Wrapper: Ecuadorian Habano
Binder: Nicaraguan
Filler: Dominican, Nicaraguan
Size: 6 x 52 Toro
Strength: Medium/Full
Price: $15.99

My cigars received 3 months of naked humidor time.

BACKGROUND:
From Small Batch Cigar:
“Sandy Cobas created El Titan de Bronze in Miami, Florida over 20 years ago, amidst the likes of Padrón, My Father, and others. When other factories moved to Nicaragua, Sandy preserved El Titan in Little Havana to keep her factory grounded in family roots.

“Sandy and El Titan have facilitated the rise of many success stories over the years, including that of Willy Herrera, Warped Cigars, La Palina, and so many more. Her devotion to small batch tobacco and traditional Cuban methods is immediately recognizable in every cigar crafted at El Titan de Bronze.

“HYPERION is a limited-edition celebration of all that she has achieved. A spotlight, if you will, of gratitude for Sandy’s tireless efforts to improve this industry day and after day and always root for the little guy (or gal) with a big story.”

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
I rated Hyperion 2023 with a 96. The blend differed by using a Sumatra wrapper, an Ecuador binder, and fillers from the Dominican Republic.

Floral grape jelly, minty chocolate, soft creaminess, candied almonds, barnyard, and freshly brewed coffee are easily picked up without requiring a trained nose.

Air intake is a bit tight as it was in my previous two cigars. From the drawer marked fontella bass, comes my PerfecDraw. One smoochy swoosh and it’s a clean thoroughfare for this wheezy old man. Next time your doctor tells you to stop smoking cigars, hand him an OpusX fiver.

The cold draw is dynamic with notes of bold cinnamonwood, black pepper, clove, bitter chocolate, fresh mint sprigs, and foamy cream.

A well-constructed stick as one expects, but more often hopes for, when snagging a cigar in this price range. I often feel a twinge of guilt because I know that otherworldly smokers from Europe and the British Commonwealth laugh when they read how inexpensive cigars are in the U.S. Scooby Dooby Doo.

The cigar looks good and feels good. All it needs is a fake Davidoff cigar band.

I light the magic twanger and there is an immediate meatiness that tells me this is a manly cigar. I should probably change out of my pink Depends and into my blue ones.

Black coffee and black pepper soak up the first puffs. A spicy bedrock that squeezes and squishes like mortar. There is a peripheral creaminess that says later gator. Flavors are subtle. Each has a distinct identity rather than ebbing and flowing together like the second chorus of We Are the World. So far, so good.

At 1”, strength is a reliable medium. My shorts tighten. I know what’s coming. I open my book of Balzac and it is dog eared at the passage: “Whenever thy doth knoweth thatith fondeft radicchio beeth fortuitouff excufe for a dithco duck.” I rest my case.

Without notice and without treatment for the itch, my chops begin to smack. What is this. Rich complexity I says to myself and to no one in particular.

The mother kicks in the door like a barricade of cops responding to my college escapade of buying condoms without showing I.D. to the pharmacist.

Immediately, signals are sent to my cyclopean forehead that another 3-4 months (6-9 total) of humidor time will elevate the entire experience to the level of episode #82 of Rocky and Bullwinkle in which Doris gets her oats…with Charles Hawtrey on the Deaf Aids.

The halfway point is met. Medium strength is scuttled by an onslaught of power like the Seti nebulae screaming directions to white punks on dope.

There is chocolate, creamed coffee, black pepper, baking spices, an array of salted nuts, with slightest caramel.

And then there are jet black grapes. The aroma of freshly hewn stems that still drip with the juice of detached globes. This is wonderful. But I fear it may just be the participation of my brain and my palate working well together. There is no guarantee anyone else will experience the same. The upside is there is depth to the population of tendrils we call flavor…and what non cigar smokers call drek. This blend may be up for interpretation in a most enticing way. This is a very good cigar.

The second stick was on a full belly. The cigar used for review is on an empty stomach and clean palate. A much richer experience. Secret hint: I use a Waterpik after a meal and before my sequential cigars. Make sure you scrub your tongue. It’s magical.

The first half is delightfully deceiving. A stroll through medium strength. The second half requires an identity search. Most of my adult smoking life, I enjoyed being laid prostrate on the floor like a flatworm from a potent cigar. I still enjoy them now and again. The deciding factor is that a strong cigar needs a chorus of sixteen vestal virgins leaving for the coast. I don’t mind punishing my incredible shrinking brain if the quotient for delicious is 100%.

I watched American Graffiti (1973) yesterday.1962. I was still in the 7th grade. But things didn’t really change from ’62-‘67. Cruising, rock n roll, Wolfman Jack, the Twist, Lions Drag Strip, authoritarian hierarchy, pointy bras, and the school’s tough guy putting a lid of grass in my locker for $10. My mom’s 1960 Pontiac Bonneville could hold 8 bitchin dudes for a trip to the Los Altos Drive-In. Plus, another 3 spaz’s in the trunk.

I am trying to think of a comparison blend. I cannot point with certainty. The second half sees this blend finding a pleasant unique quality that is sweethearts of the rodeo.

Flavors are subordinate to broad richness and complexity. This is definitely a manly cigar. Manly women may apply.

I took a break. I ate a little something. I injected 10mg of testosterone and 5mg of liquefied Wheaties. My tongue is growing pubic hair in front of me.

Unless you have the constitution of Paleolithic Man, I recommend this being either an afternoon smoke or your exquisite after dinner cigar. With time to regroup, I am handling the strength much better.

I taste: Boston Baked Beans candy. Cinnamon candy apple. Bit O Honey. Sugar Babies. Mallo Cup. Once turned on, it can’t be turned off.

The last two inches is an intense ride. The LED display above my amygdala reads: ‘Let The Cigar Wait For Another 3 Months Because Experience Says The Cigar Will Be Worthy Of A Rating Of 100.’ Even the shit in my head is run on sentences.

You can purchase Hyperion 2024 Toro by El Titan de Bronze from sponsor Small Batch Cigar. Take 10% off with promo code KATMAN.

RATING: 96

And now for something completely different (Greasy grimy gopher guts):

Back in time. Circa 1979-1985, I owned and ran a recording studio.
I owned a house in North Long Beach in a very diverse neighborhood. Folks took care of their homes and yards. A friendly neighborhood. A blue-collar neighborhood. A very cool neighborhood.

A Filipino family lived next door with about 15 uncles and aunts sharing the home. One elderly uncle began mowing my lawn every few days without asking. All good. The man never spoke to me, even in Tagalog. I paid him to continue the chore every week.
As a thank you from his family for giving the sweet old man something to do regularly, they would bring me the spoils from hanging out at the Long Beach Pier. Without fail, they would present me totally intact 5lb fishies. They never bothered to gut them. My fishing and cleaning days were behind me, so I’d throw them into the massive freezer in my 1960 Amana refrigerator. They piled up like cords of wood.

When I moved after 6 years in the house, I left the fakakta fridge where it stood. The electricity was turned off. And I heard that it took a month before anyone bothered to deal with the fridge that was quietly becoming a saltwater burial ground. I would have loved to have been there when the first person opened it and got hit in the puss with rotted fish. Good memories.

I developed a gopher problem 6 months after I bought the house. Cute at first…but then my lawn began to sink. I tried everything to shoo the varmints. Nothing worked.

One day, a bunch of cops pretending to be Southern California Edison utility workers were in the middle of tapping the phone of the people next door. One undercover cop tripped and fell from stepping into one of the holes. I ran to his aid and so did the other cops. That’s when I noticed their IWB guns. I was white, clean cut, and polite. They left me alone. Not a clue that I had several ounces of weed and nosecaine in my safe that was used for bribery in my music business endeavors. It was the 80’s. See Johnny Depp in ‘Blow.’

Turned out that the couple who had moved into the rental next door sold dime bags of heroin. The stake-out lasted a month. The cops nailed these poor souls. When the brouhaha of the bust finished, I shook all the cops’ hands and told them good work. I gave them cigars.

I morphed into Caddyshack’s Bill Murray. I used the water hose constantly. The gophers laughed at me while spitting water from their buckteeth.

I tried poisoning them. They spread the poison on Ritz Crackers.

I’d be out front, and it was like Whack-A-Mole. These little assholes would come up from their holes and stare at me. I’d run over with a shovel but to no avail. Gophers are faster than a speeding building. I believe a gopher got the land speed record at Bonneville in 1902.

I hired an exterminator who guaranteed he would make them disappear.
He failed. He even used gas. Twice. It gave the gophers the munchies.

One day, I was doing the hose thing when I noticed a few feet from me that a very wet and soaked gopher popped his head up coughing for air.

I took my KA-BAR knife and started slashing away like Anthony Perkins in ‘Psycho.’ I was screaming like a banshee which had folks coming out of their houses to see what was going on.

I kept missing the little mutterfutter…because I didn’t have the nerve to look when I brought the knife down. Finally, as it seemed that the clock had run out, I stared at him in the eyes…he stared right back. I yelled like a WWII Japanese soldier and stuck the huge knife through his chest. I skewered him like a shish kabob.

His last words were: “The Family won’t like this.”

It was hell getting my knife back from the squishy beast and I began to feel queasy.
It was a beautiful sunny SoCal day for a murder.

I walked back into the house and sat on my couch staring at the wall. I sat there a long time.

I had sent a message of Il bacio della morte to the Cosa Nostra of gophers.

What do I do with the body? He was soaking wet, and I didn’t want him to fall apart on me when I tried to dispose of his corpse. I figured I’d wait till the next day when he was crispier.

The next morning, I heard the power mower plugging away. I looked out to see my neighbor doing his thing. I didn’t see the gopher…he got rid of it for me. I was going to tip him when I got home from the studio.

As I got into my 1972 Bentley, I waved and nodded to my neighbor who responded with a huge toothless smile.

I came home about 5 hours later for a nice lunch and I noticed something on the lawn.
It was gopher burger. The neighbor ran over and over the dead critter until the lawn was one big feeding ground for wild dingoes.

That act of duty must have scared the shit out of the millions of gophers that made my lawn their home because I never had a single problem after that.

I was GopherMan before I was KatMan.

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