Cuban Partagás Serie E No.2
Wrapper: Cuban
Binder: Cuban
Filler: Cuban
Size: 5.5 x 54 Robusto Extra
Strength: Medium/Full
Price: $30.00
Box date: June 2019

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
Lawdy, this is a beautiful cigar. The wrapper is sepia bronze. Oil oozes like Elon on a good day.

Aromas include hot chocolate with marshmallows, strong cedar, maple syrup, and wet copper penny.

My PerfecPunch smoothly does its deed. Its rusty sheriff’s badge is poifect.

The cold draw is knock down sublime: clove, cinnamon, cedar, lemon and orange spritzer, leathery earthiness, red pepper, toasted cashews, and Coca Cola.

First puffs are doggone delicious, Jethro. I met the man at a birthday party for Alan Hale Jr (Gilligan’s Captain). He believed he was Elvis with the dyed black hairdo, shirt unbuttoned to his belly button, chains galore, rings on every finger, and a couple of high-class call girls on each arm. I tried talking to him, but he must have been too stoned as he had an inexplicable thousand yard stare.

Citrus and leathery richness, milk chocolate, black coffee, creamy cinnamon, and caramel. Bitchin.

The cigar’s strength is mild. Too mild but I’m a patient man. (I just lied).

The burn is wavering. I shall be patient.

Preparing for the Hollywood Palladium event, Butch Patrick and I met with Grandpa Munster several times at Art’s Delicatessen in Studio City. A very popular and busy place. Al Lewis loved the attention he got. Everyone stared at us. I found it unsettling as folks were trying to figure out who the third wheel was. The first time we lunched together, I started whining about the project and Al lit into me. He raised his voice and told me that if I couldn’t stand the pressure, that maybe show biz ain’t for me. I was so embarrassed. But Al let it go, and I never whined again in front of him, and he never brought it up again.

Grandpa was a star studded mensch and always insisted on paying for our meals despite me trying to wrestle the check from him. What surprised me was the reasonable fee that Al wanted for hosting the Halloween event: $500 ($1700 in today’s dollars). I figured he was only asking a token amount because he was a good friend to Butch. Like most celebrities I met, I wished I was Al’s manager instead of Butch’s.

Smoke output is thin. The cigar is lackluster. I begin to worry. I had a reasonable fear that after reviewing the Romeo y Juliet Wide Churchill yesterday, I might be spoiled. But then every cigar I smoked subsequent to the RyJ was a huge disappointment.

Flavors coagulate. Cinnamon becomes Red Hot candy. The caramel is now every senior’s friend: Werther’s. The hot cocoa switches up to Mexican mole sauce. The citrus mellows into custardy sweetness. Baked apple shows up for the first time with spices of nutmeg and clove. Maybe the worm is turning.

The cigar won’t stay lit. First thing out of my perishing brain is that reviewing a one off is always a bad idea.

Strength surges. The mildness disappears. Medium/full shows up with no introduction. And I have a long way to go. Oh no.

At 1-1/2” burned, it seems conclusive. The cigar improves and meets my expectations. This is a highly sought after cigar and highly rated by critics.

The burn line refuses any consistency.

A cigar at this price point should include a clitoris buffing kit. Does it? No. Oh wait…

The most I can say, as the first half detonates, is that this is a very pleasant blend. But if I want pleasant, I’d rather a cheap hooker take care of me in a gas station’s filthy restroom.

Speaking of Janis Joplin…I was at the platinum record party for The Police’s “Zenyatta Mondata” in Hollywood. Hundreds of industry folk there. I found myself standing next to Bette Midler. She had no make up on and was tinier than I expected. I told her about my days in Curved Air with Sonja Kristina. And how her movie “The Rose” not only depicted a tragic figure like Janis; but the story was also similar to what Sonja went through, but with a decidedly different outcome. She was very polite and nice and then walked away and forgot about me forever. I told myself she was just overcome with my virile masculinity and had to leave or be tainted for life.

