Size: 5.125 x 54 Robusto
From Neptune Cigars:
“Patoro Cigars are fine in flavor and rich in earthy, nutty and dark chocolate flavors. Made in Dominican Republic at the Augusto Reyes factory, these small batch cigars were created by Patrick J. Martin and handmade using Cuban-seed aged tobaccos in the Santiago valley. While the cigars have been selling in Europe since 2001, they have been launched for the US market in 2014. The Patoro Serie P is a special blend made exclusively for the USA introduction, and differ from the Serie P sold in the European market. The blend is comprised of a Brazilian wrapper, and binder and filler from the Dominican Republic.”
SIZES AND PRICING (Neptune Cigar pricing well below MSRP):
Churchill 7 x 47 $10.85
Robusto 5.125 x 54 $9.00
Corona 5.5 x 43 $7.55
Toro 6 x 58 $10.25
An oily dark walnut colored wrapper. A slight amount of tooth covers the surface. There are plenty of veins with fairly tight seams and a very rustic look as if you found this twig in the magic forest.
SMELL THE GLOVE:
Big on the sweet spectrum of aromas….cotton candy, milk chocolate covered cherries, malted milk balls, caramel, some decadent Starbucks coffee, beautiful sweet floral notes, marzipan, honey coated sesame seeds, sweet cedar, a touch of smokiness, and banana custard.
The cold draw is redolent with an earthy environment, sour candy, malt, coffee, dark chocolate, mint, black pepper, nutty, and cedar.
The draw is too tight. Yep, out comes my PerfecDraw cigar poker tool and makes short shrift of the plug behind the cigar band.
This is a hard cigar. No give when squeezed. The draw is good but could be better but I don’t want to pierce it again.
The opening salvo is not bad with notes of black pepper, malt, cinnamon, bittersweet cocoa, cream, cedar, and nuts.
I get a burn issue within a couple of minutes that needs a touch up. I had some burn issues with my first stick as well.
There is a nice medium strength that is perfect with my second cup of coffee. Can’t wait to see if the last third makes my head spin like Linda Blair. (“Your mother sells socks in hell!!!”).
The Brazilian wrapper is bringing all the sweetness to the table. But this is an unusual Dominican blend. If I had to guess, I’d swear it’s a Nic puro with an extraordinary number of sweet things going on. I’m not a big DR fan. Exceptions abound, but generally speaking, they just don’t have the punch of a good Nic blend.
I’ve had the cigars about 3 months. The flavor profile actually starts off slowly. Yeah, I listed a bunch of elements but with an inch burned, there isn’t much complexity showing its bald pate yet. Transitions are building and there is a nice chewy finish.
Creaminess kicks into high gear with a nice offset of bittersweet cocoa. Marzipan returns. Baked apples become an unexpected treat. I can taste the tart brightness of the apple mixed with the caramel ooze and butter.
The end of the second cup of coffee screws up my palate. I rinse my mouth with hydrogen peroxide to clean the bacteria and I’m good to go. I had gotten some overly wrought bitterness that wasn’t supposed to be there. A few swigs of peroxide is a palate saver.
Construction rights itself seeing an ash that won’t quit and a cease fire to burn issues.
This is becoming quite the tasty cigar blend. The Patoro Serie P is beginning to develop a unique complexity all its own and out of the ordinary due to its leaf stats.
Strength remains at medium.
Flavors are enhanced by graham cracker, strong cedar, perfumed notes, and vanilla sponge cake. Odd but true.
The char line is dead nuts perfect.
Complex features are in full swing now. This is such a nicely well-rounded blend. Balance is now on point. Nuance and subtlety kick in. Transitions are speeding up…and the finish makes you want to clean the plate with a good crusty French bread.
I don’t come across unique cigars very often. I smoke some really great blends when my karma is right. The Patoro Serie P is a great cigar. If it were not for my buddy Tyler Jeffery from Havana Lounge and Cigar, I’d never have heard of it. He is single handedly bringing in some of the most unique boutique and rare cigars into his B&M of any shop around town. He knows his shit. And he is the friendliest guy you ever want to meet. Everyone loves Tyler…I’d like to mount him like a camel. He’d have to be stuffed first as I’m not gay…yet. After 35 years with the same woman, I’m open for anything exciting. Getting laid on birthdays, anniversaries; and now internment is OK for a man my age but since I had to start taking big doses of iron and Vitamin D a couple years ago, I have the testosterone of an 18 year old. The pup tent is back!!
Enough about boners and my wife and Tyler…Hmmm…That may be a fakakta statement.
The Patoro Serie P keeps on keeping on. The Keep On Trucking cartoon is brought to mind as this blend is on an upward trajectory of keeping me interested and happy. Isn’t is sad that those that do not smoke cigars don’t get to enjoy this life experience?
And then…Damn! Wow. Multiple sweet spots occur like multiple orgasms. The blend morphs into a super hero vanquishing crime and masturbation across the Atlantic. Hairy palms are now a thing of the past. My memory is coming back!
I smoked my first sample a couple weeks ago and I’m glad I waited those extra two weeks before writing about it. Patience my friends. Most blends take at least a couple months before they are ready to smoke. Some take a lot more time. But then there is not a whole lotta love coming from lots of catalog brands that poop out after a year; especially if the cello is removed for storage and aging.
The blend morphs into a deep complexity with strong notes of tobacco and the earth it was grown in. A heavy blend. Strength moves on up to medium/full.
Oodles of flavors. I recommend this baby. I found the best deals for this blend on Neptune Cigars. I have no relationship with them but I tell you this because I have a relationship with you.
Killer. A fine example of passionate blending. I repeat myself when I say what a unique blend this is. I bet they drove themselves nuts putting this stick together to get it just right.
Not too much nicotine. My brain thanks Patoro.
Plainly, this is a delicious cigar.
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. Plus, I had investors.
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 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 ($107K in 2018 dollars). 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 high school 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 entirely my 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 NorCal 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. 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. I did the sound so naturally it’s a perfect place to be to pick up on chicks.
…One last memory of that time.
The brothers’ mom lived in Colorado but made the trip to Dodge City with her lesbian partner.
Mom was a beautiful, sweet woman. Kind and considerate. Sense of humor.
Her partner was rude, crude, and obnoxious and a real bull dyke.
Charlotte had officially become my girlfriend by then. We wrote. (Remember…this was 1984…no smart phones).
I was excited one day from one of her letters. 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.
Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS