Wrapper: Nicaraguan
Binder: Nicaraguan
Filler: Nicaraguan
Size: 6 x 52 Torpedo
Strength: Medium/Full
Price: $11.60
My cigars have had 4 months of naked humidor time.
But…these cigars have had 4 years of box time due to its singular release in August 2019.
BACKGROUND:
This was a collaboration of secret Nicaraguan tobacco blending between Robert Caldwell and AJ Fernandez. Only four sizes: Robusto, Super Corona, Super Toro, and Torpedo were released…250 boxes of 25 each. And that was it. This blend won’t be repeated. If you look around with your fine-tooth comb, some online stores have a few left.
The blend is nothing like the original The King is Dead.
THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
There are still aromas emanating from this 4-year-old wrapper: black grapes, baking spices, floral notes, vanilla bean, cedar, black pepper, and maple syrup.
The draw is a bit tight but rather than digging around with my PerfecDraw, I will give the cigar the benefit of the doubt and light it up.
The cigar begins with a muddled flavor profile. Notes that seem jumbled without much distinction. Black pepper steps up first with a very potent spiciness. Creaminess settles in.
As much as I like AJ’s style of blending, there is an immutable fact about his cigars…they don’t have a long shelf life. Even if they are kept in the cave of solitude with their cellos intact. I’ve found that a year, maybe a year and a half, is all they are good for. Absolutely no idea why this occurs. It might be me. I should add that I am disturbingly vigilant about the humidity levels in my humidors so it’s not about caretaking on my part.
I’ve found that the long-term AJ sticks enter the Xander Zone of mustiness and lay there until they are discarded with disappointing reality that I fucked up and didn’t smoke them sooner.
This cigar has nice construction and hence, it is a slow roll. The char line is behaving like a champ. Technically, I should not jump the shark and give the cigar a fighting chance to impress. I will do that.
The mustiness that came with the start of the cigar disappears with ¾” burned. Flavors being to unroll like a piece of fruit gelatin.
If the cigar turns out to be a real winner, I will not eat my words about lifespans. This blend could be an exception. This is me waffling and back pedaling.
I only found a couple reviews of this cigar. I never know if it is due to the limited availability of the blend, or it was a dog turd and reviewers didn’t want to offend.
There isn’t any serious complexity happening. And it is burning quickly. The char line begins wilding and I give up hope early in this journey. I fucked up by choosing this cigar to review.
Flavors are held tight and unable to expose much other than the spiciness that dominates the entire flavor story. Totally savory without a hint of sweetness that this cigar dearly needs.
The cigar begins to burn like a cigarette. A little over 1” burned in 8 minutes. It makes this torpedo less than an hour cigar. Good. Because I don’t believe I need the aggravation of a slow cigar that tastes like shit.
I’m going to add a back in the day story I have used countless times when I have nothing good to offer in the way of advising you on a good or bad cigar.
This cigar is deadly linear. What a fucking tampon.
Strength is medium/full…so, there’s that.
I feel the nicotine piling on at just 1’1/2” burned. Yeah, I’m going to fucking torture myself for an hour swooning like a teenage girl at her first prom so I can describe a cigar that should be held accountable at The Hague.
Even Amazon Music is sending me a message by not working properly. It is the ghost of shitty cigars past.
I can’t believe I paid money for a 10 pack of these free birds. Now I know why such a limited run is still available if you search for them online.
The burn remains out of control.
My brain tricked me into thinking there was fucking hope. Wrong. Just my meds giving me a boner when I least expected it, steering my palate in the wrong direction. Happens a lot.
The cigar is terrible. Do not, I repeat, do not buy this cat poop on a stick even if it pops up for sale somewhere. Too expensive to be a fireplace lighter despite it being designed to be just that.
RATING: DOA
And now for something completely different:
1967 Me looking a lot older than 17:
I had a great gig at Knott’s Berry Farm in Buena Park back in my high school years during the 1840’s. My best friend had worked there for 6 months and got me the gig.
I had applied earlier at the main personnel office with another buddy. He got a job…but since they didn’t hire Jews, or any other ethnic group, I was turned down. And for those that don’t know, there ain’t another last name more Jewish than Kohn or Cohen.
My buddy, Skip, worked on the other side of Beach Blvd where John Birch Society member, and owner of the park, Walter Knott had erected a facsimile of Independence Hall. The smaller extension of Knott’s had a big lagoon, a vintage carousel, miniature train, row boats, and the steamboat: the Cordelia K…named for Walter’s wife.
Knott’s began as a berry stand in the 30’s (He invented the Boysenberry) and blossomed into a fried chicken restaurant.
Ol’ Walter built a cool looking western town and ghost town. It later had all kinds of western themed rides…including a full-size 19th century locomotive with passenger cars. It slowly cruised around the perimeter of the park and college boys dressed as cowboy bad guys came through firing blanks from their Colt revolvers and yelling that they were robbing the train. It was the only gig in SoCal where having long hair ensured you had a job.
Every ride, on both properties, was owned by subcontractor Bud Hurlbut. It was Bud himself who hired me giving me the distinction of being the first Jew ever to work at Knott’s. After a week working there, I ran into Bud and felt cocky. I asked him if he knew that I was Jewish? He busted out with a big belly laugh while patting me on the back and walked away still laughing.
Walter was a real S.O.B. He hated anyone who was not white. Or not Christian. And by the time I went to work there, he was ancient.
I got hired to be the new steamboat captain. I was thrilled when I found out the boat wasn’t like Disneyland whose jungle ride boats were on tracks. Not here. No track. I actually drove the boat. On the downside, they didn’t give me a gun.
