Wrapper: Nicaraguan
Binder: Nicaraguan
Filler: Nicaraguan
Size: 6.5 x 52 Toro
Strength: Medium/Full
Price: $22.00
Date Released: July 2025
Quantity Released: 2500 boxes of 17 cigars
Factory: My Father Cigars S.A. in Estelí, Nicaragua

My cigars received 3 months of naked humidor time.

BACKGROUND:
From Cigar Aficionado:
“The Don Pepin Garcia Series JJ line has been on the market for two decades and My Father is honoring the brand’s longevity with the Serie JJ 20th Anniversary, an all-Nicaraguan, limited-edition cigar that comes in a Toro and a slightly darker Salomon.

“All the tobacco in this release was grown by the Garcia family on their fields across Nicaragua, but the defining components are the wrapper leaves and the bit of Pelo de Oro in the filler. The Toro size, which measures 6 1/2 inches by 52 ring gauge, is covered in a Corojo ’99 wrapper that My Father refers to as Rosado. The Salomon (7 1/4 by 57) is darker with a Corojo ’99 Rosado Oscuro cover leaf. Both wrappers were grown under shade at the family’s Las Lometas farm in Estelí.

“Pelo de Oro tobacco is a low-yield leaf and rarely grown due to its susceptibility to disease. Because so little is cultivated, the Garcias only use Pelo de Oro for limited editions such as this one. My Father blended the cigars to be on the fuller side in terms of body.”

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
Know how I know that a cigar is worthy of a cigar review? I buy a fiver. I smoke one about a week after receipt to settle my curiosity factor. Then I let them rest. A month later, I try again, If my eyebrows raise in a safe way, I do the prep work on Word. A month after that, I try again. If I get the homina, homina, homina reaction, I put the cigar in queue. If a cigar is a turd, I deal with the reality I’ve wasted good money. Let others spend hours writing about dog rockets.

It’s a nice presentation. Lots of foo foo with a main band, secondary band, and a decorated ribbon footer band. It’s a very heavy cigar. Easily a two hour visit each time. If you huff and puff like an inmate being executed by gas, maybe 20 minutes. Electric chair, 6 minutes. Hanging, 2 minutes. Lethal injection, 45 minutes.

And it smells good too. I scrolled because first impressions are it is an Ecuadorian wrapper, but it is Nicaraguan. Floral subterfuge. I like it. With fat notes of decadent milk chocolate, green tea, caramelized sugar, black coffee, subtle barnyard, and black pepper.

The footer band slips off like a silk stocking from a dame who you just met at a USO dance in 1943.

The cap is perfectly rounded and very artistic. My PerfecPunch doesn’t care and goes in whole hog. The cigar lets out a gentle scream and it’s done. The PP is the Ed Gein of cigar accessories. But wait, there’s more. The draw is dead in the water. Ah ha. I grab my PerfecDraw from the well where it’s been searching for little Bobby. The PD brings out half the earth from the cigar’s crawl space. Screams are muffled by the rag in my mouth. I’m a pretty little girl. Wait, I’ve gone too far. To be continued…

The cold draw is spicy pasta fagioli, more black coffee, dark chocolate, malt, and caramel apple.

Time is a’ wastin.’ Light the damn thing.

Spicy meatball start. My tongue is on fire from the red pepper. But creamy too, like Vitameatavegamin.

The malt is extreme like being slapped by two Stooges at once. I like it.

David Crosby took my Polaroid camera from me. “Hey man, let me show you something.” I sat in the dressing room with The Byrds while he took photos of everyone. His trick was getting a double exposure by covering half the lens with a piece of paper, clicking, not letting the photo eject, and taking the photo again. I tried to repeat it for friends and failed miserably. Roger McGuinn had just changed his name from Jim because his guru said ‘Roger’ was a name more attributable to his spirit animal. As I readied to leave, I asked for an autograph. He wrote a big loopy ‘J’ and then stopped. He continued to write with his correct new name. I thought it was cool that I had this bizarre mistake in print. I bet it’s worth $25 now. McGuinn allowed me to hold his jingle jangle 12 string Rickenbacker and strum Mr. Tambourine Man. I tried to sing it but Chris Hillman laughed and took the guitar away. Everyone joined in the laughter. Me too.

There is an earthy quality that digs in at the half inch mark. The roll is slow as predicted. It takes 15 minutes to get this far. Using my analog slide rule, this might be a 3-hour cigar. My math might be wrong so I grab my digital abacus and it proves my geometry true.

The abrupt beginning of spiciness relents and the cigar smooths out beautifully. The first inch was about deliberate introductions. There were distinct flavor notes, initiatives of levity with high anxiety spiciness, a beating from Moe, and short intervals of introspection…or in psycho babble terms, blend psychosis. I like it. Beats bland anytime.

Quite the transformation. The cigar, at inch two, is smoother than my tushy during a full moon when I shave it to get a discount on Medicare. There is a wonderful milk chocolate nougaty element that rules the range. Followed by caramel and café au lait. Complexity begins at this point. Depth is fleshed out in pale terms. Strength began at medium and remains there as inch two sneaks sally through the alley.

I take my first sip of water. Not because the cigar dictates it, but because I’m old and I’m thirsty. Much like your dog, Shemp, with the gray muzzle.

Creaminess moves in and brings the caramel underpinnings along with it. Chocolate takes third place. The cigar is still in its early stages and is minimalistic in its approach. Not even close to being a flavor bomb. Instead, a rich earthy blend that checks all the boxes for what I like that appeals to a sophisticated palate. I see leaf stats that scream Nic puro and I roll my eyes. Been there done that. Not with this baby. This is special.

Hall of Fame drummer Hal Blaine was a bit of an oddball. A super achiever for sure. You can’t be blessed with that level of talent and not be cursed by something. Hal could make you swoon with his ability to drop names. But he had so many insecurities. He railed at me after I wrote an article about him because I mentioned that he worried about the future of his ability to stay relevant. Turns out that he wanted no one to know he might not be getting as many dates as his halcyon days. I was writing for a couple of local Long Beach newspapers doing articles about artists and how their insecurities drove them to achieve. I always made sure to explain this to my subjects and everyone was excited to be a part of it. Hal told me that I could include his neurotic concerns before I put pen to paper. But seeing it in print caused him to panic. I got a phone call where he used the ‘f’ word more than the all the time I knew him combined. Still, he remained my friend to the end. How fucking lucky was I? I have lots of charts that Hal wrote for sessions he did for me. He would listen to a song once. Write down his part. And play it perfectly on the first take. Hal was one of a kind.

The burn line is exceptional.

I occasionally check social media to see what people say about me because I take shit personal. I know. Recently, I saw some guys dissing the hell out of me. I called them out as mean girls. And that triggered them to go all in. And then others jumped in to defend me. How nice was that? I shouldn’t take things personal but it is a character flaw I can’t discard. Naturally, the mean girls left the field of play because they can’t take the heat that they put on others as they are usually just cowards. So, in the end, it was fun. I dish it out, but I put my name on the crap I write.

The blend is getting smoother and smoother. The strength remains shy of medium/full, that or I’m having a mild aneurysm. So far, a great first cigar of the day with a tub of strong coffee and a chaser of fentanyl.

The first half comes to an end. The first half of my Uncle Schmuel’s life came to an end after being derogated to an evening of kosher pork milkshakes and his rabbi’s blessings. Creamy, sweet, rich, earthy, complex, and deeply personal.

I make fun of drummer Stewart Copeland all the time. The man has always had a great sense of humor about himself, and he doesn’t mind. Besides, the highly disrespectful stories I recollect never include him as a bad guy. He was along for the ride like me and had no say in the direction of Curved Air. I have a friend from the Netherlands that is affiliated with The Police. He and I have communicated since their inception. He sent me the following email that describes how Curved Air put an ad in Record Mirror Magazine either just before I left the band or right after. It describes what I’ve told you a million times: the man got fired weekly because he didn’t play to the room or the song. He was Keith Moon on steroids. In addition to the email, he included a screenshot of the ad showing that CA was unhappy and took measures. Stew had the last laugh…his old bandmates are either dead or struggling to survive. So much for the arrogance of prog rock musicians.

I ordered Chinese takeout last night. $95. That’s 23 cases of Fleet Enemas.

The blend continues to be as smooth as a gondola ride with your hand up the bra of your significant friend. I was going to say brother but it reveals too much.

My second sip of water. The Stooges are in the Sahara. Transference.

Flavor points constantly juxtapose every half inch. This is marvelous. Pepin Garcia nailed it. Rarely do anniversary cigars honor their benefactors. They are usually slovenly attempts that smokers see with a side eye. But this is worth our time and money. The Don really scored.

Down to the last couple of inches. And the strength finally sees medium/full. Zero nicotine. No mind bending in play. A lovely blend. I’m having more fun than realizing it’s not my finger stuck in the cat’s ass.

Nice smoke output.

Not a lick of harshness. Smooth to the end. Like me. I’d croon if I could. But I can’t. After the first tour of Curved Air, singer Sonja Kristina told me she was impressed with me and said I should sing harmonies. I told her I couldn’t sing. She said, “Phil, give me two weeks.” At the end of the two weeks, “Phil, you can’t sing.”

My PerfecDraw sits sobbing that I pay no attention. It lay in its bed of frankincense and myrrh. I give in. Instead of my trusty roach clip, I pierce the toast with the PD and it becomes the perfect nubbing tool. I sit back in my office chair and finish the cigar in my manger adorned with hay and merkin shavings.

You can purchase Don Pepin Garcia Series JJ 20th Anniversary from sponsor Small Batch Cigar. Take 15% off with promo code DOJO.

RATING: 96

Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS

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