Wrapper: Nicaraguan Corojo ‘99
Size: 5.75 x 46
THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
Four sizes with a release of 1500 boxes each.
I’ve reviewed all the Las Calaveras since its release in 2014…except for the 2020 release. I am using the pandemic excuse for that one.
I clip the cap and the flow of air is nice…just the way I like it. The cigar seems solid through and through. I throw my PerfecDraw draw adjustment tool to the floor while screaming at it, “You lazy bum.”
Aromas are very faint. Either that or I am having a mini stroke.
I took a gander at the previous blends over the years I reviewed. All were good but it was 2019 and 2021 that I gave my heart to.
Substantial complexity kicks in herding the goats my way. Flavors are earthy. Black pepper is potent. I was once potent. Now all I have left is my collection of Playboy Magazines from the 1960’s.
Flavor notes begin to coagulate: Creaminess, cinnamon graham cracker, caramel, unsalted peanuts, cappuccino, cedar, malt, and a touch of milk chocolate.
Strength is dead center medium.
A nice balance of savory v. sweet.
Construction is behaving.
Still, I’m not getting the punch to the amygdala. The character is on cruise control.
An inch in, the blend improves. The complexity saw what I was typing and responds with an “Oh yeah?” And a lemony intensity enters that enhances the creaminess.
The cigar makes small adjustments allowing the blend to show its stuff. Not bad, but certainly not exciting.
As a Nic puro, this blend has been done a million times before. As such, the leaf stats are providing an experience that feels like déjà vu.
Some blenders know how to coax the hell out of a Nic puro. But for the most part…been there, done that. And that is where this stick lands. A professionally blended cigar with just a tad of passion behind it.
The balance is staying put, which is good.
In the mid-70’s, I lived in the village of Datchet, U.K. I lived in Darryl Way’s home. Back then, the population was under 2000. There was one greengrocer, one butcher shop, a post office, a pharmacy, and 12 pubs.
Datchet is only 1.5 miles from Windsor Castle.
If the Queen was driven to Windsor, she had to pass through Datchet and its only one roundabout. I remember seeing the limo several times. If the car had the royal flag, the Queen was inside. The windows were dark, so it was hard to see her. I only saw her outline. Still, it was kind of thrilling.
My girlfriend and I would have down time and visit Windsor. The guard had walked away from his guard shack, and I darted into it so I could take this photo. The guard returned with no warning from my girlfriend. He stood directly in front of me so I could not exit the shack. I panicked. I cleared my throat a couple times, but nothing happened. After a very long 5 minutes, the guard moved forward without saying a word to me. But a castle official was on the spot at the same time I stepped down. He gave me hell and I apologized. Still, a nice photo. Of course, it was a different time back then. Pull that stunt now and it’s a pretty good chance that you’d get arrested…and sent to Abu Ghraib.
The blend is exceedingly pleasant. These days, the price is right. Crowned Heads could have kept up with the surge of the overpriced sticks…but not on this blend.
The savory and sweet notes are hanging at the back of my throat. Transitions are minimal. But the finish is lovely. The cigar is not flashy but improves with every puff keeping the blend from becoming linear.
My 5-year-old grandson began kindergarten. 7:30am-2:30pm. When did kindergarten go from half day to a full day? I missed out on that.
Sips of water truly give the cigar a spotlight while it taps like Gregory Hines.
Remember when you were in junior high (middle school) and the first time you had to suit up for gym? Getting naked in front of all the boys. Mommy didn’t prepare me for that. Plus, puberty was only barely ready to kick in at 12. Did you have any of the older boys make fun of your tiny hairless winkie? Me neither. Now I walk naked to the dumpsters to take the trash out. My winkie is about the same size so no one calls the police. I do gather my testicles together and tie them off so that they are not hanging around my knees. If anyone says anything, I recite the first half of the Old Testament. It is amazing how fast fat people can run away.
The complexity feels like it has reached its peak at the halfway point. Methinks that this is the zenith of what the cigar will produce in terms of character and complexity. Mind you, it is pleasant but not outstanding.
This is not a flavor wheel blend. At this point, the individual flavor points meld together to bring me a no-nonsense cigar that I enjoy. But the lack of intensity is overbearing.
Sips of water are my solace. Each chug brings the cigar to life. But then retreats.
The strength slips into medium/full.
