18 Sabbaths - My Father Le Bijou 1922 - 9th Sabbath

THE CIGAR

My Father Cigars
Le Bijou 1922
6 1/8 x 52 torpedo box-press
w. Nicaraguan Habano Oscuro (Pelo De Oro)
b./f. Nicaraguan

A full review of this offering can be read HERE.
A K A P L O W I T Z Scale review can be read HERE.
All 18 Sabbaths (& more re: the project) can be read HERE.

This offering and the remaining are courtesy of Cigars City and my mad March Madness skills.

I

The Cadbury Fruit and Nut milk chocolate bar hits first, on a thick toasted cream. Then, three puffs in -- BOOM -- black pepper blast. Two puffs later, a rich espresso enters. Chocolate darkens. Mouth-feel is peppery tingle. Texture of smoke is silky. A chew develops and a meatiness doth loom nigh. All that, gentlepersons, plus I just picked an '87 Topps Lee Mazzilli out of a Dollar Store mixed pack of baseball cards. It strikes me, life, or at least baseball cards and cigars -- only appears a crap-shoot. There is a hedging of bets. I know that I won't be finding a Willie Mays rookie card in these Dollar Store packs... but I stand a fine chance of finding a wonderful smoke in this box of Le Bijou. Although I had to walk away from two of the thus far nine...

Maybe it is all a crap-shoot, and we each have our own treasure. Our own pay-out. Lee Mazzilli went to my High school. Bread note, dark and toasty sidle up to a pipe tobacco note of great headiness. Abraham Lincoln HS. Brooklyn. Two alternate universes and a few lives ago. Fruits ramp up in purple juices. They leave the chocolate to morph on its lonesome to a fudge brownie goo. I feel I'm all over the place here, gentlepersons. I taste prune hamentashen.

Sweet, sweet fruits. Ripe and fresh. Eat them this minute or: over-ripe. Burn is a slight ribbon off an out-doors light, so we shall allow a settling and self-correcting. Some cedar is trying to try. There's a touch of oak shavings, seared. Pack hath softened off light and about 3/4" ahead of burn. Corners begin rounding less than an inch in. Draw is even so far. Medium+ tension'd. Something like a ruby red grapefruit is cleansing under the sweet syrups of the heavier fruits. Ash is a thinly-cracked silver sheath with a tick of flake. Texture is a half bite above smooth. A tick throaty. Tingly, yeah. Smoke out-put is fairly mild and smells of leathery compost from the draw's under-belly. Like that under-belly, there is fruitiness in the room-note. Spices. Black pepper, some red, and a bright red spice-rack. Retro-hale is a schnoz-burner, but drops to the palate in chocolate woodiness. As Act II looms ever-so nigh, the line thins to a razor's edge and is almost as straight.

II

Leafing through the cards. Some kid from the Mariners on a '97 Topps Stadium Club, utility infielder. Must be representative of my Pacific Northwest now. Jeff Schaeffer. Feh. Chocolate is a bit thinner, though at the same height... sharpens a tick. Ya know what don't sharpen? The burn. I'll need a re-light to ward off a potential canoe and lagging bit of top-leaf. I taste banana. Seams loosen. Throaty. Re-light works until it doesn't, which happens quickly. Corners are round. Draw gets a bit hollow-sided. 

Verily compost. Pack gets spongy, but it straightens out the draw and somewhat the burn. Lots of aromatic tobacco on draw and room-note. Fruity... a new papaya. Brown sugar. Leather up the wazoo, gentlepersons. All told, the second third is a transition to more earthen notes. Profile is a -full and strength is a medium+. Nicely robust. Excellent smoke-hole satiation. Excellent moisture level therein. Nuts are walnut now, darkly roasted and somewhat of a paste in the compost high-up under-belly. They attract some chocolate wrap-around from up-top.

Construction and combustion are all good as the third act is almost upon us. Nice draw, big, big smoke off each end. Tobacco, dark rich toasted, like I like mah wiminz. A little sweet, too. Like I dislike mah wiminz.

III

Much the same as the second act, and I ain't complaining. I'll tell a quick story. There's a sticker card in this grab-bag Dollar Store pack. Chicago Cubs. I was about ten years-old.  My dad had done his pal and mishpucha Benny a favor. Benny cashed bad checks; he did some time, but funny -- even after -- the banks wanted their moolah. Benny's mom died and left him 30 grand from years of her work as a seamstress. He couldn't leave a trail, Benny. So on paper, his mom left my dad the 30 grand. Savvy? Good. Well, my dad then forked it all over to Benny. As a thank-ya, Benny took my dad and ten year-old me to a Mets game. They were playing the Cubbies. Our seats were so high-up that birds were flying under us. I got dizzy looking down toward the ants on the field who were curiousl 'nuff, wearing blue caps. At the seventh inning stretch, my dad stood up and pretended to get a nose bleed on account of the altitude. Benny, whatta guy.

I still love him and look him up on occasion. Can't find him. My mom says I remind her of Benny. I don't talk to my mom.

Woodsy earth corralled in leather, barely. A few bold notes churning out from that core now, at the band. Chocolate, nuts, espresso. Fruits weave in and out, as doth a smoked meat vibe back from the stick's nigh onset. A floral addition, hibiscus, is at the start of the long finish. Black pepper tingles. Nice. Lovely and masculine. Gut Shabbos, gentlepersons.

EDITOR'S NOTE

Written prior to the Sabbath, automatically posted during. Gut Shabbos, gentlepersons... happy Saturday, goyim.

L'shalom