Wrapper: La Meca Ecuador Habano Grade 1 Dark Rosado
Binder: Mexican San Andrés
Filler: Nicaraguan (GK Condega C-SG Seco, Pueblo Nuevo Criollo Viso, La Joya Estelí C-98 Viso, ASP Estelí Hybrid Ligero) USA Lancaster County Broadleaf Ligero, Utah Ligero.
Size: 6.25 x 46
Strength: Medium/Full
Price: $18.75

My cigars have received two weeks of naked humidor time.

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
Sometimes I wish that Saka would disclose the leaves and their origin countries.

I get a nice honeydew or honeydon’t aroma from the wrapper. Prodigious barnyard follows in queue followed by end of the line notes of (do I have to list this, really?) dark chocolate, fresh coffee, dried apricots, ginger, and carnations.

The pretty Cinnabon on top of the cap must see decapitation. The draw is as tight as a Utah spinner on the anniversary of Brigham Young’s four millionth apostate at my door. I shall defy the code that Dr. Rod laid out and push the antsy PerfecDraw aside…for now.

Cold Draw is spicy baking spices, (Really, I gotta do this again?) baking coca powder, Semaglutide on toast, and both red and black peppers.

Blessings on thee. Tasty Kahuna burger start. Flashdancing on my palate like tootsie fairies from downtown Mesa, Arizona.

Redundancy transfer from aroma and cold draw to flavor rockpile. I taste all the leaves Saka included except for the Utah Ligero. I’m sure it will catch up.

Are there dry spices in play? Yes, there are. Quite a bit of spiciness that creates the illusion that the cigar is stronger than it pretends to be. At this early course in time, it is merely a level medium.

So why the hell am I reviewing a cigar I’ve only had for two weeks? You know my name. Look up the number. Welcome to Slaggers…Featuring Denis O’Bell.

Since I played bass guitar alongside drummer Stewart Copeland, I look upon myself as the Pete Best of bass players.

Inch one…creamy root beer float and red licorice. Hints of a denouement. Raise your hand if you were crushed when you found out that Dusty Springfield was a lesbian.

It’s not difficult or confusing to drive on the left side of the road. Or fumbling with the steering wheel on the right side of the car. Or maneuvering through countless roundabouts. What scared me was the suddenness of an emergency. Muscle memory. I never once drove head on into another car…that didn’t deserve it.

At last. A wave of richness envelops my imperfect being. Time is fluid, so remember to tighten the gaskets. Fuck me…the damn cigar is taking off like a gorgeous girl escaping from Salt Lake City. I say a little prayer.

This vitola qualifies as a Corona Gorda. Much like my winkie. It’s been called worse.

Despite what you may have heard or read; Howard Cosell was a very cool guy. With a cigar in hand, he was exceptionally mellow.

The cigar is like a sip of bourbon. I don’t need no stinkin’ sips of water. The stick medicates my salivary glands with primary coats of lip gloss.

If one is lucky, you can taste blender’s intent with a good cigar. I’m talking about you having no patience and sneaking a taste on week #1. I smoked this flavor flav and the merkin on my pate twirled like a dingy on Bohners Lake, Wisconsin. Named for an unfortunate incident with a harrow tool in the back room of Bubba’s Backyard Tavern.

I wish every cigar tasted like this…and so do you. I bought a box before you did. But now I am comme ci, comme ça about pulling the trigger again. Since I look out for you, and there is a limited supply, I shall not be greedy. Go for it. Remember me in your divorce papers.

There is no abundance of flavor wheel components. I get a sense of well-being from this blend. Remember that chick who was amply endowed and how you fell asleep amongst the globes? That’s the feeling.

The first half stunned and tagged me.

Do I have to list flavors? Am I not your buddy? Do you not trust this crazy old man? Maybe trust is not the correct morticious verb? How about your guy? Am I your guy. That’s better.

Saka is a solid blender who hits it out of the park more often than most. I’m never disappointed with his blends. Sometimes, he impales my palate with a nail gun. The Solita Red is my ooncha cooncha baby.

The Second Half: Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…

All reviewers are afraid of coarse language. I say embrace it. It’s how we all talk. But then most reviewers are trying to impress the cigar industry with their fair and equal assessments. I guess it’s about age and standing in the community. As I have no standing, it bothers me not. And wouldn’t reviews be more interesting if the fucks and fuck nots flew like buzzards above the fray? I can hear you nodding.

This thing has it all: Brilliant richness, refinement, complexity, transitions, mouth feel, finish, and if my sinuses could handle retrohaling…a perfect snort.

I have a mindset of how Roger McGuinn let me cradle his 12 string Rickenbacker and strum ‘I’ll Feel a Whole Lot Better.’ Tom Petty called that riff the anthem of folk rock. Rodg made me put it down after drool became over productive.

I might go through a box of these before ever making that magical three-month mark. A year? Fuggedaboudit.

The last two inches sees a flourish like a Spanish conquistador flouncing a Mohican with his jewel encrusted sword. Not a lick of harshness or loss of flavor. Brilliant to the fucking end.

These babies are limited. You snooze; you lose. You can purchase the Dunbarton Sobremesa Solita Red from sponsor Small Batch Cigar. Take 10% off with promo code KATMAN.

RATING: 98

And now for something completely different:
1975

The gig was in Cambridge, England. A huge hall without a single seat. (They have since installed auditorium seating). They shoved at least 600 people into that building. Even though it’s a school town, it had its seedy areas. And that’s where we played. The Cambridge Corn Exchange. A building that was over 150 years old. Huge ceilings which caused the music to bounce around and echo. Forcing us to play simply so as not to muddle the music. I hated that. Violinist Darryl Way told me every concert that I played too many notes.

The crowd was packed up against the edge of the stage. And the stage was only 6 feet tall. Close quarters combat.

A funky English motorcycle gang barged their way to the front of the stage and started in with us. A motorcycle gang back then didn’t drive Harleys….no…they drove Vespas. Real badass.

At first, they heckled Sonja Kristina…who handled it like a champ. But then one dumb fuck low life reached over to Darryl’s foot pedals and began to pound on them changing the viola’s sound with each punch!!

Well, this didn’t go down well. Darryl thought of himself as a badass when in truth, he was a prime wuss. He yelled for the roadies to get out there on stage and deal with it.

And then the faux pas that became life and death…Darryl reached over with his violin bow and smacked one of the bikers hard in the side of the head. All the while yelling profanities at the shit bird. Well, this didn’t go down well with the biker.

The biker pulled a huge folding knife from his waistband and flipped it open. We were in the middle of a song and the biker and Darryl continued to scream at each other because our roadies were somewhere off in lala land.

I stopped playing, unplugged, and walked over to the roadies at the side of the stage and saw our boys smoking dope from a large hashish pipe. I screamed at them, “Do you see what’s going on?!”

Darryl hit the guy again, but this time, extremely hard. Hard enough to break the bow. Part of the bow stuck into this guy’s head, gushing blood, and then it became a free for all. Our giant roadies jumped into the fray.

There was a kid in the audience who was standing right next to the biker and was oblivious to everything because he was watching the sexy chick singer, not the angry violin player.

The biker yelled, “OH YEAH!?!” And stuck this huge knife into the back of the kid as a showcase for what he was going to do to the violinist.

My eyes bugged out. I could not believe this. It was fucking Altamont.

The roadies then went Medieval and pummeled the bikers to a pulp. Our stage manager rushed us off stage and into the dressing room where he locked the door.

Darryl was stomping around with his chest puffed out acting like a turd. Because of him, he angered the biker enough to hurt some innocent kid. And all he wanted to do was go back out there and fight the biker, who by the way, would have killed Darryl.

Moments later, we were rushed from the dressing room to waiting cars and whisked back to the hotel. The cops followed us in three cars. Sirens wailing.

We later asked about the kid, and we were told he was in bad shape but lived to tell the tale.
Darryl had to go to court to testify a couple months later and the biker went away for a long time.

Who said rock n roll was for poofters? Wankers, yes…poofters not so much.

Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS

Tags: cigar reviews, cigar reviews by the katman, cigars, Dunbarton Sobremesa Solita Red | Cigar Reviews by the Katman, dunbarton tobacco & trust, katman, phil kohn, solita red, steve saka