|
A Vice is a Vice?
The
lid comes open; I take a long moment, like a kid in a candy store, to make my choice. I pull out a stick wrapped in cellophane
and close the lid.
I unwrap the cigar and inhale its fragrance. I walk into the kitchen, stand over the waste basket and snip the head
with my guillotine, again inhaling the cigar wrapper’s fragrance. The coffee maker and I sigh together—my day
is just about to begin, while the coffee maker’s morning task is complete. I pour a cup and head to my den, where my
morning labor of love takes place each Sunday.
I stare a moment at the screen on my laptop, at the narrative I wrote last week and have polished and revised over
the days since. It beckons me. I’m anxious to begin.
But first I strike the long wooden match and hold it to the foot of my cigar, quickly drawing on the cigar’s
head to get it lit. I look at the foot, glowing a cherry red.
I slip a CD into the player. This morning I’m going on a Magical Mystery Tour with The Beatles. I set the volume
and take another draw on my cigar, noting the room is already filled with smoke. Satisfied, I turn my attention back to the
screen.
Coffee and a cigar: many identify them as vices. But I’ve heard other writers claim to write only when their
muse strikes. Ah, but sometimes the writer must lure the muse into their den, to peek over their shoulder, for a glimpse at
creation. Commence to arranging words on a blank screen and the muse, out of curiosity, perhaps even envious of the process,
is unable to stay away.
So maybe my coffee and cigar are just that—vices (when God told the first couple not to partake of the fruit
in the garden, did they listen?)—but I learned long ago that without them to lure my muse, filling a blank screen with
words becomes, well, laborious.
Some writers wait for inspiration from their muse. Me, I’d rather inspire my muse to inspire me.
Cigar Allure
By J. Conrad Guest
I’ve
been asked many times over the years, by non-smokers, to explain the allure of cigars. To them it’s a nasty, smelly
practice akin to cigarette smoking. My mother, were she alive today, would frown upon my indulgence in the leaf, certainly
prohibiting me from sharing a smoke with my dad within the confines of their home. And I would refrain―who am I to argue
with my mother? Over the years my white kitchen cabinets and window blinds throughout my house have taken on a decidedly yellow
appearance that some would find distasteful. To me it adds character to my humble abode.
It is difficult, if not impossible, to explain to the satisfaction of one and all, the pleasure we
cigar lovers take in lighting up, and that’s okay. It keeps us, we band of brothers, in pretty elite company. But for
the uninitiated I will attempt, not for the sake of justification but merely for the pleasure of writing about it, to elucidate.
It’s all about ritual: walking to the humidor, a turn of the brass tasseled key, a lifting of
the lacquered lid that bears a facsimile of a golden tobacco leaf, a quick inhalation and feigning indecision over which cigar
to choose (I’ve made my choice long before opening the humidor). A quick snip of the head and a lingering inhalation
of the wrapper causing a slight salivation, like the aroma of the Christmas ham from the other room; finally, the strike of
the cedar match, the touch of flame to foot, the first few puffs, the blowing on the ember to watch it glow cherry red. Ah,
sweet ritual.
Who could argue with Denny Crane and Alan Shore who, at the end of every episode of Boston Legal,
shared a bonding moment―the day’s victories, their dreams and disappointments, mad cow, at times debating topical
issues our society faces, even arguing over presidential candidates―all over a cigar and a glass of scotch?
Men are by nature competitive. But with a lit cigar we forgo our one-upmanship, free to be simply
who we are, no pretenses. Our masks come off. In a world seemingly running amok―suicide bombings overseas, terrorist
attacks, global warming, to drill or not to drill, the rising cost of living, the debacle on Wall Street, unaffordable health
care, job insecurity, our indecision over which candidate for whom to vote―we find comfort, if only for an hour or two,
in the soothing company of smoldering, smoking tobacco, handmade with care by someone we’ll never meet in some exotic
place to which we’ll never venture. Fragrant Honduran filler wrapped by a maduro Connecticut broadleaf grown from Sumatra seed in Ecuador:
poetry for the palate.
I sit this morning, sipping a cup of bourbon truffle flavored coffee and drawing on a Punch Gran Cru Prince Consorts double maduro. This
has become my own Sunday morning ritual, whether writing an op-ed piece for an online publication, a piece of flash fiction,
a sports article, or working on a novel. My Sunday morning cigars have become my muse without whom I would sit, staring blankly
at the blank page on my monitor, intimidated by the idea of arranging words into semblance of an idea.
Do you get it? If not, that’s okay.
Excuse me while I go pour myself another cup of coffee.
Sancho Panza Extra Fuerte Madrid
Cigar Review by J. Conrad
Guest
This handmade Honduran stick, with an emphasis on the extra fuerte, is named for the character
in Don Quixote, the novel written by Spanish author Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra in 1602. Sancho is the original “sidekick”
found in much of today’s literature, and serves as the symbol of practicality in contrast to Quixote’s idealism. Sancho, representative of everyman, only
late in the novel comes to share his master’s delusional enchatment, yet he remains his ever-faithful companion
realist throughout the story.