This blend easily fits into a herf situation. Some cigars make me want to be alone to enjoy its severity of complexity. Other cigars, like this one, are a nice treat but does not require your adept attention to blend details.
The spiciness is a combo of black pepper and cinnamon. Unfortunately, they take up more space than they are entitled to. The tip of my tongue tingles.
I have no idea if several more months of humidor time will improve the presentation.
The cigar was released at the start of June. Surprisingly, there are plenty of cigars still available. Considering that only 1500 boxes of each stick were produced, I figured I’d be reviewing a cigar that is sold out.
The last portion of the cigar sees a rise in heat. Between the overdose of spiciness and the newly added fever, flavors are muted into extinction.
Still, I trod on…
A big blast of nicotine shows up with a smirk.
A switch is flipped and flavors return.
I believe this cigar needs psychotherapy.
If you try the cigar, I recommend a fiver.
You can purchase these cigars from my sponsors: Luxury Cigar Club (15% off ‘katman), Atlantic Cigar Co., and Small Batch Cigar (10% off ‘katman’).
And now for something completely different:
I had a large group of friends back in the early 80’s. Why? I owned the only recording studio in Long Beach, Ca. Population 350,000.
We did well. While we recorded hundreds upon hundreds of bands, we specialized in doing radio commercials. My partner engineered and I produced. I always had the last word on the mix. And I worked with the talent to get the most out of them.
We were young and had vibrant souls. Age had not taken us down yet. I was 30.
All sorts of bands recorded with us…but there is one that sticks out: a radical punk band whose name I cannot remember.
They were always on meth. And they insisted on recording at 8am on Sunday mornings…probably to keep the buzz going from staying up all night and partying. They always made me nervous.
None of their songs lasted more than one minute. And they insisted we record them directly to two-track instead of the 16 tracks we offered.
This meant no overdubs. No mixing. Everything was recorded live, and the levels were locked in.
They would come in and lay down 20 songs in 4 hours. It was exhausting. They always brought an entourage with them, and I brought in extra security when they were recording because they had a tendency to steal things.
One Saturday night, they decided to rent our rehearsal studio next door. It wasn’t so much a rehearsal as it was a massive party with hundreds of their friends showing up.
I always carried a 38 revolver in my pants. They got unruly early.
An hour or so into the party, they were ruining our P.A. system we provided with the rental. If it didn’t work right, they had a tendency to bang on it and kick it. And over amped the speaker towers. Not good.
We had a nice lounge outside the actual rehearsal space, and it was full. And there was a big crowd outside on the sidewalk because there wasn’t enough room inside.
I saw with my own eyes as men and women were vomiting on the outside and inside walls of the studio. I saw one guy actually peeing in the corner of the lounge. That was enough. I called 911.
The cops heard the words punk band, and they showed up in droves. They completely blocked the 4-lane road outside our studio near the beach of downtown Long Beach. Two cars of K-9 units arrived. And the biggest cops I had ever seen arrived as well with their batons at the ready.
They began to arrest people as they were caught, unaware, as they smoked doobies.
The head cop asked what I wanted? I told him to get them out of my studio. Fast!
Around 15 cops started to round up everyone and shoved them outside, frisking most of them: discovering drug paraphernalia.
The band had trashed my studio. And they started screaming they wanted their money back. $10 an hour…or they wouldn’t leave. Wrong thing to say.
Cops dragged people out of the studio by their tri-colored mohawks.
Several news crews showed up. And then a riot began. More cops showed up and with them came a SWAT vehicle.
I stood very closely to the largest cop there. He had his arm around me to make sure the idiots noticed that I was under protection.
It took almost an hour for things to calm down and for the bums to be removed by their own volition or by being arrested.
One of the band members threatened to kill me right in front of my big cop. So that cop drew his club from his belt and beat the living shit out of him, the whole time asking, “Who are you going to kill?”
When it was all over, and the cops left, I perused the damage done. It looked like Hurricane Katrina had moved through there. I sat on a pee-stained couch in the lounge and put my head in my hands.
The PA was ruined. And it would take us several days to clean up.
Needless to say, the punk band was not allowed to return, and I always kept my .38 cal revolver nearby. Every time I went next door to either the recording studio or the rehearsal studio, I carefully looked out the door first. When it seemed safe, I made the 20-foot journey. I just knew I was going to be shot in a punk band drive by.
Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS
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