Wrapper: Nicaraguan Criollo
Size: 6 X 50 Toro Box Pressed
I have held on to this stick for almost 4 months. Seems time is up.
99% of these sticks have vanished into the ether. So, use your interwebs google function and ye shall find a couple online stores that carry a few…assuming that I approve of this stick.
Not much info to pass on. Part of the Zombie Farmer Bill Hatchet series.
Released in November for Thanksgiving 2021.
First, the cigar feels properly filled. It allows me to depress my fingers showing some acceptable give. Sehr gut. The oily milk chocolate wrapper has areas of icy smoothness and other areas full of tooth. Veins wrap around the stick like hula hoops. Seams are clearly visible and could use some tightening up. The box press is exceedingly crisp for a stick that has been left naked in my humidor for 4 months. The triple cap got nicked but otherwise looks pretty good. And of course, the lovely Mrs. Hatchet…what a babe.
SMELL THE GLOVE:
Aromas are Nic Puro 101: Floral notes, dark chocolate, espresso, red pepper, creaminess, caramel, nutty, malt, licorice, black raisins, cedar, barnyard, and cinnamon.
The draw is completely closed. My PerfecDraw draw adjustment tool to the rescue. I jab away at the stick like Anthony Perkins in “Psycho.” I stop and remember to put my wig on…as well as my high heel sneakers.
The plug was in its usual hide out…the area around the cigar band.
The cold draw presents flavors of black pepper, cinnamon, espresso, dark baking chocolate, caramel, malt, licorice, nuts, creaminess, cedar, and peppermint.
The batter swings and it’s a double. Good start. Lots of flavors that mimic the aromas I smelled and tasted. Plus, a tad bit of complexity tickling my toes…that’s where I keep my palate. Every time I brushed my teeth, my palate got in the way. Now…Okie doke.
A very creamy cigar from the beginning. But also full of barley, hops, and malt. How can this go wrong? Black pepper is super potent. The Velcro on my toupee begins to melt…and my junk slides out of its protective titanium carrier. I have a mini vac, so no big deal.
The stick tastes so mahvelous in its infant stage that my hopes are corralled with the barnyard animals, right near the trough. Ever have a pig try to push you out of its way while it is eating? Stick a finger in its ass, and if it’s not a homosexual pig, it takes off like Tom Cruise in heat. Now, if it is a homo pig, you have just made the first move…God help you.
The filling of this Thanksgiving turkey is right to the stop here line. A beautiful slow roll. It will have the time to develop over the next 90-120 minutes. This is how a cigar should be built…with permits of course…and bribes to the city inspectors of course. No idea why I said that, but it reminds me of the time I was project engineer on a Tishman Construction job in Orange County, CA. A mere 10 story office building. It was my job to take out the two big honcho inspectors, once a week for lunch, get them snockered, pass them a closed, but bulging envelope, and when I needed an inspection of the electrical so I could close it up with drywall, they trusted Tishman and told me to go ahead…they’d check in a day or two.
The flavor points see the spiciness relent a tad and allow the more subtle flavors push on through. The maltiness is so prevalent that I want to lay on my back while the old lady pours Coors Light down my throat. Just kidding. She uses a German import and a red rubber bag with a long rubber hose instead. That first scenario sounded more macho.
Transitions begin to flow…cinnamon baked apple like mama used to make, newly conceived pretzel floats by, coffee with cream, chocolate ganache, black pepper, a solid assortment of nuttiness, and a smoky meatiness.
The char line does not betray me. Very nice burn.
The Hatchet woman does not taste like the usual Nic puro. There is a more definitive sweetness than most puros. I cannot tell at this point if the blend will become a flavor bomb in the second half or it may choose to coagulate into a personality of its own.
Charlotte is still sleeping…so I sneak into the bedroom, have sex with her, and I’m back at the keyboard in 90 seconds. The cigar is still lit. The cat shakes its head in disgust.
Steely Dan. “Do It Again.” An excellent sign from the gods that this cigar will not disappoint.
There is a new affectation…a very warm bready flavor. Like it came right out of the oven. Yeasty with a touch of salt.
The cigar is fucking delicious now. I am totally focused on the carousel of subtle flavor points while providing a balanced complexity that constantly moves forward…never looking back. Linear be damned.
This, my dears, is how a good cigar should behave. The first third is a huge tease displaying its wares like a snake oil salesman. I will be speaking Esperanto in the second half.
Sometimes, Viaje just nails it. Other times, meh. This baby has a gas operated chain saw and is slicing my palate into cold cuts.