Made with a long filler blend
of Nicaraguan and Honduran leaves and
wrapped in a reddish Honduran-grown Cuban seed wrapper, this is a bold smoke from start to finish. Like its namesake, its
rich, peppery flavor serves well as an after dinner smoke or as a sidekick to your morning cup of coffee—indeed, it
served well as my muse during a recent
Sunday morning writing session.
A word of advice on snipping the sharply tapered head: be sure to snip
a large section or you will be left with a very tight draw.
For the seasoned smoker.
What’s In a Name?
Cigar Review by J. Conrad Guest
As
Juliet spoke to Romeo in Act II, scene 2, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would
smell as sweet.”
The same can be said about a cigar: That which we call a cigar by any other name would taste as good. Okay,
maybe that doesn’t have quite the same impact; but sometimes I just have to try a cigar based on its name. When I recently
received an email alert that the Unholy Cocktail, by Diesel, was available, and at a discount price, I grinned. Diesel is
new to the market, but the image and description of this smoke, along with its name, tempted me beyond endurance, and so I
ordered a box.
While I waited for delivery, I thought of William Shakespeare and of Romeo and Juliet. Many experts agree
that Romeo and Juliet is the greatest love story ever written; but I disagree. While playing the role of Stephano,
the drunken butler in The Tempest, doesn’t make me an authority on the works
of Shakespeare, I maintain that Romeo only thinks he loves his Juliet. Driven by
youthful hormones, he certainly yearns for her. But if he loves her, it is a shallow
love.
Consider that, moments after meeting her for the first time, he discovers he was remiss in learning her name.
Can true love be founded upon such casual acquaintance?
Further consider that in the end, suffering the pain of his loss, Romeo finds no succor in living out the
remainder of his life secure within the paradigm of his love, at least keeping alive the memory of what they had for so brief
a moment shared. Nor does he seek the reason for her life-like appearance. He accuses Death of amorousness, professing that
the “lean abhorred monster” endeavors to keep Juliet in her present state, cheeks flushed, so that she might cater
to his own perverse desires.
Huh.
We who view events unfolding from afar know she lies in slumber; but does Romeo hold Juliet in his arms one
last time and feel the warmth of her blood still coursing through her veins? Does he prick her with a pin to see if she might
start from her sleep? Does he hold a mirror to her nose to see if her breath might fog it? No, no, and again, no!
I put forth: Romeo’s alleged love is so superficial and so selfish, he seeks to escape the pain of his
loss through the refuge of oblivion. That’s not love, but infatuation. Had they wed―Juliet bearing many children for Romeo, bonding, growing together,
the masks of the star-struck teens they once were long ago cast away, basking in the love born of a lifetime together―and
she died of natural causes, wouldst, I mean, would Romeo have been so moved to
take his own life, or would he have grieved properly for her loss and not just
his own?
My three-day introspection came to an end when UPS delivered my Unholy Cocktails. I eagerly unwrapped the
box.
Handmade in Nicaragua (it’s rare that I don’t care for a Nicaraguan cigar) in one size—a
5”x.56 vitola—the Unholy Cocktail is composed of Cuban seed ligeros wrapped in a well-oiled Pennsylvania broadleaf maduro.
Normally, I don’t light a cigar on the day it arrives, preferring instead to let it stabilize in my
humidor for a few days after its journey; but it was autumn—neither too hot nor too cold. So I slipped one out of its
cellophane and inhaled the fragrance of the wrapper: musty, reminiscent of a forest, and I knew it was destined to meet a
flame at once.
I clipped the head of the weighty Cocktail and held my lighter to its foot. It took a while to ignite, as
I’d recently sent my three-flame Lotus to the service center for repair and was relegated to a single flame lighter.
Once lit, I was rewarded with billowing plumes of gray smoke, and an earthy aroma soon filled my den.
The initial subtle spiciness grew in intensity to reveal a woody combination of oak and cedar, with
a hint of leather. The ligero made its presence known shortly thereafter, which added to the complexity, although it never
became hot or too bitter. The ash held, never splitting; nor was a touchup needed. Near the end, the Cocktail mellowed, returning
to its earthy beginning, and I was left to ponder what, about the name, had so appealed to me?
At times a mischievous fellow, I once had the “evil” moniker thrown at me. Initially, it bothered
me; but you know, if you live long enough, you’ll find we’re all capable of an evil deed or two. The world would
be a much better place if more of us lived our life as if it were an open book. Sadly, that’s a lesson best learned
through regret. Doesn’t make us evil by nature, just human; and while it may not be right, very few get out of this
life without a regret or two. Come to think of it, none of us get out of this life alive.
The bottom line: You don’t have to be into devil worship, or sacrificing small animals on the altar
of your kitchen sink on Friday night, to enjoy the Unholy Cocktail. Hell, you don’t even have to like the name. Just
a hankering for a robust cigar will do.
