The Don Chico Connecticut

Finishing a Don Chico CT Robusto is so very hard to do.  From the beginning – upon first light – this is a Nicaraguan cigar that patterns itself after a frictionless sojourn into a fantastical feast of flavors and aromas.

One of the newest blends of the Barreda lineup of cigars, the Connecticut is one of the most delectable I have had the pleasure of smoking of late.  How do you describe the thrill a few burning tobacco leaves can provide in words?  You can’t.  Period.  You must smoke it yourself to experience such satisfaction.

As the readers know, I rarely put my fingers to the keyboard to expound the virtues of any cigar –  either one I rep or one I don’t.  But this is different.  As was said to Dr. Campbell at the end of the movie Medicine Man, “You’ve been touched.”  Indeed, I had – and have been.

I was smoking the Don Chico in the garage when the lyrics from the song by Neil Sadaka slowly seeped into my mind, “breaking up is hard to do.”  I was “touched.”  This revelation was the utmost in subtlety.  I found a red pen and wrote, “ . . . finishing a Barreda Connecticut Robusto is so very hard to do” in the margins of an ad for the Eddie Martinez exhibition in the Art Newspaper.

This is so unusual for me.  I dislike cigar reviews.  They are often pretentious and silly in their descriptions.  So why would I do even this?  

Some things are left unanswered, but I do know that when I am moved to write, it is for a damn good reason.

IL DOGE Indulgence

I’m smoking one of my first true Italian cigars made “exclusively from Nostrano del Brenta Tobacco, an air-cured leaf, which is fermented and aged and used as the trinity of all cigars –  wrapper, binder, and filler.   This three-pack of cigars was gifted to me by my son’s girlfriend who had just returned from Italy.

The cigar?  Nostrano del Brenta’s – IL DOGE. Named after “the historic ruler of Venice, Casanova, the famous romantic lover.”

And from the get-go, this type of cigar seemed to demand an acquired taste.  Its shape is a long and skinny cigar with a baby bump of maybe the second trimester in the center intended to be divided in two to share with a companion. 

Known as a cheroot, (open at both tapered ends), this rough-looking delight lit easily and gave my palate the impression that the taste was akin to that of a stick taken from a smoldering bonfire and inhaling the swirling smoke highlighted in the night’s sky.

IL DOGE is handmade of long-filler tobacco – tobacco that was said to be grown from Cuban seeds brought to Italy in the Brenta River Valley in the 1500s and has been grown there ever since.

How did it fare?  Before I initially wrote it off (and I did), I thought about the way some people learn to swim by being chaotically, suddenly, and savagely thrown into a lake producing thrashing arms while struggling to survive the ordeal, and hoping to God that this abrupt initiation to something new would not be the beginning of the end.

Through it all, though, I thought, “Hmmm.  Very woody.”  

The clock in the garage where I am permitted to smoke, is always clicking and I felt as though I was being timed.   

Still thrashing.  I.  Going under and splashing, and gasping for air was my excuse for drawing another draft.  

Am I critically thinking during this surreal situation?

IL DOGE holds its ash, by golly, while its aroma slowly drifts away from the glowing, smokey campfire stick to becoming a pleasant and alluring bouquet of sheer satisfaction.  

Rotating the cigar between my fingers I find I’m privy to almost inaudible cracklings from the wrapper.  Perhaps air-cured cigars talk like that since my garage is unusually quiet at night so I could hear it whisper.

I’m beginning to thrash less and less.  My arms are floating beneath the water, moving back and forth holding me up effortlessly.  Hmm.  I’m swimming?

The clock is still clicking rhythmically as a thought runs through my mind – borrowing from the Fifth Dimension’s “Grazing in the Grass”,  “I can dig it, he can dig it, she can dig it, we can dig it, they can dig it, you can dig it.  Oh, let’s dig it.  Can you dig it, baby?  I can dig it, he can dig it, she can dig it, we can dig it, they can dig it, you can dig it.  Oh, let’s dig it.  Can you diiiiiiig it, bay-B-E?”

And Nostrano del Brenta’s IL DOGE? It extracts one delicious, dynamic dimension – and I CAN dig it. 

Russia Introduces Its First Cigar.

On February 24, 2022, The Putin Perfecto Putz, a Russian Puro – was launched.  The cigar is small, and has a wrapper that can best be described as tainted – i.e. it was dyed to appear as an authentic Maduro.  (I did test it – it’s phony.)  

The tip is poorly constructed and is oddly pre-cut.  No doubt the torcedors were inexperienced yet decided to roll one of the more difficult shapes available to show their global prowess. They failed.  The cold draw was like sucking on a chicken bone.  Upon lighting the foot, I was exasperated because it not only took a tremendous amount of suction to eventually grow an ember but it was unable to stay lit.  But I did not quit in my quest to complete my review despite this major flaw.

Once ignited, the small amount of smoke that was produced by the filler (a combination of what appeared to be composed of rank leaves) brought into the air the aroma of scorched licorice, complemented with the acrid aroma of the final moments of an old, burning rubber tire.  I felt as if I should stop – because I was concerned that the resultant smoke would not only be toxic to my palate but the surrounding air as well.  Indeed, this is one cigar that should be tested in an outdoor setting.

While continuing to draw as hard as I could on the cigar, it was quite evident that this was going to be a one-dimensional experience.   

The ash was black, like coal, and as it slowly grew I noticed that it had no intention of falling off by the natural force of gravity.  So when I tapped the cigar on the edge of the ashtray, I heard a muffled “clink,” said to hell with it, and continued to suck on the tip.  (Though by this time my cheeks were beginning to cramp and I really wondered if this was worth the time spent.)

Finally, I couldn’t take it any further (longer) and decided to let it burn out in the ashtray.  I felt as I placed it down that it was oddly cold and had not softened up to any degree.   

Yes, there are hundreds of cigars that are introduced into the market each year.  But none of them are from Russia.  I am not usually this blunt with criticism, but if the Putin Perfecto Putz – a Puro, does somehow wedge itself onto the cigar map, those who accept it will only be showing his or her approval of irrational taste.

In short, this cigar has no future at all – despite its initial explosive ad campaign.

Bad Cigar. Bad Cigar. Bad Cigar.

I’m going to break the so-called Cigar Courtesy Protocol.  I was in the garage the other night, doing some writing ’cause that’s where I smoke my cigars.  Can’t do it in the house. And I’m lighting up this aged cigar, oh it has at least two years on it.  Now before I get any advice from all youse aficionados out there about aging, let’s just say that in the time I’ve been smoking, I know how to properly age a cigar.  Yeah. I do. And this one cigar is made by one of the older factories that uses some of the finest leaves known in the business.

So its tobacco pedigree is of high quality – to say the least.  This is a cigar that has some of the sweetest and most delectable undertones of flavor I have ever smoked.  In fact, I had only two left. And this day I felt like smoking one.

I snip the cap.  I toast the foot.  I give the cigar a chance to breathe and to realize it’s on fire.  And I slowly draw in what I know is going to be a cornucopia of flavors aged to perfection that will cause my toes to curl. Eventually, I’m going to feel this spasmatic sensation in the netherworld of absolute ecstasy.

Pause.

Another draw.  Hmmmm.

Pause.

Maybe it’s the garlic sandwich with onion and sardines on pumpernickel bread schmeared with bacon fat and sprinkled with fresh ground pepper, and a spritz of the juice of a gefilte fish I just ate for dinner that’s causing this unusual aftertaste.

Pause.

WT bloody F!

So I close my eyes and put myself in the realm of fantasy and figure, OK I got the virus and I’m going to vomit so that’s why the taste of what I thought was once a wonderful cigar is no longer what I experienced in the past.  Now it’s just a lousy, poorly rolled shank of rancid, old tobacco leaves that if left alone for a few more weeks would probably turn into a cylinder of DIRT!

I couldn’t believe it.  This had to be one of the worse cigars I have ever had the chance to smoke. 

