Perdomo Fresco Cigar Review

I am staring down the barrel of a gun. The barrel has a 52 gauge and is eight inches long. It is wrapped in Maduro leaf. I might not be feeling lucky, punk -- but I'm feeling full. An early stogie following a slightly larger than modest ham sammich supper. I am ready for

The Cigar:
Perdomo Fresco
Maduro Wrapper
Nicaraguan filler/binder
Gigante Presidente size

Pre-light: Nose full of cocoa, cumin, black pepper spices, all dark.

The pack is firm and even, the wrap shows some possibly excess vein and has the Maduro thicker, rougher feel.

A cold draw tells me this is set to be the spiciest meat-a-ball I've had in some time.

Light: The light is nice 'n' easy. It seems to want to be toasted, but not so much as to be seen impetuous and/or over-dry. The first pull shows off black pepper spices and cumin. I can't say I get anything else -- including tobacco. My lips get rough and burn.

The smoke it gives off is red peppery. The finish is long lived and quite pleasant, actually. It consists of a mellowing of the involved flavors. My eyes burn. Must be my allergies.

I'm being tested, I feel. Dared to smoke this stick.

On the third pull or so, a nuttines seems to be trying to break through. However, she stays off the porch and inside, watching Shark Week with our four year-old.

1/3: The draw is not easy, but offers a nice amount of smoke. The ash is flaky, but packed tight and not completely without oil. As the stick warms, the oil of the wrapper comes to life.

The burn is even and in the slower thirds of speed.

This stogie is not friendly to my gentle nostrils. The draw firms up a bit more and I begin to worry about sucking out my fillings, then I remember I have none -- no dental insurance. I would not say, thus far, that it both mellows as it heats, as much as it tightens and you simply inhale less.

Peppers go to my tongue, which feels like a piece of cotton thrown into a frying pan. I'm about 20 minutes in and have smoked, at the very most, 3/4" down. I'm glad I started early. I've been pulling far on the frequent side, too. Which brings me to the doubly surprising realization that I must like the taste, and that the nicotine content -- full belly aside -- might be lacking.

An inch into it now and the red and black peppers are muting and the cumin has taken its leave. The burn continues evenly, but the ash has suddenly lilted hard to one side. It shortly falls off in one completely unexpected clump and lends no small amount of character to my shirt, jeans, and right shoe. Charmed, I'm sure.

I don't feel as though I'm smoking a Maduro. I do feel as though I lasted through the rough opening rounds against "Iron" Mike Tyson, and now it's any one's fight.

The smoke barely fills my mouth and tastes only vaguely of black pepper spices. More vague, still, of tobacco or purpose.

2/3: It is February 10th 1990. I'm in the Tokyo Dome in Tokyo, Japan. I am about to upset a lot of people. People get upset when they lose wagered moolah.

The cigar is strong in spurts but laborious always. I think I'll smoke a Casa de Garcia in a few hours. if it proves to be a late night.

The pack loosens unevenly and suddenly, there is smoke everywhere.

3/3: wherein the wrapper cracks and quickly becomes a wrapper in name only. It attempts more peppers, but succeeds in bitter bite, only. I feel it is sizing up my ear with its teeth...

Pairings: Ear muffs, not accepting a challenge from #1 contender, Evander Holyfield, and cheap coffee -- cold and black. I mean if'n you wanna play up this sad stick by method of comparison.

Final Grade: F+

Epilogue: I sweep the ash from my porch into my roses, break apart its nub and sprinkle that in there, too.

The Three Stooges in Pardon My Scotch (1935)

Moe Howard
Larry Fine
Curly Howard

Nat Carr as Mr. Martin
James C. Morton as J.T. Walton

Directed by Del Lord
Story/Screenplay by Andrew Bennison
Produced by Jules White
Cinematography by George Meeham
Film Editing by James Sweeney

Johnny Kascier as Moe's stunt double (uncredited)

Do you know that some people review machine rolled stogies in serious fashion? It would seem that my sarcasm might be lost on that endeavor, so I light my Garcia y Vega hot turd, and instead embark on this here review right here of Pardon My Scotch, a 1935 short made just four months after Prohibition was repealed. Timely. Almost as so as You Nazy Spy! but not quite -- humsover, I just might be partial.

In this early Three Stooges offering, the ninth short the trio had ordered by Columbia, we start with any intro of our merry three as house painters with a decade's of experience and one can only imagine the half score of oil and flat painted, lead based, carnage. 

It's the final hours before repeal and the Scotch shipment has be waylaid. Jones (an uncredited Al Thompson) is a drugstore soda jerk in the red, who hopes to become a barman in the black, but how? The distributor is no help -- cue The Three Stooges and their trademarked concoction gag.

