Wrapper: Nicaraguan Maduro
Binder: Nicaraguan
Filler: Nicaraguan
Size: 6.5 x 54 Toro ~ Box Pressed
Strength: Medium/Full
Price: $12.00

My cigars received 5 months of naked humidor time.

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
I reviewed the Maduro in robusto size in 2014. I reviewed the Natural version yesterday. Thanks to Jeff Byrnes for the kick in the arse. He reminded me that there are Padrón blends available somewhere this side of moonshot pricing.

When you sniff a cigar, please cradle it in your hands like magic fairy dust. Roll it around sniffing the wrapper and then the foot. Close your eyes and focus. Think of the time I was in the wilderness and only had banana leaves for toilet paper…and then discovering that they weren’t banana leaves. Instead, they were the lost Dead Sea Scrolls that the Israelites loaned to a guy named Sharky Feinberg. Sharky’s friends called him Tumbaku because he was married to a Swahili woman of gentile stature. Rabbis from across the Aramaic universe donned headgear and tallit whenever Sharky visited. During a crooked game of Jenga, the Sharkmeister lost the scrolls to a guy named X Æ A-Xii. Close friends called this huckster, Arnie. He sold the scrolls to a manifest destiny surgeon in Palm Springs who failed to take good care of the ancient artifacts and lost them in the desert during a rave headlined by the band Passover Sunday. This is what you need to keep in your frontal cortex each time you snort the wobbly smellocules from your cigar.

So what does the Padrón 4000 Series Maduro Toro smell like? I forget.

The resistance upon sucking deeply is flawless. I emit a hearty hi ho silver as my PerfecDraw fades into camera obscura. The cold draw is the very darkest of chocolate with a hanging thread of black cherries.

Like the Natural blend, the Maduro begins with a wide berth of baked bread, cinnamon, and caramel. And then notes of fresh coffee and chocolate land with lovely subtlety. In fact, the richness quotient wastes zero time. But you gotta know that if you mess around with smoking these blends too early, you’ll be wasting good cigars. Let them sleep for a minimum of 3 months. Here is what stands out when comparing the Padron budget level sticks…they age beautifully. I’ve found that most Nic puros age out after a year or so. Not the blends made by the Padron family. Thereby enhancing the valuableness of the brand.

There is a tartness reminiscent of orange zest. Black pepper gets spicy at the half inch mark. While the strength of the Natural blend was easy going at first, not so the Maduro. I feel the strength building and I ponder my poor empty stomach. Oh no.

At one inch burned, things slow down. I sit back and find that I really don’t care if I continue writing or not. It doesn’t get more life affirming than this. Drifting in time and space is all we smokers ask for. I don’t know at this point if I want to dissect the blend or just enjoy it and I suggest that you do the same.

It’s a tobacco chocolate nougaty tutu barre. Bitter espresso. Zero motility black cherries just creaming and dreaming along highway 61. Tart marzipan oozes sweetness. Sourdough bread schmeared with ghee. The offset is that this cigar is becoming powerful. There is a long way to go and if I had food in my belly I might be able to get through the last 2 inches without belching fire. The second half will tell all.

When I smoke the Natural, I can tell that this is a lesser being than the 50th anniversary blend. With the Maduro, it follows more closely to its expensive brethren. The nice thing about this blend in robusto or corona is that flavors are more intense than this behemoth. But this Rodan of a vitola has less kick and more easily absorbed. Compromises. But then no one is dumb enough to smoke a kick ass cigar in the morning with coffee. Only me.

I scrunch to find the flavor subtleties. The overseer is making sure that the complexity and refinement rule the moments. It’s odd. When I smoke a cigar during my off-duty hours, I can be on the computer, watch television, or even play bass. But when I flip the meter on, I can only listen to music to keep me on point.

The ash on the maduro is similar to the natural as it is flaky and light. The slightest urge sees its decapitation into the basket of my ashtray. Yet, the char line is dead nuts straight. Big smile.

In my late teens and early 20’s, I played in a band that often-played gigs for the fighting Marines. It was during these corpulent times that I discovered that the large head on my Fender P bass was a weapon to be used for self-defense. Nothing worse than a drunk serviceman barraging the stage and telling you he can play better than you. Of course, it was true but no one touches my bass. In ’67, I asked Roger McGuinn if I could hold his jingle jangle 12 string Rickenbacker. He nodded yes. I could have lost a hand if I hadn’t asked.

The first half was sheer delight. Is it kicking my arse? Damn, straight. But I got my jams on so I’m cool.

Flavors don’t go wild. They get better. Like you when you get older. Unless you ask your doc. I have visions of my death. I’m Jewish, sue me.

The rough edges of the first half’s demeanor smooth out beautifully. What goes up, must come down. Learning to fly.

Killing time here…we were in George Martin’s Air Studios in London for a month. I saw the man several times but didn’t have the nerve to strike up a conversation. We said hello and occasionally shook hands. A few days before we left, I goaded myself in prep for his next surprise arrival. I wore a bowler for the occasion. He saw it and laughed. I was in.

It doesn’t get more chocolatey than this. Spicy meatball too. My eyes begin to water. Tangled up in blue. Now we’re having us some fun.

Sweat nodules begin to form on my third eye. I feel my pulse. It bulges. A warm overcoat of rich tasty notes are expelled from tobacco to palate. I suck deeply (I’m straight). Fortune has headed my way.

This kahuna burger is just fooking great.

Two inches to go. Oh, Jesus. The room gyrates. My elderberries swoon. My wooden appendage does the macarena in 5/4. I’m free fallin’.

With an inch to go, I mysteriously rise from my coma. Wisconsin birds are watching me from the guardrail. No wind visible. I dare to name them. I do it alphabetically. This pisses them off. I put the roach back down in the ashtray.

George asked to see my Gibson EBO. I showed it to him. He flexed it a bit. He tilted his ears and pointed at the speakers above the console. “Is that you?” I nodded sheepishly. “Good job.” That was good enough for the rest of my life. I was sated.

While most may give this blend a hearty 90, I go the other route of a hale and heartier approach. Reward the damn cigar with thoughts of I really mean it. I ain’t no pro.

RATING: 95

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