Wrapper: Mexican San Andres
Binder: Dominican
Filler: Dominican
Size: 6 x 52 Torpedo
Strength: Full
Price: $12.08
Date Released: August 2025
Quantity Released: 500 boxes of 10 (each of 3 sizes)
Factory: TABADEX, Dominican Republic
My cigars received 4 months of naked humidor time.
THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
When I saw that this cigar’s strength is full tilt, I decided to have a big lunch of sauteed marmot kishka, Iranian matzoh balls, baked lamb’s neck, and a glass of MD 30/30 with Fleet enema back.
The cigar is solid and well made. The cap is pointy like the tip of a Tomahawk missile. Or the dull end of a politician’s promise. Or the reservoir tip of a free casino condom.
The point of this blend is you should smoke it with a beer contained in a stein the size of a Volkswagen. Since I don’t drink, I have my trusty Mr. Potato Head stein full of foamy root beer.
I raise the torp to my nose cone and find aromas of dark chocolate, baking spices, et al. I’ve reached the limit of finding interesting nouns, adjectives, and adverbs to describe what smells like a cigar. You want to read an interesting article, then click on Unco B’s latest called “Are We Heading Towards Less Blend Variety?” It hits home while discussing what has become a ritual that feels like we’re being gaslit.
On torpedo caps, I like a V cut. It sort of destroys the purpose of forcing the smoke from a tiny aperture, but at this point in my life, I remember what Freud said about cigars…that it’s just a cigar. I allow the wrapper to approach my enormous, and gaping, open maw so that I can taste the unlit offering. Lo and behold, it’s dark chocolate, almonds, baking spices, pepper, and malt. Damn.
I’ve not had a lot of luck with this series of Quesada cigars, and I don’t think anyone else has either. This cigar was released 7 months ago and not a single written review. At this point, I believe it is just that everyone feels sorry for Manolo Quesada. He’s a nice man and no one wants to shove him to the curb. So, there’s a collective sigh and we wave this cigar on by. Until today.
The blend begins with hope. An easy going chocolaty and savory start. Large volumes of smoke that clouds my third eye so that I can’t remember the words to ‘Hello Dolly’ or ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.’ But there is nothing at this early point that grabs me by the narglies.
Someone explain this to me. Why is it more often than not that it takes you burning through the first inch of a cigar before the flavor profile kicks in? And why do other times, cigars stick the landing in the first puffs? Is it just about cheap?
The first inch of this blend is unremarkable. Or as my heroes in the blogging world say, “Average.” You watch their videos and they know their shit. But it seems they haven’t smoked a cigar they enjoyed since high school.
I tap my foot hoping something happens. I feel a sudden pain. Once again, I find my ball sack laying akimbo and strewn across a cubic foot I call the Soft Landing Zone. I gently use my Swiffer and recover said testicular targets and toss them in the umbrella stand.
The first inch could have been anything that goes for under a dollar. I’ve been kind and allowed the cigar to reach manhood with several months of rest. Does Quesada smoke the stuff he puts out? Does he work for the ‘Average’ boys? Or is he cruising on his rep?
I was a rabid reader about the conspiracies of the assassination of JFK. There was a maelstrom of books with fingers pointing everywhere in the late 1960’s. I was convinced that there was a government coverup. So, what did this schmuck do? I wrote 25 letters that said the same thing: “Why did the United States government kill President Kennedy?” I sent these letters to everyone from the chief of police of Dallas to President Nixon. The moment I dropped the letters in the mailbox, I regretted it. I did a giant Du-oh!!. But it was too late. But you’ll never guess what happened next. I got replies. 25 replies. Everyone got back to me. Most were form letters. But some, like Dallas’s chief of police, were real. I was completely freaked. The chief gave me his phone number and asked I call. It took a week for me to get my courage up, but I did it. I went through a few lower-level people, but I was eventually hooked up with Chief W. Frank Dyson. We spoke for a while. I was respectful. Dyson was not the chief in 1963, but he carried the burden left for him. He said he believed there was more than one shooter but had no concrete proof. I thanked him profusely and felt vindicated. I may not have a big FBI file, but I’m sure I have one marked “Idiot Kids.”
The cigar isn’t a bad cigar. It’s not droll or imperceptive. It’s bland. A celebratory cigar that has zero intent to make merry. There’s so much I don’t get.
The burn is quite sharp. No doubt that Quesada used serious rollers. The strength began at medium and now has pivoted as my vision burps Farsi sign language.
Instead of Witkoff and Kushner, the prez should have sent in OpenAI. Are two real estate tycoons really the best we could do? Even the terrorists laughed.
A big ol’ ash falls, misses the titty city, misses the bone zone, and rests on the floor where, earlier, my hairline cracked orbs lay.
There is absolutely no progression, no transitions, no depth. 5,000 cigars times three sizes were released. That’s a lot of cigars that missed the mark.
A nearly pleasant cigar whose flavors live in the world of a Nic puro not one whose wrapper is Mexican and guts are Dominican. There isn’t the panache one expects from those leaf stats. It wavers between a sledgehammer and a feather duster. It must be that the blend is designed to be appreciated with a German beer so you are no longer able to pay attention.
Everyone in Curved Air were drinkers. Especially the band leader, Darryl. He didn’t participate in the band’s drug of choice: hashish. After the band’s first photo shoot, I got stuck in the back of his tiny MG while we whisked Sonja home. It was a rainy day and the windows were closed. Both chain smoked cigarettes and the interior of the car was dense. The heavy traffic start and stop of the car, on the long way home from Abbey Road to Hampstead Heath, got to me. I got woozy. Sonja invited us in. I wanted to go home and vomit instead. Darryl wanted a drink. Darryl always wanted a drink. She handed me a glass of wine. I sipped. My carsickness got worse. I excused myself and stumbled to the bathroom…and stayed there trying not to heave until I heard Darryl knocking. We left after a very long 45 minutes. I told him about my uneasy stomach. His solution was to stop at a pub and force me to drink brandy. I was new to the band and didn’t want to look like a wuss. Half hour later, we were back in the car. Again, it was stop and go due to traffic. I asked Darryl to pull over. While he was beginning to utter “Why?” I puked all over my lap and the floorboards. Not an officious start to impressing the boss. I think that this is the reason that I was fired 18 months later. Drunks hold a grudge.
As you can probably tell, I’m killing time because I can’t think of anything nice to say about this cigar. Bland, bland, ordinary, average. I finished the first half somewhere around the start of the brandy story. Now the second half will be given a slight chance of redemption. If it refuses to render a testimony, I will reach my own verdict.
This is such a long slog. I saw a podcast where the participants agreed that respect for the industry is paramount and that it is not very nice to be disrespectful. The 10 industry reviewers nodded their heads in unison like bobble dolls. Of course, they get to interview all the industry experts who see their interviewers as eunuchs who pose no threat. Questions are bland and average. And the industry guest gets to plug his upcoming release. Just once, I’d like one of these ghosts in the machine say: “Why the fuck was your last release so bad? Really? What is wrong with you and why knowing it sucks, you released it anyway?” I’d watch that podcast.
Speaking of bland and average. I’m putting a fork in this cigar. A total dud. Plenty of these cigars still for sale.
RATING: 70
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