Hold that cue.

Curly as the Super Stooge is in full effect and on brilliant display. Like a knuckleballer, you can tell right away when he's on his game. His nuanced mannerisms atop his overt ones are key, together with his high-water length and backward bib overalls are all floating like a boozing butterfly, from mound to plate. 

"Let's see, the door goes on the right..." is a classic bit that serves this short so well, as to elevate it to "next-level" Stooge status. Adding to the folkloric feel here is the infamous scene wherein Curly saws the table out from  under Moe. The apparent expected outcome was for Moe to fall straight through, but as you can see, the cookie failed to crumble that way. Instead, he cringe-worthingly falls all wrong and breaks three ribs in the blameless process. 

Tough guy Moe gets to his feet, gathers bruised and broken aplomb, delivers the line and the slaps, then passes out from the pain. Production was halted, while he was taken to the hospital. Too, production finished on time, as a standing testament to Moe that Mick Foley would thumb up with toothless grin. 

I think it's be appropriate now, that we should all take a moment to remember Johnny Kascier. As a Moe stand-in of long standing, he really shone here, albeit in uncredited fashion -- all the more notable, that.

Another item to note is that the rib-breaking footage is used again in 1943's Dizzy Detectives.

Onward here, we find that the feces rolls both ways, as on up the hill booze distributor J.T. (James C. Walton) can't get his hands on any hooch to distribute. Then, as luck would have it, a customer (Mr. Martin played by Nat Carr) staggers in on a down day, looking for a quick pick-me-up -- and I don't mean a derrick. With nothing readily on-hand, Moe Larry, and Curly concoct. Vintage Stooge running gag alert.

The resulting concoction explodes the mercury from a thermometer after it melts away a wicker chair turned melee strainer. "That stuff had teeth in it." Says a duly impressed Moe. Seconds later, the brew blows the hat off Mr. Martin. "Where'd you get this Scotch?" And they're all in business. 50/50, and I can't help but wonder if our boys split their 50 three ways, or if there's an even...oh, whatever. Something tells me to not sweat the small stuff here.

The remainder of this short is an absolute assault to the tender senses I own, surrounding proper table manners and social etiquette. But first a Fan Dance done in Kilts...

"No, we're from Lock Jaw," Corrects Curly and we, sirs, are off to the races. Races which include an homage to their friend Charlie Chaplin's fork dance put on by the Super Stooge, and Larry becoming the seemingly living embodiment of every Vaudevillian effort there ever was. It all breaks down into an Animal House and ends with most of the dinner off the table and on guests.

It's time to save the evening, with the aid of the piss de resistance, a sampling of Breath of Heather Scotch from our somehow Scotch trio, one of whom, Larry -- toasts "Ver derharget!" which is Yiddish for "drop dead." I almost plotzed.

Speaking of knuckleballs, although we haven't for a bit, get a load a Moe's pineapple! Vintage Del Lord direction. A moment on Del Lord, if I might and I might: he is credited with setting the course for our comedic trio, in a very fast yet somewhat surreal and loose manner of directing. Interestingly, his feature film efforts were of the melodrama variety.

Oh, the tapped oak barrel explodes in a frothy disaster and the evening is a shambles akin to a circa 1990s Ibiza foam party. Foam parties actually date back to the American '30s and specifically a 1932 short of non Stoogery called "A Rhapsody in Black and White" which starred Louis Armstrong and was directed by Aubrey Scott. I wonder -- are our boys being cutting edge once again?

All told and even including a notable bit of broken rib anecdote and cutting edge of current event humor, I don't list this among the classic shorts as some do. I feel it lacks a bit of subtle grace and, like a fine bottle of Manischewitz, must age a bit prior to the unscrewing. It's enjoyable, nonetheless -- both Pardon My Scotch, and Manischewiz handled by fast hands -- just not a classic, per se.

According to www.threestooges.net, this short has a slap happy 17 slaps but no other variety of stoogery slap-stick. (eye-pokes, et al.) I'd count for myself, but my ribs hurt from thinking of poor Moe. I can't help but wonder if Pardon My Scotch feels a bit heavier on account of both these things. Remember how horrifying a scene, Moe trapped in the door while a saw went by his face, was? If film had a finish a la stogies and booze, this turn would linger heavily on the palate. Dizzyingly so, really, re: looking through sawed out floors from on high.

Who Done it?, for the sake of comparison, this short is not. Thankfully, however, it ain't Three Loan Wolves, neither.

Final Grade: B+

Knob Creek Kentucky Straight Bourbon - Whiskey Review

It's noon thirty, but I woke up early -- so it's practically equivalent to 5 o'clock (somewhere). Time for a whisk(e)y tasting, sirs.

[image missing for I drunk it]

Knob Creek Bourbon attempts at a hearkening back to of pre-prohibition times. This is accomplished most notably by it being bottled at a true to that era 100 proof, and also in it being a nine year barrel inhabitant, the lengthiest aging of any of the other small batch offerings.

That's the nuts and bolts of this homage to a point in time. The facade, or veneer of which, is found in the name itself, which is Honest Abe's self-proclaimed locale of his "First recollection." The label visually bears an aged quality, and is tastefully rustic, as to not offend the white collars amongst their potential buyers. Did that sound cynical?

If not then, I will now: there is a vast 100 year period of time the trend hungry marketing of Knob Creek hopes to cover in the blink of an eye. (From Lincoln in diapers, to flappers in jazz clubs.) I'd consider that to be vulgar and lazy marketing, but I'm also passing 12:30pm off as at least 5pm, so I shall digress.

“This [Knob Creek] is bourbon the way it used to be. The way it was meant to be." - Booker Noe, who seemingly remains unwilling to clarify any particular era. Crap. I'm looking up at a fleuron -- I must have already digressed.

Like the mensch I am, I pour a snootful of the stuff into a mason jar and begin on

The Drink:
Knob Creek
Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey
100 Proof
Aged 9 years
Occupation: Rail Splitter

Color:
It (rail)splits the middle here, being at the middle of middle, and I'm surprised at this -- as I was expecting a more robustly full visage akin to a hearty Civil War soldier with creased facial lines at the ripe old age of too young. I have seen both darker and younger bourbons.

The legs, too, were a surprise. Spindly things are they -- not at all indicative of the 100 proof.

Visually, I rate it a feh and do hope this is all made up for in the

Aroma:
Here lies the robust side of Knob Creek, and voluptuously so. It is a heady affair of oak (natch), a sweet vanilla which settles to warm honey citrus as it sits, and resonating in the back is a dried fruit note of dark plum or prune. This heavy handed nod to a stronger point in time comes complete with the nicety of a virtual lack of any nasal burn. My first decent surprise here in dirt floor Hodginville, Kentucky y'all. Did I say that right? Y'all.

Negatively, there is a lack of spice to see to the abundant sweetness -- a lack of balance. This is attributable to the length of cask time, and the therefore soaking up of that essence. Still, I'm a balance kinda guy. I mean, who likes bending over to tie their shoes, and falling over onto their face? My red-cheeked uncle, that's who.

On the bright side, as it sits, cedar notes appear and I get the feeling of cigar box in my schnoz. This feeling comes with wood paneling and over stuffed leather chairs. We are almost mature. Here, pull my finger.

Drats.

Taste:
We're not talking smooth, but we ain't talking burn either. Or not much of one -- a flame nibbles at the tip of my tongue from a somewhat safe distance and departs quickly. It's a very sweet fire with no nuance and a severe lack of maturity for a nine year-old. This fourth grader still longs for kindergarten naps and finger-painting.

There are honey vanilla tendencies that are overpowered by somehow immaturely sweet, sweet yet not luxuriously viscous oak. Prior to finish, there is a caramelized red fruit hint. None are too readily detectable over the sweetness. The lack of warmth gets me, no leathery or toasted grain notes, so to speak. No grounding. No earth.

The tooth of Knob Creek is on par with its visual cues. It's a thinner feel that doesn't coat the tongue as much or for as long as I'd like. It doesn't necessarily fail here, but it doesn't necessarily deliver, either.

In short, it feels cheap.


Finish:
The finish goes from sweet with a hint of orange, to sweet with a hint of simple pepper that borders on metallic, then mellows to vanilla spice and this vanilla spice lives on into warm, nutty oils that very well might be the highlight of this brief affair.

Other than the brief metallic hiccup, this is a very good finish, indeed.


Notes:
A child who doesn't act its age is made to sit in a corner. I cannot recommend this offering over its bottling company's flagship Jim Beam. It's not worthy of its higher price point.

That said, it is serviceable, and Jim Beam might appear as sophomoric gauche to arrive with at a dinner party. My advice would be to either skip the dinner party, or be aware that there are cheaper and  better bourbons all just as readily available.

At home, choose Jim over Knob, if that's your thing.

This won't offend, but again, for its cost, it should have a more lofty goal that that. Knob Creek is more a step up in price, than in quality. Have a placed a fine enough point on that yet?

Final Grade: C+

Illusione 88 Candela - Cigar Review

"We don't get a lot of calls for Candelas here." Said the guy running the cigar shop from behind the cigar showcase from out behind the cigar stuffed in his smoke-hole. I get it, I thought. You appreciate cigars, sir.

He went on, "I think we only have one, but not the Fuente." (I had asked after the Fuente double claro I reviewed here.) "Have you tried Illusione? They're out of Reno. Weird, huh?"

"No more weird than the fact I'm outta Oregon." I mumble and embark upon this Illusione 88, a stick with a price tag that would cover a near 3 days of my beloved House of Gary (Casa de Garcia). Let's not hold that against it. Until I factor that into the final grade, at least.

Now, my friends, my Romans, my Countrymen --

The Cigar:
Illusione 88
Candela wrapper
Nicaraguan Puro (binder/filler)
Robusto size

Pre-light:

Fantastic material yet an apparent dinky handling thereof. Let me 'splain. The cigar band, though minimalist, classy, and reminiscent of Yankee pinstripes -- is affixed crookedly and needs a fix. The Candela is like buttah in my fingahs. Buttah, I say -- but the roll has left a large enough lack of filler to have sunk inward to the point it's almost a flute. I place the stick in my mouth and put my finger over the dip, and blow through the cap. I laugh. I stop laughing when I think of the price. This, however, is not the final grade portion, as promised above -- and I shall digress, replete with fleuron.

The pack is loose and uneven, the dip, man. The divot. There is two, a smaller one an inch away from the momma one. Potholes. I notice a tiny third...

To the nose, I get the grassy floral of the Candela. Too, the sweet darkness of the Nicaraguan. This will need to be a deftly crafted balancing act, methinks. For Illusione to handle. My part is easy to handle. All's I do is -- cold draw first -- salty notes prevail. All I do, is... 

Light:

The light is easy and the first pull is predominantly salty with a flint nose and tinny mouth. The second and third pulls add macadamia to the mix and we are off onto the

1/3:

It's macadamia nut jumping to the lead out of the gate. Some toasty nose is also in the race, and I've decided that's enough with the horse racing schtick. The cigar feels warmed already and has loosened up its already loose self.

The burn is uneven and does not lend itself to correction. The ash, feathery. I look at the stogie the wrong way and it clumps off at a half inch.

New notes of cardamom and honey join in the macadamia nut farm. A hint of white chocolate I attribute to the Nicaraguan guts begins to rear. My word, I'm a sucker for a green stick. There's a saltiness that comes on at the very end of the medium-length finish. It drops from the nose to palate and cleanses both quite nicely.

The burn remains incorrigible and I'm attempting now to see it as charming rapscallion-ry. It's a fast and warm burn. The warms plays at white chocolate yet seems to want to deepen to cocoa.

2/3:

The nose is salty. The taste is an unlying white chocolate with a touch of honey that lingers in a finish of nice length and is whisked away when the salty nose drops to the palate. There is a coming and going, too, of floral notes. That is my definitive right now update, as the second third begins. 

Also, the burn has slowed and has learned to see the reason in my Djeep retouchings.

All is the same as we head into the final third, although honey peeks through a tad more.

3/3:

Starts with a crack in the wrapper as if the Nicaraguan machismo is more than the somewhat fagalah Candela cares to grapple to confinement.

"From limestone earth, the grass grows." The green stick tells me in its best Yoda. 

Still at the start of 3/3, there is whatever the heck Yoda said, and there is salt. I would like more tobacco in the form of the hinted at Wonder bread-in-toaster, but I'm okay with this experience. The honey finish is nice and it is nice because of the salt not allowing it to linger too long. 

The tear grows and more sprout and I've decided to pull until I can'ts pulls no mo'. The end is nigh. Carpe diem. #YOLO

"Old and frail, I may be. A strength I hide," foreshadows the stogie. The sun is setting behind a tulip tree, I slump in my resin porch chair, relaxed but poised. I sip, not gulp, at my chamomile tea. my body says relaxed, my eyes say crazy.

The danger never comes. Yoda falls asleep drooling, I don't even know why I bother making mention of him. I decide that some Piedmont Blues would go well with the remainder. The cracking candela will limit that remainder.

The ending comes warm and floral, each brought on nicely by the chamomile pairing. The salt leaves with the honey at the last couple of pulls.

Pairings:
Piedmont Blues, Chamomile, a white rum would have been good to have around. My after smoke peanut butter sandwich was strangely dee-lish.

Final Grade: B-

Epilogue:
My wife sticks her head out onto the porch. "Did you get into my chamomile?"
"Yes. I'm also wearing your panties." I say.
"Candela?" She asks.
"Candela." I say.
"Why two mugs?" She asks.
"Wanted my own, I did." A mostly unconscious Yoda explains.