The lousy char line is pissing me off. Lovers of Cuban cigars tend to overlook construction issues because they paid so damn much for the pleasure of their company. The burn on yesterday’s RyJ was flawless.

Complexity is mildly entertaining. The richness is in middle earth. Transitionally, the blend is balmy and placid.

The cigar won’t stay lit. Constant relighting doesn’t do the flavor profile any favors.
This may be a prime example of getting a bad stick. I hear from you all the time about concerns that something you smoked behaved poorly. I don’t purchase Cubans very often because of price points that don’t insure excellent construction…and it’s not like you can complain to the people who sold it to you.

Lighting the cigar every few minutes has put the kibosh on the thing. I’m done.

RATING: 89

Cuban Quai d’Orsay No. 54
Wrapper: Cuban
Binder: Cuban
Filler: Cuban
Size: 5.3 x 54 Robusto
Strength: Mild/Medium
Price: $27.00

Charlie Schink slid this cigar to me under the table while at a fund drive for a PBS station in Gdańsk, Poland. The cigar is from a box dated February 2023. Charlie paid $18 at that time but the price has skyrocketed to $27-$38 in 2024-2025, depending on the retailer.

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
Cigar Aficionado’s #11 cigar of 2017.

It is a very light cigar. It weighs nothing. Upfront, I’m guessing the cold draw is going to be wide open. I use my PerfecPunch for cap removal and it works flawlessly. It turns out I was wrong. The stick is plugged like a wild boar feasting on cheap Valentine’s Day chocolate…my PerfecDraw taps in. For the first time ever, I pierce the toast. Damn. I know how to fix it. It’s just a flesh wound. I dab PerfecRepair cigar glue over the wound. I let it dry for 5 minutes and it’s as good as new. Dr. Rod owes me $20.42 for an unprecedented triple shill.

It is a gorgeous wrapper. Oily and slick. Burnt umber glistens like the eyes of a daddy ferret upon learning he has 17 new marmot children.

The wrapper’s aroma is your grandma’s spice cabinet. Big memories. Throw in chocolate covered lemon slices and floral escapades and we have a perfect field goal.

The cold draw is stacked with bakery layers that includes a very singular note of clove. Followed by vanilla, cedar, even more floral, and citrus.

Like a flourish from The Amazing Kreskin: butterscotch pudding, serious oak notes, candied lemon, salty butter, and rose water.

Two years of humidor aging has given this blend life after death. This cigar takes not a single prisoner. But can it survive the long and winding road of a two-hour smoke? I’m counting on it.

Speaking of colonoscopies…my last one was in 2016. My 5th stab at it so to speak. I vowed after this one to never, never, never, ever to go through that again. You must drink multiple quarts of the most vile putrid liquid every 30 minutes, for hours. Why? So that your ass can turn into a shit faucet all night long. You arrive at the hospital dehydrated and exhausted…and then they commence with Dr. Torquemada’s technique of healing by sticking a 10-foot diameter hose, with a 19th century Nikon camera attached, up your tiny asshole…mine is tiny: Botox. Add an endoscopy (an examination of the upper GI tract) done at the same time and you have a near trifecta. They use baby wipes to clean the tube used on your colon and shove it down your throat and into your stomach looking for polyps. Get this: The foo foo juice that they injected to knock me out didn’t knock me out. To ease my suffering, they sprayed my throat with lidocaine and snaked that 20-foot-long tube down my gullet. Gagging doesn’t begin to describe the end result…thanks Jesus, they only root around for 20-30 minutes. It brought back bad memories of my time on D Block in Bang Kwang Central Prison, Thailand…thus creating a Mardi Gras moment in time. When your doc advises a colonoscopy accompanied by an endoscopy…just kill yourself.

The worm turns. Steamy oatmeal slathered with maple syrup and fresh cinnamon. Creaminess ups its ante. Minor notes of freshly shaved ginger. Mary Ann shaves to keep solidarity.