“Ain’t No Sunshine” by Bill Withers. Another sign.
30 minutes to arrive here. OK with me. The Hatchet broad is going to be one of those blends that dictates you savor every nuance and hangnail.
First sip of water and my face implodes with only my giant schnoz for identification. The maltiness, creaminess, espresso, buttered hot bread, and nuts spread across my toes for my palate to enjoy. (I really haven’t slept in a while).
The char line is a thing of beauty. Just like my belly when I hold it in the presence of a good-looking woman.
Despite the clearly evident flavor points, methinks this will not be a flavor bomb. Kreskin predicts that the second half will devour all flavors and present a unified front.
This is a fine example of pricing a great cigar without being greedy.
Initially, the leaf stats were a secret. Viaje may have chosen to hide them so as not to provide a pre-conception of what is and what should never be.
Strength started out as a potent medium. Now, the cigar is blasting away at medium/full…and I can feel the nicotine destroying the ocular center of my vision that lifts some of my derangement.
Super complex. Beautiful transitions. Tasty finish. It’s Howdy Doody time.
Whenever I am in a room with 70 somethings, I am the only one who does not wear his pants around their belly button with the belt at chest level. Plus, I refuse to wear black socks with my sandals.
The Hatchet woman is really a naked consort surrounded by eunuchs. My parents insisted I become a eunuch when I turned 11 but my grandfather had money and dissuaded them. Gramps knew I had no frond skills for the harem girls.
The halfway point arrives exactly at 45 minutes. Just like the German railway.
I will walk off the nicotine at the end of this review and consume mass quantities of gruel and ale to bring me down.
Strength is ‘Get outta my way or I’ll run my tank over you.’
Is your dog finally getting the cheese it needs?
The blend morphs into the whole greater than its parts. Flavors are muted. But the intensity is like being in 7th grade gym with all the seniors slapping towels at my ass because my testicles hadn’t descended yet.
Lately, I’ve purchased cigars that are Redwood tree mimes. Because they are limited editions and only come in one size. Takes forever for the cigars to flourish in my humidor.
Construction is immaculate. Built better than half the girls I dated in high school.
2018 saw my 50th high school reunion. They even put up a website. All the girls I knew who were too good for me were super friendly. If I knew then…
I discovered that my German teacher, who was a Nazi, drove off a cliff on his way to Big Bear Lake a year after my graduation. Karma is a bitch.
I had a real crush on Ginnette Beaver who was a cheerleader and thus never looked my way…well, she looks like an 80-year-old woman now.
The cigar is on a mission from God.
I saw the original Blues Brothers at the Universal Amphitheater in the late 70’s. Belushi was doing forward flips and landing hard. Cocaine is a miracle drug.
The balance is that of a high wire walker. Sweet v. Savory is juxtaposed perfectly.
Spiciness is contained like a tiger in Florida. Creaminess drives the steamboat.
For my decaying palate, this is nearly a perfect blend.
I’m swaying to and fro like Ray Charles at the Fender Rhodes.
I decide to take a short stroll to walk off the nicotine but I’m tipsier than Mel Gibson being stopped by the cops.
I’m running out of superlatives.
Over an hour to get here.
I’m laying on the beach in some third world country being served cocktails with umbrellas. With the Hatchet chick dangling participles all over my puss, I am at peace.
I wrote a paper in college that my teacher so loved that she made an appointment for me to see the head of the English department. I was excited. I entered his office and sat. The man never looked up. I told him why I was there…he muttered, “Oh. Good job. Keep it up.” Sigh. I had hoped he would get me a gig writing for Rolling Stone.
The strength is causing me to foul myself. Not a cigar for newbies. And a real test for those with experience.
The sweet spot arrives with the marching band playing “Land of a Thousand Dances.”
I once called into a radio show that had Peter Noone of Herman’s Hermits as a guest. I insulted him and they hung up on me.
Sips of water cause explosions that would make Chernobyl pale in comparison.
“Days Like This” by Van the Man. A beautiful Sunday and temps soaring to 35 degrees.
Have I said anything about the cigar yet?
The coquettish Mrs. Hatchet is a killer blend.
The cigar maintains an even balance that just cruises Whittier Blvd. Nothing new to add. I’ve said it all.
If you can find this cigar, good for you. Just make sure that when you smoke it, your wife has strapped you to your chair. Hold the red rubber ball. Slobbering not allowed when smoking a cigar.
Great cigar blend.
Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS