Wrapper: Honduran Corojo

Binder: Honduran

Filler: Honduran

Size:  “11/18” (6 x 50)

Body: Medium/Full

Price: $6.50

Christian Eiroa has wasted no time in establishing his good name once again in the cigar industry. And I don’t mean to imply that it was ever anything but a well-respected name….but after leaving Camacho; a company he started, he has dug in his heels and begun to blend cigars of superior quality and having price points that are extremely cost effective for the consumer.

Construction is great. Seams are tight. Some Frankenstein type veins. A very firm cigar in the hand. A beautiful triple cap. And a light milk chocolate brown wrapper. The wrapper sports a lot of toothiness.

I do the ha cha cha and sniff the cigar….very mild; at the foot: toast, spice, cinnamon, and some sweetness.

I punch the cap and let ‘er rip.

The cigar opens up with a blast of red pepper that goes right to my nose and sinuses. But it also spews out a creamy flavor which tames the spiciness and brings it down to a less intense level. Already, the cigar has a meaty quality to it.

The char line is a little wavy but still very good. Smoke is so thick that I have trouble seeing the screen of my laptop…

There is some oakiness to the profile. Have you ever been to a good BBQ joint that uses oak as its smoker? That’s the kind of aroma and flavor I am getting. And along with it, comes some sweet tobacco flavor. The pepper reminds me of the hot cinnamon toothpicks we used to buy at liquor stores on the way home from school for a nickel.

The body quickly moves to a strong medium in the first inch or so. As the first third ends, big spoonfuls of creaminess cover my palate. It is augmented by that spicy cinnamon.

The second third starts off by introducing a bit of citrus. Orange peel. It’s a fine combination now of flavors. The sweetness enhances everything. I take a swig of bottled water and the flavors are explosive. The body is closer to full at this point.

I read a couple reviews before writing mine and I noticed one that described “raw caramel.” Huh? What the hell is raw caramel? Yeah, I know I’m from Southern California and we’re all dropping acid by the age of 10….but…isn’t raw caramel just sugar? Please correct me if I’m wrong…..and if you do correct me, you may not read my reviews.

The cigar’s flavor components become much more complex now. No single flavor stands out above the others. Everything has morphed. I love that word. Makes me think of Mr. Spock and a hedgehog at the same time.

If I had to put the components in order, it would be: spice, creaminess, sweetness, citrus, oak, toast, and cinnamon.

The last third brings everything home.

This is a delicious cigar and for the money, just damn ridiculous. I plan to buy a box of my own. In fact, I plan to buy a box of each of his new blends under the name of CLE.

If you enjoy a nearly full bodied stick and all the flavors mentioned above, this is for you.

I loved it. You will too.

And now for something completely different:

Being a washed up rock god, I have plenty of stories to tell of my youth. Sort of passing on to my friends all the real stories they hoped would be true about rock n roll: Sex, drugs, and the other thing.

It was all true.

But the real nexus of this over indulgence that came with playing to filled arenas was the music.

While mixing the Live album, Pete Townshend was mixing the music for the movie, “Tommy” in the next studio. He knew our band very well, but not me. As I was the newest member and only Yank in the group.

That night that he wandered in to our studio booth and sat on the floor next to me and the chick singer was heaven. I did everything possible to control myself. ..And not act like a lunatic fan.

The engineer and producer were playing back a song in which my bass playing took off to another stratosphere and Pete noticed it. He made the chick stop talking so he could listen. I broke into a sweat.

He then leaned over and stared at me with those blue eyes and said, “Was that you on bass, mate?”

I gurgled something that sounded like “Yes.”

He got up, motioned me to follow. As we walked out of the studio door, Stewart Copeland, my drummer; was walking in and turned around and followed us.

We walked into a tiny recording room. Maybe 10’ x 12’ at the most. He told me to get my bass while he his guitar was already sitting against his amp. There was a bass combo amp there and a small set of tubs. (That’s hip musician talk for drum set).

Stewart sat down and adjusted the kit to fit his tall, goonish size. I came back with my Gibson EBO that was really tricked out.

Pete lowered his head and began playing on a strat very softly. His eyes were closed. Stew and I closed our eyes and just listened. The notes became bigger and louder. He wasn’t playing any Who songs, he was woodshedding.

I started to add whole notes to his staccato notes. Stew just played his ride cymbal with brushes.

Three hours passed. It was after 4am. No one came in to tell us they were closing it down. Pete Townshend was in the house.

Our playing reached fever pitch and lowered itself to melodic benevolence. It was an incredible journey of improvisation. One I shall never forget. The whole time we were playing, a single mic in the room was recording us. Turned out a huge crowd had formed in the booth and spent the entire 3 hours listening to us while imbibing in drugs and beer.

I, of course, was an idiot. I didn’t ask for a copy of the recording because in my feeble mind I expected to be playing big time rock n roll forever and there would be other times.

As we finished up, Pete pulled out a little kit bag and grabbed some heroin and a needle and shot up. My mouth dropped. I didn’t know he was going through his junkie period.

He never looked up. He never offered…which I would not have accepted.

As he opened the door, he asked if he could produce our next studio album. He winked, smiled, and left the room. Stew and I looked at each and smiled.

Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS