Wrapper: Ecuadorian Connecticut Aged 2 Years
Binder: Dominican Aged 3 Years
Filler: Dominican Aged 3-5 Years
Size: 6 x 52 Toro
My sticks have laid naked in my humidor for two months.
I smoked one last night and discovered it was good enough to be criticized like a queer witch in Salem…not that there is anything wrong with that.
Factory: Julián Sued & Compañia (Tamboril, Dominican Republic)
Lampert Cigars executed a soft launch with Small Batch Cigar.
From Small Batch Cigar:
“We’re excited to announce our newest Small Batch exclusive, a soft release of Lampert Cigar’s 1593 Edición Blanca Toro!
“Dr. Stefan Lampert plans to release 1593 Edición Blanca next year in two vitolas, the 6 x 52 Toro available now exclusively to Small Batch Cigar as well as a 3.75 x 52 Short Robusto for international markets.
“We have had a wonderful relationship with the Maxamar/Small Batch team and wanted to treat their customers to a sneak peek of sorts,” said Dr. Stefan Lampert, founder of Lampert Cigars, in a press release. “We have finalized the blend after last year’s PCA and the cigars have been put into production shortly after, so they have had plenty of time to rest before release.”
THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
Nice aromas of cabinet spices and herbs. The cold draw is wide open. I use my PerfecDraw draw adjustment tool all the time for stubborn cigars…but not this morning as this cigar blows air like a straw.
First notes are black pepper, creaminess, espresso, those same baking spices, and almonds. Thankfully, I wasn’t high last night when I smoked its brother. The start is filled with positive and hopeful notes of complexity.
With half an inch burned, I feel comfy saying I like this cigar.
Clearly, the pre-aging of the tobacco has something to say in that I only had to wait two months to review it…instead of the usual 4-5 months.
This is potentially strictly a savory blend. Which is fine. I love to be surprised when I smoke a good cigar.
I have to hand out kudos to all my reviewer brothers and sisters out there. We are all a bunch of sane weirdos who love cigars so much that we can’t help but write about them. I mean, what is wrong with us? We need to remember this about each other…that we have the same incurable disease. That makes us family. Sort of like the people who survived the Titanic. The fact that we reviewers make it a point to write about a cigar several times a week for years, consistently, is really bonkers, but it does show dedication to some sort of brain lesion that points us in this direction. Love to all my fellow obsessed neurotics.
Strength is medium.
The spiciness calms down and allows the subtleties to finger prick my palate.
The blend is fat. Very complex notes early in the jungle ride.
The creaminess is at the helm. Sporadic spices make an entrance, bow, and then split allowing the next set to marshal themselves.
Not a single sweet factor. Not a criticism. Because the blend was designed to hopefully stand out amongst its minions.
Each puff, each sip of water pushes the cigar forward eliminating any linear status.
The finish is just lovely. Flavors wrap my palate like a bacon rumaki. Growing up, this was the appetizer of choice at every party. Loved it. Haven’t seen one in decades. Poor rumaki.
Very slow roll. I like that. This gives the cigar a chance to think before it speaks.
I am a creature of habit. 90% of the time, I try a new cigar a week or two into its new home. And each time, it tastes like hay, and I think Oh no…this expensive cigar is going to be crap…what have I done? And then in months, it responds with an Oh Yeah? Watch this you old fart…
How many times have you kept a cigar for a long time only to discover that the blend does not age well? It is a direct kick to the naughty bits. Although, my naughty bits haven’t been very naughty since I turned 70. Now, I sit next to Charlotte while she holds my schmekel and watches Dr. Pimple Popper. This makes it very difficult for me with that tv show on.
The Lampert is cruising the Great Lakes without a care in the world.
The flavors remain the same…but the aged tobaccos shine with a sideways grin.
Construction gets top marks. No burn issues. The tobacco was rolled beautifully.
I love that the strength remains a morning friendly medium.
Good stick for newbies and snobs alike.
I read a review of this cigar not published long ago and the reviewer did not care for it. When this happens, it makes me wonder why we do this. You just have to find reviewers whose palate is similar to yours and then just cross your fingers if you purchase the stick based upon one of several obsessed neurotics.
I bought my first box of premium cigars when I was 18 in 1968 and during my first semester of college. I thought if I lit one up in the common during lunch, women would see me as James Bond and flock to me. In reality, women walked a big swath of area to not get close to me. My penis yelled at me for being so stupid.
The Lampert 1593 stuns me into submission. I’m now wearing a red ball in my mouth as I type.
It took the halfway point 45 minutes to arrive. I tell the cigar that I love it just as Charlotte walks in to tell me Dr Pimple Popper is on…I’m going to stop talking to my cigars from this point forward.
Here they are: Creaminess, black pepper, baking spices, assorted nuts, sharp espresso, malt, cedar, and a smoky edge. I don’t miss any sweet notes. The cigar is perfectly balanced without them.
The James Gang is playing “Funk #49” and I remember seeing them back in the day…Goddamm, I’m old.
SRV follows and now I’m bopping the boogaloo and trying not to morph into the Macarena.
This is my first Lampert. I gotta try the others.
I quickly remember that this is a $15 cigar. Doesn’t matter because good is good.
Still, it is nice that this blend checks all the boxes. So many of the new sticks coming out of the PCA this summer that are at this price range, and suck. Imagine what cigars will cost in 2030. Of course by then, Walmart greeters will be paid $35 per hour. I would love to live long enough to see us land astronauts on Mars.
The cigar loves its flavor profile and makes no moves to change it up.
I’ve now slept every night for 3 weeks since I was medicated properly with a non-opioid. And I feel pretty good compared to the last 14 months in which I got no sleep. But it’s going to take a long time to make that up.
The last 2” of the cigar are now so intense that I can’t wipe the smile off my puss.
I used that term ‘puss’ back in 2010 when I was writing for several online stores. This one store in particular is owned by a Cuban ex-pat. He became upset with me and told me that he didn’t want pornographic terms in my reviews. Took me a week to convince the guy that puss means face. Good times.
Spiciness makes its move. But doesn’t overwhelm the complexity. Strength is now medium/full.
The nicotine plays a minor role and allows me to keep my vision intact.
Excellent blend. It fulfills its destiny to last 90 minutes.
And now for something completely different:
Curved Air’s first tour was with the original members of the band. I was the only new addition. They were very nice people; at first. They treated me well. Of course, that would change. Politics of Dancing.
A PR photo shoot was planned to be at Miles Copeland’s house in St. John’s Wood. A block away, was the famous EMI Studio, also known as Abbey Road Studio. It was the only road in London that the city stopped putting up street signs. They painted the name of the road on block walls in front of houses. Otherwise, tourists stole the road signs about 15 minutes after they were installed.
Stewart lived in a flat about 3 doors down from the studio. We were really poor. Management only paid us enough to survive on. But they also paid our rents and expenses. On the road, the pay doubled.
Stew and I hung out together a lot. So, we had dinner together all the time. He showed me his poor man’s dinner of cooked spaghetti with melted butter and four brussel sprouts on it. Actually, it was very tasty. And cheap. That’s right. Only 4 brussel sprouts. Two per man.
I had only known the original band a week when we did the photo shoot. We hadn’t even rehearsed yet. Darryl, the leader and violinist of the band, picked me up in his little Triumph. A two-seater with a bit of a tiny storage area behind the seats.
After picking me up, we headed to Miles’ house. The shoot was a lot of fun because I had never done anything like this before. I was only 24. And my first foray into big time music. Plus, it was my chance to meet the band and SONJA!
Getting into his car required a can opener and a shoehorn. When the photo shoot was over, we immediately went to Miles’ bar and helped ourselves. Miles wasn’t around. Miles had one of those 200-year-old houses that was lavish and historical.
It was time to leave, and Sonja asked for a ride home to Hampstead Heath. I allowed her the front seat and I found myself jammed into the back like a small purse or rat dog. Man, that was uncomfortable.
It began to just pour buckets of rain on the way. And it was rush hour. Both Darryl and Sonja smoked chain smoked cigarettes and I have never smoked a cig in my entire life, hand to God.
The windows had to be closed because of the torrential rain. Not even a tiny crack open. Pretty soon, I got car sick. The cigarette smoke and the cramped quarters and the stopping and going really did a number on me. I begged them to open a window but when they tried, the rain came in.
We finally dropped off Sonja. I was sick as a dog, and it had taken us a good hour to get her home.
She invited us in, and Darryl accepted because he wanted a drink. Darryl really liked to drink. Sonja immediately came on to me. I must have been pale as a ghost and ready to blow chunks. She rubbed herself up and down against me. First time at that age, I couldn’t get a boner. I was so car sick that my penis was D.O.A.
We left an hour later, and I still didn’t feel well. But now I got to sit in the front seat. Didn’t help in that tiny car. We stopped at a pub because Darryl told me that some brandy would cure my car sickness. I agreed even though I had never heard of this.
I had a few sips of the brandy and made it to the bathroom just in time to puke my guts out…I think that’s when I lost my gall bladder.
I got home and everyone wanted to know how it went. I waved my arm and headed straight to bed. Technically, I should have had a good time.
This is the only photo I have of that photo shoot.
L-R Florian Pilkington-Miksa, Francis Monkman, Sonja Kristina, Darryl Way, and me.
Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS