by how unfamiliar the scene would have been to my American friends who have, in a fashion typical of our generation, embraced the current culinary boom with maniacal fervor, boiling obscure reductions to drip onto bits of fruit exploded by bicycle pumps in homage to Ferran Adrià, and yet, despite this globe-trotting gustatory zeal, haven’t the slightest comprehension of the exquisite flavor that haunts tobacco. If the modern mythos of the kitchen had arrived a decade earlier, before the vilification of tobacco was complete, the pipe might occupy a place on the palate alongside argan oil and hijiki and yuzu. Somewhere in the multiverse, there is an alternate New York City where the Union Square farmers’ market brims not just with heirloom melons and leeks and squash but also with local tobaccos as vibrant as the Cherokee purple tomato. There is a literature still waiting to be written on fine tobacco; tobacco awaits its Julia Child — who, it should be said, loved to smoke, as so many other chefs have and do. It is axiomatic these days that smoking ruins the palate, but this would come as news to Thomas Keller, Anthony Bourdain and all the other celebrated chefs who enjoy a good smoke.

What makes the pipe distinct from other forms of smoking is that it refines the experience to its most distilled form. Unlike that of cigars, the tobacco in a pipe never touches the smoker’s tongue, so the taste is purely of smoke. Unlike that of cigarettes, the tobacco in a pipe is not meant to be inhaled. The proper way to smoke a pipe is more like sipping iced tea through a straw than Hoovering a cigarette. You draw a little up the stem, let it linger in your mouth, then gently let it go.

Part of the experience with any tobacco is the relationship it affords with time. Smoking provides punctuation marks to life. It pauses the careening jumble of events to carve out moments of stillness. To some degree, this is true of all smoking. I am as likely as anyone to wince at the sight of a dozen office workers huddled in a wintry alley, but there is something to be said for the experience of stopping and stepping away. There is no similar ritual in the daily habits of most nonsmokers, and the pipe is especially suited to the task: there is the crumbling of tobacco, the packing of the bowl, the careful nurture of the flame, the false light and first tamp and so on, tooling and tending the bowl as the ember gently falls.

Finally, the pipe itself is a meaningful object in its owner’s life. Many new smokers don’t grasp how important it is to care for their pipes. If it’s oversmoked or never cleaned or isn’t properly broken in, the pipe can become saturated with tar that spoils in the cells of wood. I am speaking here of briar pipes, which are cut from a special knot of burl at the base of the Mediterranean heath tree. Pipes can be made of other woods and materials, but briar is the one most people picture when they think of a wooden pipe. One of the many virtues to briar is that it improves with age. Most pipe smokers find the taste of a new pipe harsh, and many inaugurate a bowl with a thin film of honey. Most also pack the first few bowls half full and let the pipe rest for several days between smokes — allowing the wood to dry and form a crust of carbon on the walls. Because this crust, known as cake, absorbs the flavor of any tobacco you smoke, many pipe smokers dedicate each of their pipes to just one style of tobacco. A typical pipe smoker, then, may require several pipes. I have friends with hundreds, and although I prefer to keep only a couple of dozen myself, each is reserved for a certain family of leaf. Each one also has a story, like the gnarled freehand that my brother-in-law carved and the vintage Dunhill my cousin restored, and like many pipe smokers, I can remember the best smoke each pipe has produced. There are times when just the right blend meets just the right bowl at just the right moment, and something transcendent happens. You will think I am exaggerating here, unless you smoke a pipe. I will never forget the English blend I smoked from a large sandblasted calabash in my friend Andy’s backyard one summer before a table of fresh veggies and fruit; or the brightleaf I smoked from a Hardcastle Rhodesian late one night on my grandfather’s farm; or the taste of Semois I carried home that summer.

“Travail?” Vincent said, pointing at the basement. It had been two days since my arrival, and we’d spent the time sprawling aimlessly around his sunroom puffing Semois, but the tobacco orders were coming in daily, and it was time to return to work.

We climbed down into the workroom, and Vincent turned on a small radio, blasting the opening movement of “Carmina Burana” in all its preposterous enthusiasm. All around, the leaf awaited — harvested, dried, fermented and shredded, filling huge wooden crates. Vincent reached to a high shelf and pulled down a stack of the golden paper, which he dropped on the table with a thud. “Like this,” he said, peeling a sheet and folding it into the shape of a box, which he dropped into a hole in the table and began filling with tobacco. When it was full, he pulled a lever overhead to compress the tobacco inside, then he folded the top and tossed aside the first golden brick.