My Father The Judge | Cigar Reviews by the Katman

Wrapper: Ecuadorian Sumatra Seed Oscuro
Binder: Nicaraguan (Double Binders: Corojo & Criollo)
Filler: Nicaraguan: La Bonita Two, El Pedrero, San Rafael.
Size: 5 x 60
Body: Medium/Full
Price: $12.40
Humidor time: 3 weeks
Number of cigars smoked prior to review: 1





Today we take a look at My Father The Judge.
Thanks to Bryan Kinnaman for the sticks.


From Cigar Aficionado:
“When the new line made its debut earlier this year at the International Premium Cigar & Pipe Retailers trade show, attendees were able to view the box-pressed cigar, but the band and packaging were still being tweaked.

“The Judge, which is an extension of the core My Father brand, will be differentiated from its predecessor by a chestnut-colored secondary band with the words “The Judge” stamped on it. The boxes also features an ornate logo based on a Victorian lithograph from 1905 under the lid that depicts a dapper man dressed in Victorian-era garb, complete with a bow tie, smoking a cigar.

“According to José Ortega, vice president of sales for My Father, the name was inspired by a friend of the Garcia family who is a judge. The Judge, he says, is more full bodied than the original My Father. It is rolled with a light-brown, Sumatra-seed wrapper from Ecuador, Nicaraguan Corojo and Criollo binders, and filler tobaccos that were cultivated from three of the Garcias family’s farms located in Nicaragua: La Bonita Two, El Pedrero and San Rafael.

“For now, The Judge, which Ortega anticipates will begin shipping by late October or early November, is slated for only two sizes measuring 6 inches by 56 ring gauge ($12.10) and 5 by 60 ($12.40). The cigars will come in 23-count boxes.

“We did not want to over do it,” says Ortega. “With a name like The Judge, we needed the sizes to be larger and stand out. So we chose two sizes that we felt were imposing but not over-the-top.”

“Like all My Father cigars, The Judge is made at My Father Cigars S.A., the Garcia family’s factory in Nicaragua.”

6 x 56 $12.10
5 x 60 $12.40
The cigars will come in 23-count boxes.

My Father The Judge is a real odd looking duck.
This cigar is one giant billboard. Huge main cigar band. Large secondary cigar band. Big golden footer ribbon. About 1/3 of the actual cigar is showing.
Very rustic. Lumpy and bumpy. Beautiful triple cap. No seams. A ton of veins. Soft box press. Some hard spots that might need something pointy shoved down the stick.
Smooth as silk.

From the shaft, I smell sweet cocoa, caramel, cedar, tangerine, cream, spice, and coffee.

From the clipped cap and the foot, I smell dark chocolate, spice, barnyard, citrus, coffee, and cedar.

The cold draw presents flavors of barnyard, dark chocolate, spice, caramel, tangerine, cream, coffee, yeasty bread, and cedar.

Typical of Garcia blends, I am walloped by a large dose of red pepper.
My hope is that this box pressed cigar will be my first I don’t have burn issues with.

Creaminess follows as well as chocolate, earthwoodleather, tangerine, salted peanuts, pretzel, lots of malt, cappuccino, cedar, something starchy, and something I can’t nail.
This is an excellent start to a cigar that I’ve only gotten recently in the last few weeks.

Are you suffering winter like we are here? Friggin’ -19°. The streets look like a ghost town.

My Father The Judge is a heavy cigar. Like picking up a bar bell.

Sweetness shows up in not only the caramel element, but in the form of candy like a Butterfinger bar. Lots of chocolate that meets peanut crunch. Creaminess influences the whole shebang nicely with a caress of milky froth.


Strength hit the ground at medium body but only 10 minutes later, it swings from the low branches of medium/full.

There is an odd dichotomy of the flavor profile. We have camps. There is the Butterfinger element. There is the caramel macchiato. There is a nice display of citrus. The malts are perfectly placed…especially rye malt. The spiciness has pulled back a tad but still permeates the other flavors enough to make my tongue tingle.

Nice balance. Long finish. Not quite complex yet but working on it. Transitions begin their foreplay.
As expected, I’m having minor burn issues that need correction.
On and off, I get these big blasts of both red and black pepper that seem to scorch the roof of my mouth.