No, I didn’t eat such a sandwich mentioned above.  No, I felt fine. No, I did not have the onset of COVID-19.  It was the bloody cigar! I couldn’t believe my taste buds.  No matter who would have asked me, I would have said, (damn the phony cigar courtesy),  “This cigar is terrible!” I mean really? What happened? It was sour, tasted like burnt, reburnt grilled hamburger drippings, with a smattering of skunk oil all rolled together by some beginner who didn’t have a clue what to do with the leaves placed in front of him or her.  And the construction was just as amateurish. Black Ash. Canoeing. The inside was glowing, the outside leaves were just singed.   

It was a mess.  Did I toss it?  Hell no.  I figure how low can it go.  Well, let’s just say that if the phenomenon of black holes is factual and one is so dense that nothing can ever escape its gravitational pull this would have placed the late Steven Hawking in an awkward position to explain why this cigar was able to hit bottom, defy gravity and bounce back up and out and bring with it the flavor of the blackhole’s bottom residue!

Yech!  It tasted bad, it burned bad, it smelled bad, it was just – bad.  So there. No redeeming value to write about.

Cigar courtesy be damned?  Should not all cigar manufacturers who produce lousy cigars be let out to pasture or ah, abandoned tobacco fields?  It’s best summed up by Alastair Sim, who played Scrooge in the 1951 classic remake of “A Christmas Carol” and when asked if he’d give to prisons’ charity, he grumbled,  “If they would rather die, they had better do it and decrease the surplus population.”

Cigar Courtesy.  “Bah Humbug!”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsUXAEzaC3Q

Your Cigar, Sir.

What is a Barreda Cocktail?

It is one of the most ravishing and unique cigar experiences you’ll ever have the pleasure to enjoy.

The Cocktail, made by Barreda Cigars, is composed of short Cazador filler, with a Nicaraguan binder and a Nicaraguan Habano Criollo 98 filler, and will give you the same tantalizing tingling thrills of your first sip of an Ono Champagne Cocktail, the Original Mai Tai, or a Ritz-Paris Sidecar.  (Be decadent and try one during the day.)

The enchanting essences of the Barreda Cocktail Cigar will entertain your palate with dancing exotic (some may say erotic) sensations of tanginess, sweetness, zing, a bold jolt, and mesmerizing molecular molestation. And the cigar burns like a laser is slicing off each quarter of draw, a testament to perfect fermentation and construction.  

The fountain of flavors fizzes with the eccentric essences of charred cinnamon, unsweetened chocolate, a hint of saffron, grains of cumin, deep dark pepper specks, and tiny bits of dill – depending on your mood, the company you keep (or are keeping), and your untethered imagination – this is one delicious cigar.

The Barreda Cocktail comes in the Puntica (4⅜ x 46), the Robusto (5 x 50), the Toro (5 x 52), and the Sublime (6½ x 54).  All arrive in a 20 count bundle at your “beck and call” with bands of blue, silver, gold, orange, purple, blue . . . .  

Ahhhh.  Tip well!  

Rosalia fuses fashion.

Page numbers are becoming a thing of the past.  I’m thumbing through October’s Elle.  “Instant volumized lip effect.”  Page? Ah, “Mix Masters.” Page 81.  Only editorial copy receives a numeral apparently.

Cigar.  On the record.  Not in the magazine.  Hoja de Rosalia Entumb (sic) or Sepulvado.  The center is the eye-catcher.  It looks like a miniature cork sticking out of a bottle.  It is in a tomb of sorts. Habano 2000 wrapper.

“Jimmy Choo Fever.”  A new scent for the ladies.  A new cigar for the guys. Pull the tab on the edge of the page and sniff.  Floral. A bit of citrus. Unique? Eh.  Rosalia.  The cigar’s flavors tickle your palate with tangs of delight.  All the senses are involved. Touch, smell, yes . . . even hearing.  Perfect draw. Listen.