I spent 5 shifts in training and then she was all mine. I knew how the damn thing worked after my first day but that was the rule. Unfortunately, the guy that trained me was a serial killer in the making as the man had no personality and made the day very long.
The boat sat around 40 people. And it cost 25¢ to ride. In fact, all the rides were 25¢ on our side of the park.
I had to wear this stupid captain’s hat that made me sweat. I took it off a lot. And I got into trouble a lot. The 30-year-old manager would come in on his days off to catch me. He hated me. He probably went on to be a cigar industry reviewer.
The steamboat was not run by steam; but rather, a big diesel engine that was dressed up to look like a steam turbine. My back was up against it the whole time I drove the boat. It was nice during the winter months…but in the very warm summer, the non-breathable captain’s hat made me sweat like a fetal pig.
I learned how to run the carousel, the train, sell tickets, and send people on their way in a rented rowboat. But the captain thing was my main gig.
I got tired of kids asking me if the boat was on a track. They saw me struggling to turn the boat out of the dock due to poor planning on the dock’s location to the first curve in the lagoon. It was especially difficult when the boat was heavy with a lot of people. So, I told them, “No. The boat is not on a track…the water is.” I always got befuddled looks and the questions stopped…or sometimes the middle finger.
The lagoon was the size of a football field. It had a duck island in the middle. My job was to do two turns around the black lagoon. One was a wide berth and the second was close to the island. That’s what you got for your 25¢.
But that 25¢ gave people the impression that I would spew some sort of narrative and shoot at rising hippos as we rode along the black water.
They were always so disappointed that all I did was keep my mouth shut and drive.
One of my passions was to ram row boats. Especially, the people without the slightest hint of how to row a boat. I truly enjoyed watching them sitting in one place turning the boat in a 360-degree circle going nowhere. I aimed for them. I would grab the megaphone and yell at them to get out of the way and they would start screaming in panic.
Good times.
I then pulled the throttle back, let the boat slow down to near motionless, and I would climb out and plant myself on the bow. I grabbed a long aluminum gaff and would push them out of the way. All the time listening to the near tearful patrons thanking me for not killing them…it broke up my day. Everyone thought the boat was on a track.
One Easter Sunday, chaos showed up dressed for the prom. The Farm was packed and so was the boat. I had a sharp turn to make to get out of the dock and turn to the left. I pulled and pulled that damn steering wheel. And on that day, the steering cable broke.
The boat floated free. I pulled the steam whistle over and over, which was the sign of an emergency. I stood on the bow of the boat waving my arms. Employees ran over and I yelled that the steering was broken.
No one knew what to do. One of the guys, fully clothed, just started walking into the lagoon…that nasty, smelly, black water…with no filtration system and 2 feet of muck at the bottom.
My head dropped in resignation…I jumped into the water. The people on the boat applauded.
By this time, the boat had drifted about 50 feet from the dock. There were four of us in the water trying to push it back to the dock.
I moved to the stern. I leaped up to grab the back of the boat and was swiftly hit in the chest with the steering system that looked like two horizontal ladders about a foot and a half below the water. The water was so black, I couldn’t see them, and I never knew they were even there.
I completely submerged. I came up covered in muck. This was a bad day.
Me and another fella pushed the stern while treading water. Two others pushed the bow, and after nearly 30 minutes, we were able to get the boat back to the dock. The little boat was heavy and flat bottomed…and the big paddle wheels acted like brakes. Over 40 riders sat there snapping photos of us and laughing…it was cumbersome and heavy…and I had no sense of humor.
Once locked at the dock, a huge roar of voices and applause filled the air…hundreds and hundreds of onlookers heard what had happened and lined the shore.
The owner, Bud, showed up and sent all four of us across the street for new clothes. Mind you, no shower, but new clothes. We had to work the rest of our shift stinking to high heaven. He could have sent us home with a hearty hand clasp and a big thank you…but that never occurred to Bud.
Years later, the lagoon side rides were turned into a parking lot. Independence Hall was not touched.
Once a month, Walter would ride shotgun in an electric cart, driven by a suit, and they headed over to the lagoon. Walter always wore the same ridiculous shiny silver suit that made him look like a disco duck even though it was the late 1960’s. He loved riding the steamboat…usually twice…making patrons wait.
The man never said a word to me…even when he once tripped getting up and I grabbed him so he wouldn’t go elbows over ankles. Didn’t even look at me. Really nice man.
On my last day working there, I took the boat out for the very last time, full of passengers. I gunned it…causing a huge rooster tail of water from the paddle wheels. I turned it around on the other side of duck island and came around the wrong way…still at max speed. I went through the dock like a crazy man, with 3” to spare on either side, at full bore. To this day, I have no idea how I didn’t crash the boat. I went around again, turned it around, and finished the boat ride with a thank you to my wildly frightened passengers.
I was later told by friends that my manager said he would kill me if he ever saw me again. For a couple years, I was a legend throughout the entire park. Really. No bullshit.
A few years later, I was dating a Knott’s chick and we went to employee night and all the rides were free. She and I were at the front of the line of the Log Flume ride, and I noticed that my old manager was buckling folks in. I now had my afro and hoped he wouldn’t recognize me. I looked straight down at my feet as I got in.
Just before we took off, the manager said to me with a big evil smile, “Make sure you drive this in the right direction.” And off we went. I was sure he would have beaten me to death right there. Hand to God, this really happened.
One last thing…for a high school boy, Knott’s was ferret heaven. It was full of beautiful girl employees. I nearly dated them all. I left there with a terrible reputation. I had spewed my precious bodily fluids to my heart’s content. Sterling Hayden in “Dr Strangelove” would have been proud.
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Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS
