Wrapper: Ecuadorian Habano 7th Priming
Binder: Ecuadorian Sumatran
Filler: Pennsylvania, Ecuadorian Puntiao Habano, Corojo, and Criollo ‘98
Size: 5 x 54 Robusto
Strength: Medium
Price: $15.00
Date Released: November 2025
Quantity Released: 150 boxes of 12
Factory: Tabacalera William Ventura, Dominican Republic

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
Anytime I see that a manufacturer ages their cigars more than the usual few weeks after rolling, I’m intrigued. These sticks are aged 14 months post rolling. I like it.

The Tradecraft brand is owned by the old school Tinder Box brick and mortar cigar retailers. In the 60’s, my dad would send me there to pick up a few boxes that he ordered on a regular basis. I was below the age of consent, but it was a different time, and the retailer sized me up as a good kid. What did they know. I was 18 when I bought my very own first box, and still underage. Arturo Fuente lanceros. I sat in the college commons at CSULB and would smoke one between classes. I wore my vintage WWII U.S. Army coat with all the badges and figured I’d look cool to the groovy chicks passing by. Not once did a bitchin chick come up to me and say, “Hey there good looking, the aroma of that cigar makes me want to jump you right now.” Instead, I eventually deduced that the stink kept them away.

Speaking of stink, aromas from the wrapper are gentle and floral. With even subtler notes of dark chocolate, easy going barnyard, baking spices, and sweet pretzels.

I gently stab the shit out of the cap with my PerfecPunch and a crater is formed. The cold draw provides flavors of cloves, cinnamon, chocolate, espresso, toffee butter, black pepper, and honeysuckle.

Reviews of this cigar are all over the place. I prefer consistency regardless of a thumbs up or thumps down. When no one can agree, I wonder about the blender’s intent.

Tinderbox claims that their cigars are “Designed to balance nuanced flavor with impeccable construction.” Good to know. Just once, I’d like a manufacturer underneath the influence of sodium pentothal say, “The blend is OK, but our true goal is to use the consumer as a lab rabbit and see what sticks. And of course, to make as much dough as possible because my third wife is soaking me.”

My first sips of smoke taste like a sweet spirit. Can’t nail it down other than it was smoky, sweet, and alcohol laden. Flavors bounce back and forth. Earthiness and then mocha java. Spicy and then sweet. Oh God, not another aneurysm.

Right off the bat, the burn becomes uneven. If I was an expert, I’d tell you that it was a bunching issue when approximately 40 degrees of one side of the foot is not cherry red. I barely allow my lighter’s flame to touch the virgin soil and the fix is in.

Strength is barely medium. And then the sweetness disappears. There isn’t enough richness to the blend to carry a primarily savory forward profile. But only half an inch has been surrendered. I shall try to be patient. Ha.

I’m now almost an inch in and the blend could be almost any cigar on the planet in the $8 range. There are no distinct footprints. Most reviewers want a cigar to impress. The minority can’t wait to give it the thumbs down. Smokers forget that it takes time and effort to write about cigars. Being a critic is a pain in the arse. But we are drawn to the quill and reporting our thoughts. Just another sickness related to the devil’s tubular death.

The char line straightens nicely. The cigar needs some sort of oomph as inch two is in play. It wobbles and meanders with a cloudy purpose. I sense that this ain’t no ordinary catalog blend, but a $15 cigar needs to bear down. And this baby is barely caressing my prostate.

As I can see the second half in the near distance, the blend improves. It begins to have wider appeal, and a connection begins between my palate and reptilian brain. The blend is savory heavy which is fine. But as my preferences lay at 50/50 savory v. sweet, I make an effort to grasp the charm of this blend. Regardless of the profile, I give short shrift to a blend that doesn’t kick in within the first inch. And then, like a light switch has been flipped, the bottom drops out. The only flavor left is bare tobacco. During its phase when there was hope, the cigar immediately reminded me of the Megilla Miami. The Megilla is nearly half the price of the Azorian. And more than twice as satisfying.

Sour mash shows up. And then it hits me, what’s missing is creaminess. It would pull things together if a huge dollop was in the midst of all this hit or miss roller coaster ride. Sour citrus on its own is the death knell for any cigar. Some aficionados claim it is wonderful. They would be wrong.