Next page.  A purse by Prada (Maria Bianchi Prada).  Surrounded by inflated surgical gloves.  Nothing. Only sight. Flip the page. More gloves.  This time there is a boot that is gingerly placed in the middle of gloves.  The boot is striped with colors of dark blue, turquoise, pink, orange, and the top is yellow.  It looks like ski jacket material. Dark blue gloves, the others are light sky blue that cradle the footwear. Then all is framed by pink gloves.  Inflated with air. (Redundant?)

The cigar is changing its delicate balance of flavors.  A rainbow of perfectly fermented tobacco. Its resultant aroma is intoxicating.  The draw is near perfect. No bitterness. No fashion statement here but a concatenated commentary on how good a boutique cigar can be despite its origin.  

Chanel.  Another purse being pawed by navy blue rubber gloves.  The purse is dyed red plunked in the center. It’s just a reproduced photo. The contrast is like a Rosalia.  But not just a photo.  I’m smoking the actual cigar.  It’s drawing my attention since I lit the foot.  The foot with the short cork of tobacco jutting out – called entubar or tubing. 

Next page thus further down the cigar.  Changes again this time to jellied coffee.  Thick and accented by the bonny bouquet. Not as attractive as the photo.  But satisfying and subtle. Specifically? Nothing precise –  or exact. A combination of errant essences.  I could write down all sorts of descriptions, but I won’t. Supercilious insanity.

Imperfections were never a part of fashion.  Now, gaps in teeth, freckles, little or no makeup, make up the attractiveness of the model. The burn is a bit crooked.  Who cares. Not Anna of Vogue.  Give everyone a chance.  Like this cigar. Somewhat full-bodied, yet smooth, silky.  A Hermès fabric contribution, yet less expensive.  Rare. Not found in every department store.  Not even on Rodeo Drive? For sure a Macy’s offering.

Every humidor doesn’t need this cigar.  But everyone ought to try it just once. Nothing on the tongue to annoy the transference of pleasure.  Why smoke a cigar if you are not in the mood for that certain ejaculation of relaxation.  

Pond’s cold cream cleansing balm.  A schmear of proof. Creamy. Both are wanting to be absorbed.  A draw of escalating and divine purity. Both will dissipate, but only one will outlast the other.   Addictavitely alluring as you go through page after page after cigar after cigar of what actually is and can be had.  Rosalia combines the sensuality of tobacco blends and produces the subliminal erotic sensation of desire.

Nothing is bitter.  Nothing is blind. Nothing is going away.  Particles remain on your taste buds emanating from huge clouds of smoke filling the air with invisible dripping ecstasy.  

“Not your average hair spray,” for TRESSemmé.  An ad so no page number to follow up. Spray it on.  Blow it out. Smoke producing micro mists of invisible flavor combinations that are continually dancing on your tongue.

If this is what you want, then buy the products, smoke the cigar, delight in their uniqueness. 

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.

Blue Cigar. No Candy.

Spurting spheres of savory, sweet smoke spiral in and around my salivating palate bringing scads of scintillating flavors to all of my senses.  Why – you would think I just had a gargantuan spoonful of buttercream icing off a towering wedding cake and I’m licking the spoon as I continue to smoke my cigar.

The variety of tastes are too numerous, too tumultuous to mention or remember, but I recall a rushing rainbow of raisin, caramel, chocolate, thyme, licorice, vanilla and the essence of lilac laced with humid air.

The experience was one of the most glorious smokes I can say I’ve had from a cigar for a long, long time – for the price.  Yes, I have to admit all this sensuous satisfaction came from a bundle cigar that costs about three dollars. And regardless of the amount of purchase price, it’s a cigar that would satiate the devilish desires of a preening prince or a penurious pauper alike.

My dilemma?  I cannot name the cigar due to its one fault – it is underfilled.  There’s simply not enough tobacco filler between the binder and the wrapper in this delightful conical tube.  It became squishy toward the last third, and any cigar smoker worth his or her salt would notice even when it is handled, its gossamer feather-like lightness is much too prominent to go unnoticed.  And the ash, that wispy, annoying granular, flaky remnant that continues to speckle my shirt, cannot be disregarded – or excused.