I find similarities of My Father The Judge with the Garcia Black Label Cuban, a bit of Tatuaje, and my fave: the original 601 Blue Label.

Creaminess kicks in the door and complexity settles in for the long haul.
What a lovely cigar blend. With such short humidor time, it tastes like it’s had months of solitary confinement.

Construction is at the top of its game (Minus the burn problems) with a giant ash that won’t let go like a dog humping your leg. Wouldn’t it be nice if the ash hung on long enough for my “second third” photo? (I’ve jinxed it.) I’m sure it will be burning through my robe to find itself nestled right on top of my naughty bits.

Smoke time is 40 minutes.

My Father The Judge is becoming a total surprise. Now, I do believe most experienced smokers have their favorite Garcia family blend. Once smoked, this will be added to the list.
Both father and son are prolific in their blending styles.
Once in a while, you get a blend that brings warmth to your soul. Evil as it is.
Sweet Spot 1.0 hits like a smashed thumb while using a hammer. Only instead of pain, it is a heightened appreciation of blending technique. Even so, a smashed thumb still hurts.


The humongous ash is still hanging tough. I don’t want to be in the same state when it decides to disengage…on top of me. But no matter the coaching, it remains steady.

Oh lord, sitting next to a window that is barely cracked, the arctic air is forming icicles on my eyebrows.

The first major transition occurs that changes the lineup a bit. The spiciness rams it home. The elusive starch element becomes sourdough. The tangerine component meshes perfectly. Sour and tart. Like my first wife.

The chocolate and coffee recede to the middle of the flavor profile. The creaminess and malts become one.
Medium/full strength kicks in for good.

I’ve over used the term “smooth” a lot lately. Coincidence of course. It just so happens that My Father The Judge is like skiing down fresh powder. And then hitting a tree, breaking your neck, and dying.

Got a bootleg of The Allman Brothers playing. Thank you Bryan.

There is an underlying level of flavors that peek out from behind the major flavors: Honey, black licorice, red currants, smokiness, and black tea.

Is it me or what? Is the $12 cigar the new $8 cigar? It seems the cigar industry has decided that all new releases shall cost $12…or more. It’s become a given.
$60+ for a fiver is a lot of dough.

Cost of living for 2017 is only 0.3%. Yet the cigar makers claim huge costs this last year in the manufacturing process. Labor is cheap in Central America. No one here is getting raises. Tobacco is up a little bit. But the bullshit that events and other ancillary crap has now become part of the PR process to sell a cigar. That is the main reason manufacturers are using for the huge cost increase.

Over the last couple of years, cigar prices have risen 33%. Way beyond the cost of living index. So these people don’t care. They just expect us to pay their bounty if we want to smoke their new cigars.
There are exceptions of course. But they don’t carry the massive hype of the expensive blends.

I close the window. My teeth are chattering.

Sweet spot 2.0 enters stage left. The blend feels complete now. The blender’s intent has been accomplished. From here on in, this should be quite the experience.
I imagine with more humi time, My Father The Judge will start off like this instead of kicking in during the second third.

Halfway point.
Smoke time is one hour 5 minutes.

Oh look. There are my testicles. I wondered where they had gone.

An interesting test of any blend is the amount of libation you use to accompany the smoking experience. Once in a great while, you get a cigar that doesn’t make you reach for something to drink every few minutes. The Judge is a prime example. I haven’t taken a swig of water since I started.
So I take a sip of water and my palate is renewed and flavors are even more intense.

Flavors are going bat shit crazy now. The thing is I don’t remember if the $8 sticks accomplished the end result the new $12 sticks provide. Or just that my palate is become more accustomed to better and better blends. I might add that in the last year, there have been plenty of let downs over expensive blends. More than necessary.

My Father The Judge is impressive. I’ve been lucky in reviewing some spectacular cigars lately. I’ve been handing out ratings in the 90’s like a mad man.


I believe this is the first box-pressed specimen I’ve had with little or no issues in terms of burn.

OK. Gotta say it. My Father The Judge is one of the most spectacular blends I’ve had in a while.
Fuck yeah. OK. $12 a pop she is. Worth it in today’s market. One could be grateful that the Garcias didn’t get greedy and charge much more. This blend is what those fancy shmancy over $20 sticks aspire to.
An extremely gratifying smoke.

Normally, I don’t care for large ring gauges but I have no qualms with My Father The Judge. It smokes and tastes like a corona.


I missed a couple months of reviews due to illness this spring. I was concerned I wouldn’t be able to fill up my top 25 list. Now I worry that I will have so many choices that I plan to add an Honorable Mention category.

Despite such a potent strength, My Father The Judge is clear and distinct. The aforementioned flavor profile seems to be set in stone now.

Smoke time is one hour 35 minutes.

The burn issues continue. More so than the first two thirds. It will take points away.

My Father The Judge is a blend is consistent, smooth, flavorful, and complex.
Smokiness inches its way to the front of the line. The chocolate and coffee are at the back. Strength hits full body.

Nicotine begins its journey of making me stupid. My vision blurs. I can’t type worth a shit.

I believe this will be a regular production cigar. I hope so.

A touch of pure strength converts some of that smoothness to a bit of harshness.
I could do without the building nicotine poisoning.
Holy fuck. My mission now is to stay conscious. If I do pass out, my cat will finish. Although, his paws make it tough on the little guy to type.


OK. Phil is gone now. I’m Sammy the cat. I will finish.
I love cigar smoke.
I don’t care for the fact that Phil shoos me away whenever I start rubbing my sebaceous glands on his lit cigar. Fuck him.

I’ve been keeping a close eye on Phil. He seems flummoxed by the amount of char line corrections. I do believe this cigar would have rated near the perfect status if not for this construction issue.

I don’t have money…just catnip filled toys that this cheap skate buys for me. I suppose I could sell them on Ebay. I would like to have my own humidor.

I wake up and find Sammy leaning on my laptop. I shoo him away. He mumbles something in Esperanza that sounds like “Fuck you.” I could be wrong.
My Father The Judge is a great cigar. Damn the torpedoes and suck it up. One of the few cigars worth the $12 price tag.
My concern that My Father The Judge wouldn’t be ready for review is for naught. It did beautifully.
Final smoke time is two hours 10 minutes.


And now for something completely different:

1984…I’d had it with the music industry. A whole decade at the top of my game artistically. And a whole decade of the industry financially fucking me in the ass.

My Eddie Munster project went down in flames. My recording studio partner was embezzling while I was on the road with Butch promoting the record.

Here is how the downfall began: I wanted a production deal with the record company; Rocshire Records. (Google this company)
This means that instead of signing a standard recording deal, I had my entertainment lawyer draw up my own contract.
What all this shit means is that I put every cent of my own money into this music project. My grandfather had passed a few years earlier and I had the dough.

My purpose, at my cost, was to do everything. Hand the record company a finished product…Final mixed tunes, artwork for the single sleeve, and music video. All they had to do was press the 45 single, promote it, and distribute it.

On the first return in the first quarter of sales, I got a check. We sold 3600 records in less than a week and then the quarter changed. I got 25¢ per single. My first check was for $900. Know how much I got in Curved Air? 5¢ per album. And now the cocksuckers are telling me there isn’t enough royalties on the albums I played on to issue me a check. First time in 40 years. Meanwhile, the sale of these albums is prolific. Not to mention, I played on countless compilation albums. Rat bastards.

Then it took off. We sold 181,000 units before Rocshire was shut down by the F.B.I.
That would have been $45,250. It would have covered my nut; plus some.

Even though the records continued to sell, the FBI confiscated all funds. I was now broke. My house disappeared. They tried to get my car but I became homeless and lived out of it for a while. Friends put me up here and there.
I got out of Dodge…so to speak (later)…

I walked away from my cheating studio partner. I tried to get a restraining order to stop him from selling valuable recording equipment to feed his habit; but my lawyer fucked up. I had thought of just killing him. Comme ci comme ça…

I ran into an old friend. He had a working band. The foursome was fantastic. I became their manager. I did their sound. After all, I had just produced a few thousand bands so live sound was a walk in the park. And I got to party.

Still young and good looking, I thought I had a lot of friends….oops…not true. While I was a rock star, they were friends. After the previous disaster, no one took my phone call. I was a pariah like this was my entire fault.

I moved up to South Lake Tahoe with the band and hung out for the summer of ’84.
I met Charlotte there. We hit it off. I became a kept man even though the band was paying me like a 5th member.

The keys player and the drummer were brothers…in their mid/late 20’s. Handsome lady killers. And they knew it.
The bassist was a nerdy geek. Naturally. And the guitarist/violinist/keys player/vocalist was the leader. I knew him from 16 years earlier in high school.

Four part harmonies. Great players. Always had dates.
The brothers were from Dodge City, Kansas (I did say “later”).

And the band was going to play as headliners for Dodge City Days.
We drove from SoCal with all the equipment. And planned to stay two weeks.
The brothers had family there. We stayed with their uncle who owned a buffalo ranch in Ensign…outside of Dodge.

He had a large barn that he divided into two parts. One was your typical barn a rancher must have. The other half was a playroom. Pool table, video games, pin ball, full kitchen, and lots of old couches.
There was a shoe box on the fridge full of weed. The uncle had a small garden of veggies out behind the house and he hid his plants amongst those veggie plants.

Plus, the local sheriff always brought the uncle any weed the cops confiscated.

We were encouraged to take handfuls of weed any time we wanted. It was never hidden. Always open for the taking.

But man, it was fucking hot! Over 100° every single day. Thank God it was a very dry heat.
We did the 2 hour tourist tour of Dodge. Boring. Poor man’s Knott’s Berry Farm. So tourist driven that it was embarrassing.

They had a Dairy Queen.

There were so many family members at the ranch that sleeping arrangements were doled out helter skelter. I got to sleep in an old trailer. No electricity; so I had to run a single extension cord. I had two choices. The first was to use it for TV. Or…to use it to run the A/C. Couldn’t do both.

The Summer Olympics were on in L.A. So I spent my time stoned and watching the games. I’m not kidding when I say there was nothing to do in this God forsaken place.

I actually had a part in the prep for the Olympic Games through my recording studio. That’s another story I need to tell. Long Beach hosted 4 sporting events.

Every day, the trailer was swarmed with Amazonian sized flying bugs. They liked to crawl under the sheets of my bed. Every night, I pulled back the bedding only to find a few dozen banana sized bugs. Good thing I wasn’t armed.

Word got out that “Californians” were in town. We would just be hanging out under a tree shooing giant, jungle sized bugs away in the ferocious heat when we got visitors.
Pickup trucks only. I don’t think anyone within a 100 mile radius owned a car.

These strange visitors were roughly our age. Cowboy hats. Big belt buckles. Chawin’ tobaccy.
And each and every one of them pulled out some joints saying, “I betcha’ you city boys never smoked shit like this here stuff befo’.”

They were right every time.

I spent the entire two weeks blasted out of my mind. Everyone wanted to impress us and those two weeks are now a blur.

We did the concert in the park. The whole town of Dodge, and surrounding farming communities, showed up to see the city slickers play rock n roll. That was the only fun time of the two weeks.

…One last memory of that time.
The brothers’ mom lived in Colorado but made the trip with her lesbian partner.
Mom was a beautiful, sweet woman. Kind and considerate. Sense of humor.
Her partner was rude, crude, and obnoxious.

Charlotte had officially become my girlfriend by then. We wrote. (Remember…this was 1984…no smart phones).

I was excited one day as I got a letter. The lesbo started asking me, in front of Mom, “What kind of lay is she? Is she good? I bet she is. What does her vagina feel like? Does she fuck good?”

Mom was outraged and while sweet; not brain surgeon material, said, “Oh I’m sure she is a good fuck. You don’t have to say that to him. He’s such a nice boy.”

All we ate was buffalo and corn on the cob. Hundreds of acres of corn. And hundreds of head of buffalo.
We ate buffalo steaks, hamburgers, roasts, jerky, stew, liver, and blood sausage.
I haven’t eaten buffalo since. Besides, it is too dry. No fat…that’s why it is so healthy.

I was ready to leave on the 3rd day. The smell of buffalo goes a long way. Hundreds of buffalo make it a garbage pit.
Two fucking weeks in Kansas. Why Dorothy wanted to go home is beyond me. Protection Status


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1 reply

  1. Great review!!! I had a similar experience.

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