As smokers, we are jealous of our time. A palate wasted on a downer cigar pisses me off. The cleansing process, no matter what works for you, is laborious. And it feels like we’ve been ruined for our next cigar, and not in a good way.

Tinder Box claims flavors of caramel, earth, baking spice, and sweet rum. That’s a stretch.

I’m an inch into the second half and I’m calling it.

Take a hard pass on The Azorian. With all the experience that Tinder Box has, you’d think they’d get it right.

RATING: 74

And now for something completely different:

I was 16 and had only been driving for a couple months when I ran over a 2-year-old girl.

I had just left the house of a friend and was still in his neighborhood. The little girl ran out between two cars and BANG!

I could feel her body hit the front of my 1960 Pontiac Bonneville. For a few seconds, I couldn’t move. Then I jumped out of the car.

I screamed for help and people showed up in droves. The mother grabbed her child and lifted her and placed her on the lawn of their house. The kid was unconscious and I was screaming at her not to move her.

The ambulance shows up. The cops show up. A massive crowd shows up. I was 16 and had my first panic attack.

The cops made me sit there for an hour, on the curb, while they did their forensics and determined that I was only going 20mph.
They let me go without a ticket and I drove straight home.

My dad was out front doing his gardening. As I passed him on the way to the front door, I said, “I just ran over a little girl.”
Nothing. My dad didn’t even look up.

I spent the next two hours lying on my bed staring at the ceiling.

The next day, I went to the hospital with my best friend. The little girl was in traction and bandaged like the Mummy. I had bought her a teddy bear. No one from the family was there so the nurse asked if I’d like to let them know who brought the gift?

Before I could answer, my buddy said, “Tell them Mario Andretti was here.”
I almost shit myself.

The little girl recovered. This was 60 years ago and I can still replay those moments a nano second at a time in my head.

A year later, I left that same friend’s house and saw that girl; now 3 a year old playing in the middle of the street by herself.
I shook my head and thought this girl doesn’t stand a chance with parents like hers.
Mario Andretti…fuck me.

Normally, Curved Air headlined in all the arenas in England and Europe. But once in a while, we got to be the support act for an iconic band of that era: the 1960’s-1970’s and their influential arena rock bands…especially those emanating from the U.K.
For one of those tours, we supported Emerson, Lake and Palmer for 4 gigs in a row.
The first time we did sound check on that bill, I got a wild hair. Keith Emerson had a full-sized grand piano that was mechanically designed so it would do a forward 360° roll…with Keith on it. Head over heels. What was stranger than life was he continued to play his piano parts while spinning like a crazy man.

I asked Keith if I could ride the piano. He laughed and said no one had ever asked to do that in any of the support groups they played with (I found that hard to believe even at age 25), so I felt honored as I climbed aboard. I guess no one asked because they didn’t want to vomit on his piano. Or maybe they had more common sense.

To my horror, the only way you could hang on is with your feet locked underneath a special bar underneath the piano bench. No seat belt. No roll cage.

The piano began to roll. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster. I grabbed the keyboard like a cat. I was completely disoriented.

Now I’m spinning like crazy and scared for my life and assumed I would be jettisoned like a rocket…meanwhile I’m wondering how Keith could play while doing it. ????

After a few minutes, the piano slowed its roll, and I was able to get off and then fell flat on my face on the stage.

I asked Keith how in the hell he did that while playing? He laughed. He saw that my face must have been green and took me to the bathroom in the arena, where he helped me to a stall where I threw up.

Each day we played with them, Keith asked me, like clockwork, if I wanted to ride the piano again. All the while laughing while asking. I politely declined.

I had some Cubans that Larry Coryell, the incredible father of jazz fusion guitar, had given me. And on the last night of playing with them, I asked Keith if he would like to join me for a smoke? He nodded and we retired to his posh hotel room where he allowed no one else but me. I was honored and afterwards my band treated me like a traitor. But then they had proven themselves unworthy as they all got sick from their cigar adventure with Larry Coryell. So, I wasn’t wasting a good cigar on any of them. Keith ordered some lavish room service, and we spent the night eating, drinking Cokes, and smoking cigars. It doesn’t get much better than that. I wonder if I knew how lucky I was? The world is full of road stories.

Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS