What CBGB was to punks, the Nat Sherman shop is to smokers in Bloombergian New York: a haven for indulgence, devoid of puritan opprobrium. As they put it, "Your freedom of choice, often denied to you as a smoker, can be exercised and expressed here." Exercising said freedom has become that much more rewarding, thanks to their newly completed, membership-only Johnson Club Room -- named after Sherman's rather peculiar sobriquet for his wife, Lydia. Situated in the basement of their shop on East 42nd Street -- perfectly located for a pre-power meeting drag -- it functions as a combination coffee shop and university club, with a somehow inevitable jazzy soundtrack and darkroom-red lighting.  Some fine wines and top shelf liquor accompany Irving Farm coffee, Murray's Cheese, Russ & Daughters smoked salmon, and other Gotham delicacies. But the real attractions -- lovingly depicted in the portraiture lining the walls -- are the cigars. Any imaginable variety can be found at the ground level shop (all but those from communist lands, anyway) along with all manner of cigarettes and pipe tobacco, but club members can make use of their private storage locker, and brag about sharing walk in humidor space with the likes of Joe Torre, Rudy Giuliani, and Bill Richardson. While Nat Sherman's Michael Holba admits that he's "keeping [his] dry cleaner in business," there's enough air conditioning capacity to clear a 27-story building, and smell is anything but dive bar stale. While you won't be able to make a night of it -- the club closes at 8pm -- the Johnson is a welcome throwback to a city untouched by modern modesty. Surgeons general be damned.  --NICHOLAS MOSQUERA

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