Recommended, but novices beware—the
Unholy Cocktail may be an acquired taste.
One Unforgettable Smoke: El Rey Del Mundo Olvidados
Cigar Review by J. Conrad Guest
A few weeks ago, after I’d finished lunch, I lit up an Olvidados robusto and headed out for a walk to pick
up my mail. In my complex all the mailboxes are located near the entrance.
About halfway there a couple of young boys on skateboards came past me from the other direction. One of
them looked at me—I’d just exhaled a plume of smoke—and told me, “You can’t smoke that!”
To which I replied, “Why not?” “Because they’re not good for you!” he advised me knowledgeably.
Well, at this point I asked the kid how old he was and when he said that he was 14, I told him he shouldn’t
be skateboarding without a helmet.
I chuckled and went on my way, enjoying the robusto and thinking that a lot of people have tried to tell
me what I should and shouldn’t do over the years and I’m going to start listening to a 14-year-old kid? Nah. Chances
are he’s going to outlive me anyway, even if he doesn’t wear a helmet while skateboarding. I never did when I
was his age.
But getting back to the Olvidados. Translated, it means “the forgotten ones.”
Handmade at General Cigar’s Honduras American Tobacco South America, the Olvidados is purportedly
the strongest blend the factory produces. Made with a Connecticut broadleaf binder and an aged blend of Nicaraguan ligero,
Honduran viso and Dominican seco filler tobaccos, the result is a cigar reminiscent of a true Cuban, before the embargo and
before the previous administration made it illegal for an American to smoke a Cuban anywhere in the world. Schwarzenegger
found out how long the arm of the law when he smoked a Cuban in Canada a few years ago. Fortunately, he burned the evidence.
Anyway, the Olvidados is one ruggedly handsome stick; its simple black label, trimmed in gold, sets off
the dark Ecuador Sumatra wrapper nicely, and slipped off easily as I neared the end. Why is it that so many manufacturers
glue the label to the wrapper? Dammit, the label should come off easily without tearing the wrapper.
The Olvidados is a mighty fine smoke, although towards the end, the ligero takes the earthy flavor beyond
bold and into the strong zone.
Beautifully constructed, the Olvidados is one of the better smokes I’ve had recently: a nice draw,
burned evenly throughout and never required a touchup.
Highly recommended but not perhaps for the novice, the Olvidados comes in five sizes and is hardly what
I’d call a forgettable smoke.
Cigar Art
Since I started smoking cigars, in the late ’90s, I’ve had a fascination with cigar bands, particularly
the artwork. While a cigar band won’t make a cigar taste better, I have occasionally been known to select a previously
untried brand on the appeal of the band. I liken this to an eye-catching book cover. I’ve picked up many a book on the
appeal of its cover―and while I don’t always purchase the book, it at least results in getting me to read the
blurb, the inside cover, maybe the first paragraph or even page, until I decide on whether the story and the writing appeals
to me.
Three times in the past few weeks I’ve read cigar reviews at a variety of online tobacconists
that have criticized the band of the cigar being reviewed, which got me to thinking about cigar bands, the artwork and, particularly,
the history of the cigar band.
It seems that Gustave Bock, a Dutch immigrant to Cuba, was the first to place a band
around his cigars, circa 1830s, his band amounting to a paper ring with his signature. By 1855 most Cuban exporters were using
bands to both increase name recognition as well as deter counterfeiters.
From Cuba, use of cigar bands spread to Europe
and both Americas, taken to new heights through chromolithographic processes
developed in Germany toward the end of
the 19th century. By the early 20th century, artwork for cigar bands and cigar boxes alike became very elaborate. Designed
by commercial artists, images included notable figures of the day as well as historical figures, nationalistic images or landmarks,
nature scenes and animals. You think the postage stamp was the first to commemorate special events? Guess again: cigar bands
did it first.
Apparently in Great Britain
it’s considered elitist to smoke a cigar with its band on, although there was a time, when gentlemen wore white gloves,
that the band was functional in preventing the tobacco from staining the glove. Fortunately I live in America, where I’m free to leave on the band, until
I get near the end.
It’s interesting to note that cigar bands of older brands tend to be much fancier, while
at the same time more elegant, than those of modern brands. These modern brands, for some reason, seem to think bigger, as
well as gaudier, is better; to me, nothing looks worse on a cigar than a band that dwarfs the cigar, whether it’s a
Churchill or a corona. An inch and a half band looks utterly ridiculous on a torpedo. Some of the new brands tend to wrap
the band too tight and use too much glue, some of which affixes the band to the wrapper. A cigar band should slip off easily,
without causing the cigar wrapper to tear or peel.
But the artwork today, at least to me, can’t compare to some of the beautiful artwork
found on many older brands. Like modern architecture that is bland and uninspiring, nothing like that of the 18th and
19th centuries (they say it’s cost preventative), I wonder if some of the artistry has gone out of the art of cigar
bands.
You’re listening to Take Five by
Al Jarreau.
|
