Ode To Carlos Torano

On a breezy overcast day I found myself strolling the streets of the Ancient City. A familiar urge was bubbling up from the darker places of my soul when I happened upon a great convenience... one of the few benefits urban society has to offer.

I had found a purveyor of combustible delicacies the likes of which a rural man can only peruse on the modern miracle we call the World Wide Web. A tiny shop to be sure... but appropriately... the vast majority of it was taken up by a massive humidor which was filled to the brim with the names of all my beloved friends... Romeo y Julieta.... that most famously awesome duo... and over there was their neighbor Mr Padron. And off in the corner sulking all alone was Excalibur itself. The mind whirled... choices... choices and decisions of terrible consequence. What to do?

One may find it hard to believe but the moments in that humidor were the most stressful I've experienced in many days... At last though... as one must... a girded up my loins and sought out the fine manager. She kindly provided me with 2 boxes of matches and threw in a complimentary cutter for good measure. God bless her... for I feared I should have to profane my tasty acquisitions with butane...

Butane... that most profane of fumes... who's fire is fit only for cigarettes and small felines. Any who see fit to expose fine tobacco to such a rude fire should be relegated to the pillory... if not the Iron Maiden herself. The thought crossed my mind... you know they have one of those here.

At any rate... Cigar smoking is like prayer. One must assign time to it. Serious prayer is not for the spur of the moment.... its not something one just fits in to their busy schedule. One sets aside time to do it properly. Cigars are the same way.

Often I choose my particular cigars based on the time I have available to experience them. Today my judgement lead me to the under appreciated Mr Torano... an Exodus 1959 label... dark and dangerous. It positively wreaked of cocoa. It took several matches to wake it up... not entirely because the fretful tobaccoist kept the humidor at something like 98% humidity. The ocean breeze didn't simplify things at all... but alas we don't complain... even if the lighting was the second most stressful event in the last several days.

I would tell you that I don't have the words to describe the glorious taste... but that would be a pathetic triumvirate of falsehood, cliche, and misjustice.

The cigar is... tobacco colored. Its dark and dusky... its powerful and complex. Its a taste that changes rapidly and makes you think. Its earthy... and yet there are fruits... its smooth... with a proper bite at the finish. Ahh.. Mr Torano... A man of less impressive breeding would've given in to his temptations, extinguished the fiery delight, and eaten it whole.

I was strong... and stuffed that wretched desire and chained it down deep where it belongs.

It was a fine smoke friends... and I sincerely hope you get to have one yourself. As for me... fret not... for I have two more offerings to tide me.