Do you know those movies where you pay your admission and then sit through the full 90 minutes, thinking that it must get good at some point, until you see the credits and ask yourself why you didn't leave after the popcorn?
I just saw such a movie.
After enjoying a juicy and grilled-to-perfection rib eye steak, I took on my first ever Fundadore. It was a '98 out of Brown Devil's box split. The "desert" was delicious: it smelled ever so promising, I couldn't stop breathing in the rich scents of what only good, aged, Cuban tobacco can deliver.
It had started to rain, so I set up my chair under the faux balcony on my back patio, with a nice view of a lush green slope with red and yellow wild flowers everywhere. Celebrating the toasting of the foot, I lit up, waited a few tens of seconds, and then drew my first few puffs. At that point, I called my buddy, a very seasoned cigar smoker, and told him I'd bring him my only other Fundi tomorrow, because I was going to order a whole box. In other words, I was delighted, in heaven. I was looking forward to what started to be my best ever smoking experience.
But then something went awefully wrong. I started noticing that there was never really a lot of smoke coming out, but I couldn't find any leaks. I had experienced full, creamy smoke before, but none of that here. My tongue went crazy around my palate, searching for those intoxicating sensations that good cigars deliver, but there were none. Only a spicy aftertaste, and I am just avoiding to say bitter.
Like in that movie, I held on to it, patient and persistent, hoping for something to kick in. At the beginning of the last third, something did kick. Like that last twitch before death. It went out.
I let it cool down and relit. Back to normal, with nothing to write home about, until I finally gave up about an inch before the end. I left before the credits and tossed it far into the bushes.
I just saw such a movie.
After enjoying a juicy and grilled-to-perfection rib eye steak, I took on my first ever Fundadore. It was a '98 out of Brown Devil's box split. The "desert" was delicious: it smelled ever so promising, I couldn't stop breathing in the rich scents of what only good, aged, Cuban tobacco can deliver.
It had started to rain, so I set up my chair under the faux balcony on my back patio, with a nice view of a lush green slope with red and yellow wild flowers everywhere. Celebrating the toasting of the foot, I lit up, waited a few tens of seconds, and then drew my first few puffs. At that point, I called my buddy, a very seasoned cigar smoker, and told him I'd bring him my only other Fundi tomorrow, because I was going to order a whole box. In other words, I was delighted, in heaven. I was looking forward to what started to be my best ever smoking experience.
But then something went awefully wrong. I started noticing that there was never really a lot of smoke coming out, but I couldn't find any leaks. I had experienced full, creamy smoke before, but none of that here. My tongue went crazy around my palate, searching for those intoxicating sensations that good cigars deliver, but there were none. Only a spicy aftertaste, and I am just avoiding to say bitter.
Like in that movie, I held on to it, patient and persistent, hoping for something to kick in. At the beginning of the last third, something did kick. Like that last twitch before death. It went out.
I let it cool down and relit. Back to normal, with nothing to write home about, until I finally gave up about an inch before the end. I left before the credits and tossed it far into the bushes.
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