Wrapper: Connecticut Broadleaf No. 1 Dark Corona
Filler: Nicaraguan Ligero, Dominican Ligero
Size: 5 x 52 Robusto
Today we take a look at the 2019 Mi Querida Triqui Traca by DT&T.
I got a couple sticks as a gift from a good friend.
The cigars have 8 months of humi time.
I haven’t reviewed in a while due to the virus…and I wasn’t sure how I wanted to come back swinging. I thought I might be able to review a nice cigar and say nice things. Or find a cigar and provide a crash and burn review. But my last two reviews were crash and burn tomes and I realized there is no shortage of dog turds…so, I’d rather come back slowly and find a good cigar to review. I know, I know…you prefer to read reviews in which I go bat shit crazy. (Did I say ‘bat?’)
This is Day 6 of not being sick and, actually, feeling alright, baby…I’ve been smoking a single cigar per day for 4 days. All coronas. I got through most of them…but while my palate is fresh as a day-old liver, my lungs are clear as a bell; which means that 3 minutes into the smoke, I become delirious.
I picked this cigar because I smoked one before I became ill and liked it. So, while you will have to suffer through me saying nice things…I didn’t realize til yesterday when I did my prep work that this is a full tilt strength cigar. Oy.
I make no guarantees or promises that I will get through this cigar without vomiting into my lap a couple of times. Nor do I promise anything I write will make sense by the second third.
Release Date: September 2019
From Halfwheel.com (10-22-2019)
“While the Triqui Traca’s roots trace back to the original Mi Querida, it more specifically traces its history back to the Mi Querida Firecracker, a 3 1/2 x 50 parejo with a long pigtail that was released in 2018 as part of Two Guys Smoke Shop’s Firecracker Series. The blend is slightly stronger than the original Mi Querida, with a No. 1 dark corona Connecticut broadleaf wrapper covering a Nicaraguan binder and Nicaraguan and Dominican ligero fillers. Of note in the filler is what Steve Saka described as “a unique, high octane ligero grown in the Dominican Republic.”
“Saka has described the line as has not being a pepper bomb, rather that the strength comes across in a “denser, heavier, chewier way,” adding that it conveys a unique body and weight to the person smoking it.”
SIZES AND PRICING:
Robusto 5 x 52 $10.25
Lancero 6 x 38 $11.20
In room light, the wrapper is dark and mysterious. With a little light on the subject, the wrapper glistens with oil and has a rusty orange hue mixed with nearly black highlights.
The stick is extremely toothy as you can see in my photos. It is covered in veinage. Seams are visible but tight; unlike my ass since I’ve been on so many meds lately, I’ve had to use a Fleet enema a few times. Try and dispel that picture from your mind. It is a solid cigar…heavy in the hand…which means it will take me around 6 hours to complete this review as I will need to take breaks to walk off the hallucinations.
SMELL THE GLOVE:
First up to bat is (Did I just say bat again?) a wallop of floral scents…right behind are sweet notes of berries, caramel, marshmallow, and milk chocolate. It keeps going…a nice maltiness, black pepper, a woody essence, sweet cream, a variety of fruitiness, cedar, barnyard, and Worcestershire sauce.
The cold draw presents flavors of black pepper, apple fritters, fruit, floral, creaminess, cedar, malt, and chocolate.
The draw is spot on. Perfect resistance just the way I like it. I put my PerfecDraw draw adjustment tool away.
It’s not a very smoky cigar. But flavors and complexity are incredible from the first puffs. Nothing like decent humidor time to bring out the best in a good blend.
A lovely spiciness that knows its place. Very creamy, that Worcestershire sauce is upfront, a generic fruitiness, grilled steak, cinnamon, cedar, potato chips, and hoppy malt.
The depth of possibilities is apparent immediately. Rich complexity. Transitions are moving a nice conga line. The finish is redolent of all previously described flavors; coating my teeth and lips like a great bourbon.
Ooh…I’m getting dizzy Miss Lizzie. But I man up and soldier on…
Strength is medium/full.
I’ve broken the cigar’s hymen and it is now pouring smoke like that last time you manscaped your pubes and the cheap Chinese piece of crap gets caught and flames start shooting out of it and you watch as your genitals shrink to hide…emitting a steady flow of loamy smoke.
(I warned you).
$10 is a fair price for this boutique blend. I find it hard to believe that the new Dunbarton Muestra De Saka Unicorn Diademas Deluxe Coffin is 10 times better as the price tag is $100 per stick. Fuck me. People are out of work by the millions now; which includes cigar smokers…and he picks now to release a 1-percenter cigar? Feed the rich to the poor.
The dizziness dissipates and I am having a good time. I’ve hooked up a rig using my CPAP masks so that if I need air, Sammy the Cat has one on his puss so he can give me mouth to mouth if need be. Long hose as we must keep our social distancing appropriate…filthy beast.
Little nuances of flotsam and jetsam appear…black licorice, BBQ, a whisky tang, and white pepper.
Strength holds steady at medium/full. But boy, this baby is smooooth. The finish requires a sip of water to open up its vaginal lips. Wow. Flavor explosion. Everything about this multi-flavored cigar jumps like a surprise jack in the box. My head snaps back and I can kiss my own tuchas.
The burn is good. A little uneven at times; but only requiring minor touch ups.
Each day since I’ve become well is twice as good as the day before. Charlotte has me doing shit all around our new apartment…working me like the dog I am. And my jaw is becoming useless…the woman never knows when to say enough is enough. I haven’t felt my tongue in 3 days. Damn self-imposed isolation.
I’ve gotten through the first third with no health issues.
I wear boxers. You ever get out of bed with a swing of your body and you find yourself sitting on your nuts?
You do know that your testicles have a larynx and voice box…I’ve been working on decoding the language since I was 50. So far, all I can discern is “Stop touching me” and “Why is it so dark and wet in here?” (I can never let Charlotte read this review).
The cigar blend makes a quantum leap at this juncture. Flavors are now bold and enticing; while full of balance and nuances. The complexity is through the roof. Transitions are doing the 40 in 4.3 seconds. I love the never disappointing finish.
Strength doesn’t change. I expected to be blown out of my jock strap by now. I really am getting better each day. I fully expected to say really inappropriate things…that’s not happening.
I realize I’m picking up a huge variety of flavors with this Tricky Dick…Tricky Tracki? Does it matter? I’m sure the meaning of the blend’s name has a deep significance…I should show more respect. But once you get to my age, you really don’t give a shit. And I don’t care who doesn’t like it. Seven decades on the planet…some rules no longer apply.
I think that the extended humi time has tamed the beast a bit. Now that I’ve jinxed it, the last third will probably cause projectile vomiting. (And no nicotine poisoning yet).
The Robusto size is spot on for me. It is a well rolled machine. A slow hand. It takes a full 45 minutes to get to the halfway point. Although, I would like to try the Lancero.
The reviews I perused of this cigar all took place a month or two after its release. I’m having a different experience. A better one. That’s not to say that other reviewers didn’t like it; because they did. I’m just getting subtleties they didn’t due to time.
Charlotte just left to have a friend color her hair. I called the cops. 90 days in lock up will do her some good.
The stick continues to get better and better. I need to get more of these. I just don’t have the patience to wait 8 months.
I think the blend has reached full strength now…but it was a mild ascension and not abrupt.
I’ve got Pandora on the Blues Guitar Legends channel. Damn.
All that worry about me wussing out from this cigar’s power punch has now been put to rest.
You don’t need a great palate to appreciate this cigar. You don’t need to dissect the flavors. It is a true pleasure to just smoke.
I’m trying to get the money shot of a long ash for the last third photo. I’m playing with fire as my lap is exposed.
A big stupid smile on my face.
When I was sick, I was just fucking stupid. Man, you don’t want to get this virus.
This review has proven I can get back to work now. I have a burning desire to disappoint and shock once again.
I done dood it…the ash holds steady. My testicles whimper an unimpressive thank you.
A spectacular good time.
I am pleased that I chose a good cigar to come back with.
The blend is so complex that flavors aren’t distinct. They have morphed into one giant ball of naïve happiness.
Another sip of water and I feel an aneurism coming on. Speaking of which…know what I’m waiting for? Repercussions of my 2001 skydiving accident in which I went head first into the ground at 35mph…without a helmet. At some point, I figure something is going to come loose in my puny brain and turn me into a cigar blender. I’ll have to Epstein myself if that happens.
Normally, I’d end my review at this point but I’m roach clipping the thing.
You don’t have to spend $19 on a cigar, unless it’s a Casdagli, to get a good smoke. Greed never proves your cigar is better than everyone else’s…because it is just blowing smoke and filling your Cayman Island account. Bastardos.
Thanks to everyone that sent me good wishes the last month. I didn’t die. Crushed the hopes of lots of cigar industry people.
And now for something completely different:
I’m sure you have seen the 1996 Tom Hanks’ film, “That Thing You Do.” I love that movie as much as I love “Spinal Tap.” I began playing bass in the mid 1960’s and quickly joined my first rock band. Before, and during that time, I played 5 string banjo…my banjo teacher was John McEuen just before he joined the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.
I was really into the folk/bluegrass music scene of the late 50’s and early 60’s. But my best friend, Skip, got a guitar and we would learn tunes together. The Beatles arrive and next thing I know, Skip is making me play bass lines on my banjo. Rocky didn’t like that much. Next step was either book myself a room in the local saloon…or buy a 1964 Hofner bass guitar.
I was only 15 and had to have my mother drive me to gigs. So, getting my driver’s license was a welcome advancement for soothing the savage breast…and an end to my embarrassment. “Mom! Stop here. I will get my stuff out of the car and walk the rest of the way!” The other band members always gave me a lift home…why they never picked me up is a mystery to this day.
Hanks nailed the technical portion of the era, and the band’s equipment…right on the money. The Silvertone guitar made by Sears. The Dan Armstrong bass. I laughed the first time I saw the film because my guitarist, in my first band, played the Silvertone guitar; which came in a guitar case that also was a 5-watt amplifier. You stand the case up and it has a little 3” speaker in the corner of the case’s interior. Guy Page actually used it for a while before he earned enough money for a small Fender amp.
My 50th high school reunion was two years ago and 2000 miles away. They did have a web site for the occasion to connect with long lost friends. Guy registered and I immediately said hello. He was a great player. But no longer. He gave it up right after high school and had no interest in discussing our 3-year band journey. I found some girls I dated who didn’t think I was cool enough but seemed friendly after our reconnection. And then totally blew me off. Fuck. It is 52 years later, ladies…get the vibrating plugs out of your ass. Some people never grow out of the too cool for school mentality of being in the popular clique.
It took me 6 months to save up for the Hofner. I paid a pawn shop in downtown Long Beach $4 a week ($33 in today’s market) to hold it for me. I then spent another three months practicing without an amp. Thankfully, it was hollow so I used my bedroom wall as a diaphragm so I could hear it. I merely held the head stock against the wall.
My mother urged my father to buy me an amp and we went to Palos Verdes one day to a store owned by a family friend…who went on to screw my father and me by selling me a Knox amp. ??? Knox? The damn thing worked maybe half the time and the only way I could get it to start working again was to kick it. That makes for quite a sight when you are on stage.
I liked the theatre and was active in drama classes in high school and also the Long Beach Community Playhouse. One summer, 1966, they did a musical of “Take Her, She’s Mine.” I played bass in one number and banjo in the other. You don’t know how embarrassing it was to be playing a sweet soft folk love song with a great jazz guitarist and two good looking chicks (Go ahead…try to stop staring at those two pairs of legs); and have to go kick my amp in the middle of a live performance. It was humiliating.
I did enough whining after my folks saw me in the show; so, my dad, reluctantly, took me to Wallach’s Music City in Lakewood and bought me a real Fender Bassman amp. This was pure fucking heaven. I had a pro amp.
My band’s first name was “Renaissance Faire.” It sounded girly so we changed it. We re-named it, and that name I will never forget. This was nearing the height of Hippie Power in 1966. We called ourselves the “Southern California Exposition & Protest Musical Aggregation.” Elliot (last name redacted), our drummer, got it all on his kick drum’s head; thanks to his older brother who was a graphic designer.
We played out almost every weekend. Three players and a lead singer. We did all the cool tunes of the day. People went nuts when we played “Louie, Louie.” We would do a ‘freak out’ in the middle of the song. Lots of feedback, a bass solo…and I had bought a 1966 Vox V816 Distortion Booster and got some wild sounds by holding my hollow bodied Hofner up to my amp. You could hear the audience dropping blotter acid.
(Designed by Vox engineer Dick Denney, the V816 was a two-transistor fuzz box with a circuit similar to the Fuzz Face. Accord to Vox’s July 1966 price list, it could “create harmonics that are non-existent in the fundamental signal, resulting in a totally new tonal effect. It’s “boss”!)
The coolest memory I have of that group was the first week that Cream’s “Disraeli Gears” album came out in November of 1967. It had been out for only days when Guy came to us and said we had to learn this one song for the gig on Saturday. It was called “Sunshine of Your Love.” It remains a classic…unless you are a Millennial.
This gig was a step up for us. It was a college gig. Prior to this, we played high school dances and the Jewish Community Center. We averaged about $35 for each gig. That was $8.75 per guy. We could fill our bellies for $1 at Taco Bell…that got us 4 tacos, one tostada, one cup of refried beans, and a soda. And with our leftover dough, we put our shekels together and bought a “lid” of grass. Of course after we did that, it was only an hour later before we were back at Taco Bell. We were all around 6 feet tall and weighed 135lbs…hollow leg syndrome.
Anyway, we learned ‘Sunshine’ immediately. The gig was at Cal State Long Beach in their gym/auditorium. It had a big stage about four and a half feet high. We were used to playing on the floor or a 6” riser platform. This was the big time.
The first song we played was the Cream song and the place went nuts. The girls clamored at our feet. They were actually trying to grab our legs like we were rock stars. It blew my mind and it was then and there I decided to make my life’s ambition to be a musician and rock star.
We played that song once every set. Four times to be exact. And each time, it got the same reaction. I was very skinny with short nerdy hair. And the beautiful college girls wanted me. I’m sure I had a boner each time we played that song.
Now get this…I resurrected this dinosaur story from a 2013 cigar review. Out of the blue, Collin Whitley, a guitarist in Orange County, CA found my review and sent me a message via my blog’s comment apparatus.
He bought the drum head off my first band’s (1965-1968) drum kit at a flea market 20 years ago at Cypress Community College. He loved the head so much, he framed it.
The band name was so 1960’s. The EK at the bottom of the head stands for drummer Elliot (last name redacted). When I started college in ’68, Elliot and I lost touch. Looked for him…can’t find him to this day.
Talk about a fast trip in Mr. Peabody’s Way Back Machine. Just got a 55-year trip back to the future.
Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS