Close to Cigar Perfection.

Twenty one!  The age of the tobacco smoker.

Twenty one!  The age of the cigar smoker.

Twenty One!  The name of the cigar!

Yes.  The secret is out of the box.  But only because I have a vice-like grip on the responsibility of introducing the brand to the Midwest.

Now!  My readers probably know how much I hate to critique cigars. There are about 390,000 “experts” out there, so I will keep this appreciation to my liking.

The 021 (Barrada Cigars) has an Ecuadoran Habano Rosado wrapper.  An Indonesian binder.  And the filler is Nicaraguan. It comes in three sizes (perfect) – Robusto (5 x 50); Toro (6 x 52); and the Chairman (6 x 60).

Flavor profiles are up to your palate – not mine, or some other nitwit with diarrhea of the draw writing to impress us with anal, assinine, artisanal descriptions that not even Arvid Rosengren, considered to be the world’s greatest Sommelier, would dare to elucidate upon.

This cigar is at the pinnacle of perfection.

Bacon or cigars. Same difference.

Watch the movie, “Pulp Fiction” if you want to hear the whole scene.  I wanted to concentrate on the dialogue at the beginning of the infamous “Restaurant Clip,” that exemplifies the Socratic form of reasoning in all forms of thought.  Be it a belief about pork, or the opinion about a cigar’s efficacy of being offered in the marketplace.  

Fact is, some are here to stay, others are here to disrupt, and some are here for a blink of an eye.  Why?  It’s the staid strategy of throwing shit against the wall and to see what sticks. I know that sounds crude, but the way the cigar industry keeps rolling out cigars, can you come up with a better rationale?  I didn’t think so

So when Vincent says to Jules, “Good for you.  Lighten up a little,” that’s the attitude I would suggest the whole cigar community adopts – especially the retailers.  A less serious reaction about bringing in a new, unknown brand of cigars shouldn’t cause a conniption fit.  Relax.  Enjoy the possibilities that a different cigar can bring to the conversation if you will.

Embrace its personality.  You might even fall in love.

********

INT. COFFEE SHOP – MORNING

Jules and Vincent sit at a booth. In front of Vincent is a big stack of pancakes and sausages, which he eats with gusto.  Jules, on the other hand, just has a cup of coffee and a muffin. He seems far away in thought. The Waitress pours a refill for both men,

VINCENT

You want some bacon?

JULES

Naw, I don’t eat pork.

VINCENT

Are you Jewish?

JULES

I ain’t Jewish man, I just don’t dig on swine.

VINCENT

Why not?

JULES

They’re filthy animals. I don’t eat filthy animals.

VINCENT

Sausages taste good. Pork chops taste good.

JULES

A sewer rat may taste like pumpkin pie.  I’ll never know ’cause even if it did, I wouldn’t eat the filthy motherfucker. Pigs sleep and root in shit. That’s a filthy animal. I don’t wanna eat nothin’ that ain’t got enough sense to disregard its own feces.

VINCENT

How about dogs? Dogs eat their own feces.

JULES

I don’t eat dog either.

VINCENT

Yes, but do you consider a dog to be a filthy animal?

JULES

I wouldn’t go so far as to call a dog filthy, but they’re definitely dirty. But a dog’s got personality.  And personality goes a long way.

VINCENT

So by that rationale, if a pig had a better personality, he’d cease to be a filthy animal?  Is that true?

JULES

We’d have to be talkin’ ’bout one motherfuckin’ charmin’ pig. He’d have to be ten times more charmin’ than that Arnold on “Green Acres,”  you know what I’m sayn’?

(The two men laugh.)

VINCENT

Good for you. Lighten up a little.   You been sittin’ there all quiet.*

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=61g2-EVJ-mo&list=PLXw2fXeGwPrkZ3vESvp2-nTV1erD0G8B0

(imsdb.com)

A post-mortem road trip catharsis.

Maybe it was the cigar I had earlier in the day.  It was strong, I will admit. Plus just coming off a road trip was taxing.  A trip I had looked forward to as much as a rattlesnake giving me a French kiss.  

I was in my front office.  Now everyone was sleeping, except me. It was 1:32 AM.

Earlier I had a blazing headache toward the end of the day, right around supper time or dinner if you prefer.  The pain was so searing that a tear welled up in my right eye and quickly ran down my cheek. I stood by the sink and E asked if there was anything she could do.  No words passed my lips. I stared at the corner of the multi-colored granite slab. Just at the corner. I could feel the pain striking into my head. It would not go away.

I opened the right kitchen cabinet where we keep the Tylenol and without any supper in my stomach, I opened the cap and let three caplets fall into my hand.  Immediately I opened the refrigerator and opened a bottle of Ice Mountain water – the only water I will drink – unscrewed the flimsy cap and downed the cold liquid until I felt the pain killers sink into the pit of my stomach.  Crunching them allows them to take effect quicker. But often the resultant bitterness is too nasty for my tolerance.

I just walked away from the slab of swirled stone and headed into the bedroom.  No words. It was dark. Daylight saving’s time you know. I lied down on the bed.  I never took my shoes off. Never told anyone where I was going. Supper (sout’side) was almost ready, but the piercing pain in my head began to mimic the rhythm of the beating of my heart. Annoying.  A machine.

The edge was not smoothed out by the pills.  My impatience didn’t help. Even as I tried to force my eyes to close it was just making the pain worse.  My body could not chill. It took several minutes for the rest of my muscles, my nerves, my electronic impulses to become relaxed.  The chaotic cacophony of different directions was beginning to slow, leading my body to stillness. Yet, the pain was still that of a two-inch needle being forced into my skin and the loose metal thread scratching through my skull with the full feeling of fingernails on a blackboard that was ten thousand miles long.

Slowly, as a lollipop melts on a hot sidewalk from the heat of the sun, I began to feel the stick being removed from the gooey mess by no one in particular.  It just levitated out leaving a warmness and it was then I think I fell into a moment of deep REM sleep. I never moved again for three hours.

********

The sharp pain in my chest woke me out of that deep sleep.  What was once the pain in my head seemed to slither into my esophagus activating Gastroesophageal Reflux Disease or GERD.  But I’m used to that.  At least the headache was gone.

A pasty, soft banana and a few slices of cinnamon toast allowed my body to begin to right itself.  I had been unconscious and had slept into the normal hours of sleep. I was not tired. I was anxious.  Wanting something.  I tried to read and flipped through the pages of Art in America.  It was my moody emotional state.  Flip. Flip. Flip. I was still drained? What to do?

Finish watching “Unbreakable.”  A wise choice. Satisfying my curiosity how it would end from the other night when I first let the disc silently slide into its slit and began to view the DVD.  Oddly, only after the ending credits did I read the detailed description of the machinations of the surreal plot and its sick twist at the end that would make anyone cringe in terror at what Elijah did to find himself in a world seemingly gone crazy allowing his obsession to attach meaning to his existence – even at the expense of the destruction of the lives of hundreds of others.

What we do to feel alive.   Brrrrrrr.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kXYiU_JCYtU

Meeting Cigar Legend Jesus Martinez.

“Some folks like to get away, take a holiday from the neighborhood.”  That’s the first line in Billy Joel’s song New York State of Mind (1976).  And yes, I’m in a New York state of mind.  I did get away last week to my favorite city and the further away I traveled from my neighborhood the more I realized what my mother said was pure wisdom, “No matter where you go, you take yourself with you.”

During my stay, I took in the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, walked by the infamous Chelsea Hotel (where famous guests included Andy Warhol, Bob Dylan, Arthur Miller, Patti Smith, Dylan Thomas, Jim Morrison, plus Leonard Cohen and Janis Joplin had an affair there in 1968), wrangled my body through Times Square, and took in Billy Joel’s spectacular concert at Madison Square Garden. 

But of all the places I visited, the best time I had was when my son and I trudged from 32 W. 18th Street to visit a cigar institution.  It was there that I met Jesus Martinez. One of the only cigar manufacturers in Midtown New York.

Even though it’s a small shop the size that could not have been any more than 300 square feet, it stuck out like a bucktooth from all the other Lilliputian businesses that were all crammed together taking up the entire block.  With its hanging rectangular black and white sign “Cigars Handmade” drawing your eyes to the worn gray awning with all the information anyone needed to know – 171 W 29th Street, followed by https://www.martinezcigars.com/ and ending with 212.239.4049 – you couldn’t miss it.

My son and I walked in and was immediately greeted by a smiling regular and then Jesus got up from his chair and we immediately could feel the synergy of two men who are passionate about cigars.  Jesus has had his cigars rolled on the premises since 1979. 

He remembered me when I introduced myself with slight memory promptings, and his smile grew three sizes at that moment.  We spoke briefly, but our time was limited. So I picked out a corona, reached into my pocket for the cash, and that’s when he waved his hand, cut the cigar, took out a lighter and gave the cigar life.  

I took a few puffs, told him I would be in touch, shook his hand graciously, thanked him for his generosity and left.  I made my exit and took an outside photo of his shop and began to make the long walk back to 18th Street.

But, after being outside only a few steps, I ran back, re-entered the store and asked him if we could have my son take our picture.  Of course. That accomplished. Miles and I headed back toward where my wife was getting her haircut by an uber professional hairstylist at Sassoon’s.  (Elegant results I might add.)  

Despite visiting the Whitney, Central Park, Times Square, the Guggenheim, The Waldorf Astoria, Grand Central station’s original oyster bar (stunningly delicious seafood), 42nd Street, Broadway, The Strand, and so many other New York City landmarks all the while being surrounded by hundreds of passers-by,  I was able to find peace and serenity, if only for a few minutes – with Jesus.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=At4LN5EP-q0

Ahhhh. Finally. New York.

There is a movie called, “Cry for Happy” (1961), and as I find myself heading into Manhattan on the train squeezed next to total strangers like a sardine in a can, tears begin to well up at the sides of my eyes because I am totally ecstatic about what the week holds in store.

I can’t explain my sudden emotional state.  I’ve never cried upon entering a cigar lounge or smoking one of my favorites or meeting one of the famed luminaries of the industry Why now?  As the Long Island Railroad cars speed toward Penn Station eventually slowing and finally stopping right next to the greatest arena in the world –  Madison Square Garden – I have the answer.

When I disembark, I will take the subway to the Whitney Biennial 2019.  I begin to feel the warm trail of a tear that escaped and rolled down my cheek unabashedly just at the mere anticipation of being in my favorite city.

True love is an emotion that rarely occurs and when it does, I can deeply sense its pull, its intensity, its joy in my heart 

Do I love cigars?  Of course, I do.  

Do I love New York?

Plodding up the stairs from the railcar the breeze accentuates the feeling of the tear’s now cool path on my cheek and my heart is filled with exhilarating emotion –  the overflow of love is clearly visible to anyone who looks in my direction as I rub the evidence away.