I think there is a base story, but embellished. What makes me think altered is the utter improbability of meeting another pipe smoker in diddy-wah-diddy, who has an aged tin of Escudo comparable to yours. You miss your tin which turns up under the papers, having mistaken his tin for yours; and walk away from the table, and only on your return do you find yours and realize your mistake.
My version would be that once I felt I'd ID'd the scoundrel who, in my absence, had helped himself to half of my tin off aged Escudo without my permission, I'd have stood up and grabbed him by the lapels and screamed, "motherf*cker," whilst delivered various and sundry blows about the head.
Like you I also make a fool of myself with anger, but in this case, until I found my tin, I would be basking in the sunlight of anger requited by a chiseling thief.