It wasn't too long ago that Ecuadorian wrappers were all the craze.
Geographically, they are the only wrapper grown in South America (strictly speaking). Sitting right at the Equator in a style unlike Honduras, The Dominican Republic, Cameroon, Indonesia, and Nicaragua -- for the Equadorian climate is a different and quite cloudy thing entirely. This cloudiness causes the leaf to pick up, and cling hard to, extra sun.
There are also 30 some odd active volcanoes in the country's borders -- ash makes for great fertilizer. The stick in my hand lays claim to all this, and is manufactured in Tampa, Florida, USofA. It's an Everyday, both in lint-filled pocket budget-sense and in its brand name, let's now look more into
Geographically, they are the only wrapper grown in South America (strictly speaking). Sitting right at the Equator in a style unlike Honduras, The Dominican Republic, Cameroon, Indonesia, and Nicaragua -- for the Equadorian climate is a different and quite cloudy thing entirely. This cloudiness causes the leaf to pick up, and cling hard to, extra sun.
There are also 30 some odd active volcanoes in the country's borders -- ash makes for great fertilizer. The stick in my hand lays claim to all this, and is manufactured in Tampa, Florida, USofA. It's an Everyday, both in lint-filled pocket budget-sense and in its brand name, let's now look more into
The Cigar:
Everyday Brand CigarSun Grown Ecuadorian wrapper
Dominican, Ecuadorian, Nicaraguan filler
"Homogenized Leaf" binder
Churchill size
Pre-light:
WTF is homogenized leaf? Is something you might be asking yourself. Well, it's scrap. The nasty lil bits of finer stogies which hit the cutting room floor and are artisanal finagled with the aid of flour and water into well, suitable tobacco leaf. "Suitable" being decreed in an occasionally liberal judgement. Most of the time, you'll find HLT in machined cigars. These tell me they are hand rolled.
Back to the above mentioned stogie at hand:
Very veiny in appearance and packed so unevenly as to disturb its shape, I go back in my mind through other decisions I've made... Wagering on Goldencents in big races, driving a Ford Escort, purchasing a Polo shirt...
To the touch the stogie is oily and rich. To the nose I sniff latte and a certain nutty trace. The cold draw showcases a very hard pull and -- dust? I'm not being funny here. Am I funny anywhere? I actually coughed. Let's try again.
The inherent nuttiness of the Ecuadorian wrapper prevails here, backed with a too inherent creamy note. Not bad. I should note that "Sun Grown" is normally a way to denote a fuller body. It is also somewhat of a vaguery.
Light:
An easy enough light puts forth a somewhat bitter black pepper to my palate. The draw is not easy, and it's only at the third pull that I get a sense of latte. The nut is gone (she won't be home from work until later this evening), unless the bitters are roughly hewn almond notes.
Crushed red pepper flakes appear so clearly that my mind associates it with the Brooklyn Pizza of my misspent youth. Red Pepper flakes in a dirty shaker next to grated parmesan -- the only two acceptable toppings of that place and time.
Crushed red pepper flakes appear so clearly that my mind associates it with the Brooklyn Pizza of my misspent youth. Red Pepper flakes in a dirty shaker next to grated parmesan -- the only two acceptable toppings of that place and time.
1/3:
The burst of red pepper somehow seems to have ushered out the bitter black pepper, and that's agreeable. Still, there remains a tinny and almost salty backing. Nuttiness seems always just around the corner...then the next...then the next. I get the feeling that this wrapper is being betrayed by its insides. I get the feeling I am chasing ghosts.
This is oft the case, a popular wrapper being put out with inferior guts. We shall see. It's not wholly unpleasant, but at this point -- it is most definitely a swing and a miss. There are hints at cream and a vague nutty note, but that is all wrapper. I do believe these guts are gutless.
On that note, the ash clumps off in a dry surprise and I am doing laundry tonight. I sip my iced coffee and shoo the cat away. Let's see what heck breaks loose when we warm into the
2/3:
A rather flinty taste has taken over and the cream, she languishes. The draw has either become harder, or I've grown tired of my labor "Let my people go!" I yell toward sky, over clenched fist. The wispy smoke plays well for the camera. It tickles the nose like cartoon pepper.
My hopes for a decent chew seem all but dashed, as the uneven packing is extra firm by the stogie's head (hard draw, natch).
Black pepper reemerges in its bitter not palate cleansing sense, and I water my roses. They're getting scorched like an Irish lass in this July heatwave.
I must say, that as uneven as the packing is, the stick burns quite and almost inexplicably, evenly. The slow burn does not compensate for the bitter flint finish that won't finish. Nor does it make up for the loss of oil that has led to dryness in the Ecuadorian wrapper. A bulge and a divot appear roughly 1/2 way down.
I pour another mason jar of joe. I contemplate my navel, and the hot earwax taste in my smoke-hole. I contemplate Frederick Douglass on this Fourth of July, and his famous speech thereof. It was either he or Will Smith, and this stogie is already enough of a disappointment.
I have been taken to interesting places by lesser smokes, although that pizzeria was a neat vacation. I depress the hernia in the Sun Grown in hopes of saving the stick's dignity. I'd hate to see it in a truss, or left undone in my tray. My surgical precision and skillfully handled Djeep save the day and on lives this stogie. But to what end? We'll see in the
3/3:
Why did I first now think to wipe down my resin seat with my handkerchief? Apologies for my barbarism, dear reader.
Ahem.
With a newly unblemished wrapper, nutty notes and cream come to play. Some sweet spices fill my snout. The output of smoke increases, but does not improve in quality. An occasional bite rears its peppery head. I swirl a mouthful of smoke, and there are times when an examined life is not worth living. Take that, Socrates. Ya old goat.
The burn goes completely awry at the mid 3/3 and I'm resigned to letting its wheels fall off. Hell, they're already too loose.
The Sabbath and the stogie race to their ends, as the sun goes down into the trees. My drunk neighbor is two doors down, lighting fireworks. When is the day of his Fourth of July, I wonder...
Pairings:
Iced coffee worked well enough, as would have a cheap red wine somewhere under Merlot.
Thoughts:
One pound of nice in a five pound bag.
Thoughts:
One pound of nice in a five pound bag.
Final Grade: C-
My friend Eric pays a visit. He is homeless and he is drunk. I'm inside making him a plate of food and listening to him talk to my son from over my white picket fence I can barely keep.
"You see that flag?" He points to his bicycle trailer. "That's the American Flag." Says Eric. "It's on there always."
My son doesn't answer.
I come out with a ham sandwich with side of pretzels and chips. A can of beans and tuna, each for later. I hug Eric.
He stands there by his bike, across the street from my house and watches me and my kid. I go back across and hug him again. Shake his hand. His eyes tear up. I run back to my son and Eric stays a bit longer. Watching us.
I wonder as to the date of his Fourth of July.
It's the heaviest Fourth in some time. Some weight is too much for a mere stogie to lift.