Transitionally, this is a carnival ride. Twirling and spinning like a Nebraskan exile. It morphs into a meaty quality. And then Pontefract Cakes. Next up is an earthy taste like sauteed mushrooms. Sweet v. Savory is going Bozo crazy.

I visited the Sacramento State Fair with friends. They had the Budweiser Clydesdale team for all to see. Sacramento is brutally hot in summer. At one point in the day long slog, we passed the horse stables. There was a large group, mostly women, staring into one stall. We went over to see what the hubbub was about. This giant horse had a casual boner that was as long as two Louisville Sluggers and twice the girth. Women stood, stared, clapped their hands, and laughed. Men threw their hands in the air and walked away. It was impossible to have long-awaited coital relations with our partners upon return from that excursion. The disappointment in our girlfriends’ eyes would have been too much to bear.

The meatiness comes from a sensation of smoked brisket. The oak wavers back and forth from mesquite to clean. Caramelized sweet onions. Lemony spicy curry lingers at the back of my throat. Creaminess is a methodical baseline. Malt appears just in time. Brunei hummus mixed with ferret filets make their move. Dope smoking Walt Disney’s frozen head makes an appearance. Light floral notes spin like a dreidel. A hugely complex and mature smoke. I use the word ‘mature’ with hesitation.

Heating the cigar caused expansion that fills the void of what I expected to be a dirigible that was lighter than air. Instead, I admonish myself for being a dufus. We never stop learning. Never. Keep that in mind when you pat yourself on the back next time you feel sated with your own level of intelligence.

A friend took me as a ride along to pick up his paycheck at Disneyland. Behind the scenes was a sight to see as costumed employees scurried about behind the tall fence that obscured them from the public. I watched in wonder as a guy wearing a Goofy costume stepped into the sanctuary hidden from the world at large…he removed his giant head that exposed a sweat drenched face and plastered hair…then proceeded to puke his guts out missing the trash can he was aiming for. My buddy asked if I needed his help getting a gig since they were hiring for It’s a Small World. I said I was happy at Knott’s Berry Farm where the west was wild, and Walter Knott pumped out John Birch Society brochures to the public like a true white man. Turns out that I was the first Jew that worked at the Farm…it was a secret kept by my boss Bud Hurlbut. I was disappointed that an honorarium plaque was never set in the concrete in front of my steamboat.

The burn is glacier. It moves a quarter of an inch every 20 minutes. I have an appointment later for a prune Danish. I will reschedule.

With 1-1/2” burned, the ash configures Mt. Rushmore. And then it crashes missing my naughty bits by a mile.

Flavors feel canonized. But as I approach the second half, my gazillion years of experience says something wonderful awaits.

The balance is textbook. The richness makes my head rear back as I howl…letting out a primal scream. Complex notes smooth their descent into the money cave. I decided not to let Charlie comment. He’s going to wig out.

The Doors’ keyboardist Ray Manzarek cleared the way for my friend Marshal Thomas to do a radio interview with the band X, which he managed. They were the coolest of the cool of punk royalty in L.A. Marshal asked me to tag along. We went to married couple John Doe’s and Exene Cervenka’s modest home in West L.A. It was a shit hole inside. We entered an almost entirely dark living room. It took about 5 seconds before the smell hit me. Decaying food, garbage everywhere, pet feces, and stinky humans who hadn’t showered…ever. I told Marshall I’d be outside in his car with the motor running.

The second half slides like Rickey Henderson. There was calm as the cigar entered this phase. Bedlam is released. I jump up and down in my usual style of attaining inches of air beneath my feet. I miss being limber. So does Charlotte.

I force minutes of rest despite my need to puff like a chimney. Reward is better than disappointment.

Repetitiveness seems fruitless as I’ve exceeded my 12,000-word limit. This is a great cigar that every smoker can enjoy. Strength never outstripped medium. The sheer richness of the blend shows us that when Cubans get it right, they are masters of their domain. Price points of $20 plus are coming at us at Mach 4 speed. Occasionally, it is nice to say damn the torpedoes when a brilliant cigar is in your clenched paws.

RATING: 97

Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS