The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
- from To A Mouse by Robert Burns
This stogie here is packed like a brick, I tells ya. Ahem. This Pepin Garcia offering by way of My Father sure puts the press in Box Pressed.
Veiny and a tad sloppy to be quite honest and, quite the nit-pick, for all its pressing. What confuses me most is an overwhelming pre-light feeling that I want more from its sniff. A cold pull tastes of black cherry and coffee, and bites at the tip of my tongue with black pepper indications. I keep pulling cold, searching
The Cigar:
La Antiguedad by My Father
Habano Ecuador Rosado Oscuro wrapper
Nicaraguan binder/filler
Robusto
(Obtained at The Briar Shoppe)
My Djeep is still warm from lighting the Sabbath candles. I'm not certain whether it's the shabbos glow or the coffee and subtle cocoa tones of the cigar, but I'm craving Concord Grape Manischewitz, and I'm craving it something fierce.
I re-employ the Djeep and while this stick lends itself well to a bite off at its head, its foot is far less cooperative as it comes to The Light. There are no Bugaboos, per se, it just proves itself to be not a cigar for a beginner. Did I mention the footer ribbon? Wait.
Wait wait wait.
The band.
If the Titanic had a band this colorfully intricate, no one aboard would have noticed the rising waters.
If Nero's lyre had an accompaniment this sophisticated and complex, no Roman would have realized the flames.
The First Third: a few pulls in and heavy coffee notes with hints of cocoa are pleasing my palate and explaining my Kosher grape cravings far less poetically than the Sabbath might have. The burn continues the mood of the light and needs no small amount of tending to -- albeit but not in an annoying fashion. More so as my rose garden needs my attention. Good news: the aphids have gone.
Further good news: this Nicaraguan blending is doing as it should. It is being dark and it is being sweet.
When I was a kid, my dad owned an almost two decades old Plymouth Duster. He took great pride in nursing it along as it overheated up into and through the Catskill Mountain Range of the Upstate New York Borscht Belt. Heater on, heater off, heater on, heater off - so on and so forth...
this cigar wants to make you feel that same flavor of great pride it would seem, and to lead you to believe my dad's two decade old Plymouth Duster, were in fact a late model Bimmer. Not Beamer. Not Beemer. Bimmer. This cigar, my apologies, wants you to take it to be a Bimmer. We shall see.
This is a smoke that begs for a well-appointed interior in the form of a comfortable chair and quiet surroundings. Soft (Ricardo Montalban said soft) Corinthian leather, perhaps. Also, time and attention put firmly aside.
The ash is flakier than the pleasantly greased wrapper would indicate, and the burn quicker than the dense packing would too indicate. Full-bodied, yet pleasant. Heavy notes of cocoa and coffee and earthiness. There are slight undertones of black pepper spices that serve to help the finish release very quickly and cleanly on my palate.
Both the Sabbath and this, my Sabbath Stick conspire to bring out the Jewish mother in me as I am tending tending tending to the stogie. I am hovering, helicopter-smoking, not manly cursing and kicking up a mountainside -- but fidgeting. Nursing it. Nurturing it. (S)mothering it. I step back and I realize I'm smiling from ear to ear -- and no mater what the heck I do, it simply will not burn evenly. I go back to work but ease up just a bit. Breathe...
It would be wonderful, "My son, the doctor!"
Breathe,
as the Second Third begins, the ash remains completely intact and I re-position myself to a more comfy spot on my porch. Only to realize I no longer care about the uneven burn to the extent that the lighter remains four feet away from me in my original position, and it might as well be the far side of the Moon.
Because I ain't going there to get it.
Watch, just watch -- how much I don't care.
I'm listening to my newly downloaded Northwest Public Radio app. I'm watching the sunset leave in its wake purple illuminations and streaks of orange.
I wouldn't say the black pepper spices are more prevalent, but simply that they are more necessary as palate cleansers. The stick is fully heated up now and the coffee and newly entered black cherry tastes heat up requiring more of said cleanser.
It's a finicky endeavor, this stick--but too, a more enjoyable one than I've had in recent memory. Each note seems placed precisely where it is needed. The black cherry sweetening the coffee and cocoa minglings, and the black pepper spices finishing the sweetness.
I find an old match book that affords me even more fiddlings...
As the second third nears completion, the black cherry becomes primary. A note of cedar creeps in. The whole thing mellows and suddenly The Three Stooges are Stooging on my Chromebook. The final third approaches like a mother does a cradle. Is that dad watching the stooges one room over? I like the vibes of this house, and think I’ll stay a while.
While wearing a frilly apron.
The pack loosens considerably. Cedar now prevails. Cream announces itself with muddling authority and muting of most other notes. This cream coats the mouth in a not wholly pleasant fashion. The uneven burn now seems to not want to burn at all. This final third...this final third...
I cannot relax in a warm bath. Did you know that about me? How could you have? I'm first now telling you. I have tried the whole scene -- crystals to candles to a brief affair with removable shower heads -- and I simply sit there, jittery. More and more jittery. Because nothing requires my attention, I've isolated myself from old muscle cars and this final third has become a warm bath
... my mother would dart here and there like a squirrel. Really never getting much done. An un-directed ball of neurotic energy. First, I gave up on an even burn. Second, the cream came and washed all else away...
(although I feel I could use a further cleaning from its remnants which linger heavy on my palate).
There is nothing more here. A marvelous stick come unraveled in a doldrum of feh. (My roses look parched, I note excitedly. Hopefully.)
All told, this My Father phallic symbol cigar offering has left me feeling more like my mother than I feel comfortable delving further into, outside of my therapist's couch. It also gives sad credence to Zino Davidoff's etiquette-based musings of letting the second half of a stogie simply burn away un-smoked.
What's this? It's stopped burning? At the second half--of the final third. I'm on it! We'll get Upstate, by gum, and I'll get us there.
Although it doesn't seem to want to light and when it half does, cream. Cream, cream, cream. I leave it and attack vigorously, a sink full of dishes. It seems far less laborious. I only briefly think of how brilliant the first two thirds were.
Maybe I'm just like my [sic] mother,
she's never satisfied.
(She's never satisfied.)
Final Grade: C+ (1-2/3 A, 3/3 D-)
Pairings: therapy or listening to the kosher wine craving at its onset. That, or animals striking curious poses. Perhaps a very sweet and heavily creamed black tea.
Epilogue:
Come morning, I will pocket the nub of this cigar, as I head off to Synagogue. I will attend services smelling like a man -- so Hashem knows I'm no faygelah.
This stogie here is packed like a brick, I tells ya. Ahem. This Pepin Garcia offering by way of My Father sure puts the press in Box Pressed.
Veiny and a tad sloppy to be quite honest and, quite the nit-pick, for all its pressing. What confuses me most is an overwhelming pre-light feeling that I want more from its sniff. A cold pull tastes of black cherry and coffee, and bites at the tip of my tongue with black pepper indications. I keep pulling cold, searching
The Cigar:
La Antiguedad by My Father
Habano Ecuador Rosado Oscuro wrapper
Nicaraguan binder/filler
Robusto
(Obtained at The Briar Shoppe)
My Djeep is still warm from lighting the Sabbath candles. I'm not certain whether it's the shabbos glow or the coffee and subtle cocoa tones of the cigar, but I'm craving Concord Grape Manischewitz, and I'm craving it something fierce.
I re-employ the Djeep and while this stick lends itself well to a bite off at its head, its foot is far less cooperative as it comes to The Light. There are no Bugaboos, per se, it just proves itself to be not a cigar for a beginner. Did I mention the footer ribbon? Wait.
Wait wait wait.
The band.
If the Titanic had a band this colorfully intricate, no one aboard would have noticed the rising waters.
If Nero's lyre had an accompaniment this sophisticated and complex, no Roman would have realized the flames.
 |
| There's the thing. |
Further good news: this Nicaraguan blending is doing as it should. It is being dark and it is being sweet.
this cigar wants to make you feel that same flavor of great pride it would seem, and to lead you to believe my dad's two decade old Plymouth Duster, were in fact a late model Bimmer. Not Beamer. Not Beemer. Bimmer. This cigar, my apologies, wants you to take it to be a Bimmer. We shall see.
This is a smoke that begs for a well-appointed interior in the form of a comfortable chair and quiet surroundings. Soft (Ricardo Montalban said soft) Corinthian leather, perhaps. Also, time and attention put firmly aside.
The ash is flakier than the pleasantly greased wrapper would indicate, and the burn quicker than the dense packing would too indicate. Full-bodied, yet pleasant. Heavy notes of cocoa and coffee and earthiness. There are slight undertones of black pepper spices that serve to help the finish release very quickly and cleanly on my palate.
Both the Sabbath and this, my Sabbath Stick conspire to bring out the Jewish mother in me as I am tending tending tending to the stogie. I am hovering, helicopter-smoking, not manly cursing and kicking up a mountainside -- but fidgeting. Nursing it. Nurturing it. (S)mothering it. I step back and I realize I'm smiling from ear to ear -- and no mater what the heck I do, it simply will not burn evenly. I go back to work but ease up just a bit. Breathe...
It would be wonderful, "My son, the doctor!"
Breathe,
as the Second Third begins, the ash remains completely intact and I re-position myself to a more comfy spot on my porch. Only to realize I no longer care about the uneven burn to the extent that the lighter remains four feet away from me in my original position, and it might as well be the far side of the Moon.
Because I ain't going there to get it.
Watch, just watch -- how much I don't care.
I'm listening to my newly downloaded Northwest Public Radio app. I'm watching the sunset leave in its wake purple illuminations and streaks of orange.
I wouldn't say the black pepper spices are more prevalent, but simply that they are more necessary as palate cleansers. The stick is fully heated up now and the coffee and newly entered black cherry tastes heat up requiring more of said cleanser.
It's a finicky endeavor, this stick--but too, a more enjoyable one than I've had in recent memory. Each note seems placed precisely where it is needed. The black cherry sweetening the coffee and cocoa minglings, and the black pepper spices finishing the sweetness.
I find an old match book that affords me even more fiddlings...
As the second third nears completion, the black cherry becomes primary. A note of cedar creeps in. The whole thing mellows and suddenly The Three Stooges are Stooging on my Chromebook. The final third approaches like a mother does a cradle. Is that dad watching the stooges one room over? I like the vibes of this house, and think I’ll stay a while.
While wearing a frilly apron.
I cannot relax in a warm bath. Did you know that about me? How could you have? I'm first now telling you. I have tried the whole scene -- crystals to candles to a brief affair with removable shower heads -- and I simply sit there, jittery. More and more jittery. Because nothing requires my attention, I've isolated myself from old muscle cars and this final third has become a warm bath
... my mother would dart here and there like a squirrel. Really never getting much done. An un-directed ball of neurotic energy. First, I gave up on an even burn. Second, the cream came and washed all else away...
(although I feel I could use a further cleaning from its remnants which linger heavy on my palate).
There is nothing more here. A marvelous stick come unraveled in a doldrum of feh. (My roses look parched, I note excitedly. Hopefully.)
All told, this My Father
What's this? It's stopped burning? At the second half--of the final third. I'm on it! We'll get Upstate, by gum, and I'll get us there.
Although it doesn't seem to want to light and when it half does, cream. Cream, cream, cream. I leave it and attack vigorously, a sink full of dishes. It seems far less laborious. I only briefly think of how brilliant the first two thirds were.
Maybe I'm just like my [sic] mother,
she's never satisfied.
(She's never satisfied.)
Final Grade: C+ (1-2/3 A, 3/3 D-)
Pairings: therapy or listening to the kosher wine craving at its onset. That, or animals striking curious poses. Perhaps a very sweet and heavily creamed black tea.
Epilogue:
Come morning, I will pocket the nub of this cigar, as I head off to Synagogue. I will attend services smelling like a man -- so Hashem knows I'm no faygelah.