But forgive me if I don’t snub it out with snob-like snootiness.  NO!  The flavors are too intoxicating, the spasms of essences that continue to schmear my palate cannot be overlooked – nor can its luxurious bouquet, perfect draw, and construction be dismissed with the wave of my hand.

Perhaps I will have a chance to talk with the manufacturer about the loose bunching.  But until I do, I must keep the brand name a mystery so as not to offend.  And so that I may selfishly continue to draw upon its exquisite ecstasy.  

I am in the middle of the scene in the restaurant of the movie, “When Harry Met Sally,” as she groans, and gasps, and pounds the table with paroxysms of pleasure to the embarrassment of her date.  Yes, I should be having what she’s having.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdJm3DVg3EM

The Perfect Cigar Review Template.

Note: Since copyright laws prevent me from reproducing any portion of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s, “So Much Longing In So Little Space: The Art of Edvard Munch” in toto, I have decided to provide you with a link where you can read the introduction to the book yourself. (It’s only 2½ pages.) The link is below.
Please read this as you think of today’s cigar reviews and ask yourself, isn’t this more beautiful than wading through ersatz acts of literature like this: The flavor notes are too mind-numbing to ferret out any one particular essence. But if I were pushed – the smoke is creamy like buttercream mixed with apricot, with a hint of woody birch bark, laced with a whisp of cucumber, cork, and the lead from a No.2 pencil ground to a fine powder and sprinkled on the underside of a fresh nectarine that just passed through the mist of a humid floral greenhouse recently sprayed with tepid water that has a tincture of moss on the bronze garden hose nozzle.
Read the luscious words (Starting with “Sometimes it is impossible . . .”) of Mr. Knausgaard’s preface as an all-purpose cigar review:
https://www.amazon.com/So-Much-Longing-Little-Space/dp/0143133136
If you’re honest – and you’ve read it – my conclusion is difficult to refute.
“Ciao”

Ultra boutique cigars reign.

I’m testing cigars right now.  One manufacturer, or brand owner, or private blend – or whatever moniker is appropriate.  Blue. The one 5 X 60. Beats the 6 X 60. Flavor. Draw. Satisfaction. One inch. And they say size doesn’t matter.  Ha! Blue band. A simple choice. Both have blue bands. I like the color. Influenced by that? Unlikely. You never know. Why? I had that one the other day.  Today. Black and gold. Serie F. It’s a toro.  Especial.

No.  I can’t identify the manufacturer.  Remember I’m critiquing the cigars.  Simple.  I may rep it. May. Very good cigar. There’s a Serie S, too.  That’s next. Gloomy day, ’tis. Smooth. It has something. I’ll dispense with the flavor comparisons.  As was once told to me by a respected rep in the business, “It’s all bullshit.”  I agree. The comparisons.  

Burns evenly.  Gorgeous ash. Draw is perfect.  Spice. A tad. Like a few grains of black pepper on eggs.  

I can’t easily get distracted.  I’m focused. The cigar’s reputation.  Mine. Huge plumes of delicious smoke. No retrohale.  Medium to strong. The grand flavor of superbly fermented tobacco.  

The radio is off.  All I hear is the rattle of the table.  Glass and metal. The cigar is silent but screams delightfully paroxysms of pleasure spasms.  The bouquet is lovely. Yes. From My Fair Lady, . . . “loverly.”

No heat this far down.  Spice begins to unwind further.  A compliment to the blender. Who is unknown, at least to me.  Runny nose doesn’t help. Yeah, I’m outside. Can’t put it down.  Good sign.

If I pick it up, it’s an ultra boutique cigar.  That’s what makes this so exciting. No gimmicks.

I have a shirt and tie on and that’s part of the analysis.  Look good. Feel good. This is a business. Not a hobby.

Denzel Washington introduces Vitality for ED.  

Nothing for CD (Cigar Dysfunction)?  Why bring that up?  Whoa. A double entendre.

In this case, the smaller it gets, the better it is – the cigar, mate.  The bloody cigar.

Yes, this is indeed one of the better smokes I’ve tried.  If I pick it up, all hell will break loose.