A little freelance work of mine took me to Los Angeles, California from Tuesday to Friday last week, and after being trapped in New Jersey with these god-awful snowstorms, it was so nice to see palm trees and feel the warmth of the west coast sun. The one thing that has been sparse in my life during this stinking winter is the ability to smoke cigars outside. But I can tell you this… I sure as hell made up for things with my few days spent in the Golden State.

The weather wasn’t actually fantastic – mid 60’s in the day and high forties at night – but god dayum, it was so much better than 26 degrees and 26 inches of frozen white annoying stuff. I smoked four to five cigars a day and it was pure heaven. Before breakfast I sat in front of the hotel, propped up in a comfy chair and enjoyed a mild Montecristo to start the day. The hotel was at the airport so I kind of relaxed and watched the large metal birds just take off and land for half an hour. It’s quite therapeutic doing so, especially when accompanied by a cup of Java and a good smoke.

The guys I rode around with during the daytime are not only great dudes, but cigar lovers as well – lucky me. So as we drove all over southern California creation, puffing away while I got to see all the sites, and all the mind numbing traffic as well. I brought several large ziplocks filled with tobacco sticks and it was like Christmas in Hollywood for the boys. La Gloria, Camacho, El Rey Del Mundo, Troya, and Fuente filled the air – but air that also stunk like the back of an old Newark diner. Let me explain…

Two of the guys I was with drive 1980’s Turbo Diesels – had the engines converted, and now both cars run on French fry grease. Yeah, I know… how Kalifawnya can you get. They go to a local burger joint and actually do the owners a favor by taking the used oil off their hands. With gas over three bucks a gallon and their job taking them all over the state, the guys have saved a ton of money running on onion ring residue. The only drawback is that it’s kind of stinky and sort of wrecks the waff of a Punch Grand Cru torpedo. But okay, so what… I had to deal with a little oily stinkage, but it was worth it as I ramped up the Romeos and Pounded the Partagas throughout the Valley, down Sunset Strip, and the posh whereabouts of Beverley Hills.

Dinner is what messed the Jersey folks up, as after a long day of work, we gathered to eat around nine o’clock each night. But the problem is that 9pm west coast time is really 12am east coast time, and eating a big dinner at midnight is just so bizarre to say the least. And while the California smoking laws are insane, you can still smoke outside, and a great big-ass maduro or Cubano made for the perfect dessert while the others were scarffing their tartuffo and crème brule. The restaurant manager brought out offerings from his personal humidor filled with “real-deal” Monte #2’s while pouring us some Balvenie Double Wood on the rocks. Damn…you want to talk about the perfect ending to grilled lamb chops in a port wine reduction? Yeah, it was like 2:30 in the morning, and we had to get up at 7am… but the time difference worked in our favor as 7am is really like 10am for us Jerseyians. Or is it Jerseyites? Ah, who really gives a rat’s ash. We had an amazing time.

I probably smoked about 15 cigars in a three-day span and it was so mentally rewarding. Sure, I stunk a tad, but the French fry oil masked some of the tobacco goodness. The gorgeous women, scenic palm trees, amazing food, and great camaraderie certainly made it a trip to remember. So I ask the gods to please melt this wall of white stuff and bring springtime to the east coast so I can partake in the act of outdoor cigar smoking once more.

Til next week my smoking Dudes of the blogosphere,

Tommy Z

JR CIGARS Blog With the Zman

When you’re a kid in the north, you love snow. You play in it, build forts, have snowball fights, and go sleigh riding. And when the siren would sound in the early morn, you knew that meant one glorious thing of things… NO SCHOOL!!!

When you’re an adult in the north, unless you’re a skier, you HATE the snow. You have to walk in it, drive in it, and worst of all, shovel it.

This winter has been a record amount of snowfall in the northeast, and this past week we had over two feet in my area. (That’s above the knees on a 5’8” inch Polack for those of you who need visual aids.) I have no snow blower so the entire family was relegated to shoveling, and shoveling, and shoveling, and shoveling. For two days it wouldn’t stop and for two days we’d shovel, take a break, wait for a few more inches to accumulate, then shovel some more. Parts of my body hurt that have never hurt, and muscles I didn’t even know I had are aching.

The one enjoyable thing was that after each shovel, my break consisted of a premium, handrolled cigar. And as you just might imagine, I smoked a serious amount of fine stoags. My wife, who remember, hates smoke, was mystified, “How the hell can you smoke like this after all that exercise and heavy lifting?” She doesn’t get it and she never will: Because it relaxes me. The flakes were huge and they came down hard as I sat in my lawn chair and puffed an El Rey Del Mundo Flor de Llaneza. As much as I have become accustomed to loathing the white stuff, when it comes down heavy like it was, with flakes as big as silver dollars, it’s hard to deny that it is a beautiful site, and thoroughly mesmerizing as you take a draw and then exhale into the flurry of madness.

There is little doubt that when the winter is about over that I will indeed purchase a snow blower that is placed on sale. It’s one of those things that I put off and put off… and yeah, Jack f@#king Frost bit me in the ass, for sure. I hate that little prick.

Winter was in full gear as I watched much of the Olympics – incredibly happy with the play of the US Hockey team, although pained by the loss to a stronger opponent that our boys gave one hell of a scare. In case you’re a commie bastid and didn’t happen to watch the game, Team USA scored with 24 ticks left on the clock to tie it, putting the entire country of Canada on suicide alert. But the group with the red leaf on their jerseys won in overtime, averting the greatest single loss of life in the great white north. Our four-man bobsledders won our first gold in 62 years, the two ski hotties, Mancuso and Vonn entertained us, there was a brutally flaming gay figure skater who wore nicer outfits than most chicks I know, and Shaun White whipped his flying tomato about for another gold medal and an increase to his ten million dollar a year pay check. Not too bad for a 23 year old “dude.” And then last night in the closing ceremonies there were giant inflatable moose, beavers, old-time table hockey guys… and of course, Canada’s greatest national treasure… Michael J. Fox.

But I say thanks to the Lord above that tomorrow I will be in Los Angeles California, 11:35am left coast time.  Going on business but will be enjoying the hell out of all the palm trees.

So I’ll speak with you all in a week. And for those of you in the frozen tundra, I’ll be thinking of you.

Tommy Z.

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

A Couple of Asian American Meltdowns

In a horrible economy where new cars aren’t selling at all, it’s un-fathomable that a leading automaker like Toyota could f@#k up so severely. To this date they have recalled 8 million cars with severe accelerator problems, a load of Prius green-mobiles with brake problems, Tacoma pick-ups, and now a potential recall of half a million Camry’s. Somebody break out the Saki cause there’s a meltdown going on in the land of the rising sun.

But hold on to your bandannas, Tojo, because today a little bombshell came down the Tokyo expressway amidst the already massive heap of collateral damage. In an article on today’s AOL’s Daily Finance page, the following has been reported…

Several media sources report that an internal Toyota document from July 2009 entitled, “Wins for Toyota Safety Group,” says the firm saved $100 million by convincing the NHTSA to limit an accelerator recall to 55,000 Lexus and Camry models. The Wall Street Journal reports that, “The Toyota document, by linking safety issues to corporate profits, could prompt difficult questions for company executives, including President Akio Toyoda, who is scheduled to testify Wednesday before the Oversight Panel.”

Now THIS is bad, bad, bad and could blow Toyota out of the water for good. Who the hell is going to put their trust in them when they cut corners in lieu of safety… AND, people have already died from it.

Again from the article…

The collateral damage from Toyota’s apparent repeated efforts to dodge recalls or delay them, jeopardizing customer safety, will hit the company’s dealers, who are already suffering from falling sales. Factory workers in the U.S. and Japan will also be affected. And the problems have already extended to Europe, where Toyota will close plants in the U.K. for two weeks.

My immediate thinking is, “Does this help our friends in Detroit?” I personally think it has to. Now I’m not rooting against Toyota by any means. They employ thousands of U.S. workers in their plants and dealerships, and think of all the American based suppliers that they use. Like I said, the Big 3 in Detroit know the feeling all too well. But I have to imagine that Toyota’s sales will see a monumental drop and if so, I can only hope that those who are looking elsewhere will help the peeps at Ford, GM, and Chrysler. I wonder how log before Toyota’s CEO falls on his sword.

And while we’re on the subject of f@#k-ups…

Tiger Woods, you lying, sack of shit. Your apology was calculated and crafted, and written by professional spin masters you paid dearly to save you beaver-toothed ass. And please tell me this… why are you apologizing to me? What the hell do I give a rat’s 5-iron about your pathetic ego trip and sexual escapades. Okay, so you’re getting it a lot more than me. You’re worth a hundred million bucks, bro, and you could get anyone you wanted (can’t figure out that fat, haggy-ass waitress, though. I mean you have a Swedish super model for a wife… God, men are such idiots.)

So whoop de doozer, Tiggy. I can’t believe that you are apologizing to me? Get a grip you egotistical dirtbag. Apologize to your wife, your family, and the people who rely on you financially. Now THOSE are the ones who really got shtooped. Those are the people taking it high and dry and you ought to think about making up to them. If you really feel bad and want to toss me a few bucks, okay, I’ll play your little game. But face it dude, right now you’re in the rough, with a terrible lie. (Wow, nice use of golf-punnage there Zmanster.) The world is watching to see how you play your next shot.

BTW… Smoked a couple of the new Dona Lydia this weekend and God Dayum is that one delicious cigar. Beautiful flavor profile and rolled impeccably. A definite must try for you stogiphiles. Also did a Siglo as well. Had it aging a few months and man does it kick some ass. Say… I bet if you looked on the JR Website you just might find some boxes of these puppies. Just sayin..

Til next week, Later to all,

Tommy Z

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

Some of you out there have the distinct pleasure of being allowed to smoke cigars in your homes. I envy you. I talk to some who are surprised that my wife doesn’t allow it. Some act as if everyone smokes in their home… don’t they? NO they don’t. While my wife isn’t a smoke Nazi. she detests smoking and makes sure to tell me how bad I stink after I enjoy a cigar. Oh, I’ve snuck it a few times. When the weather is nice I’ll put a box fan in the window, seal the office door with tape, and puff a good cigar while I write. Afterwards, I’ll hose down the rug with Febreeze and wash my clothes, but like a bloodhound, she still smells it.

“Why does it smell like smoke? You had a cigar in the house! You were smoking, weren’t you? WEREN’T YOU?!!!!!”

I’ve also tried smoking in front of the fireplace – my one friend says “It’s fool proof, she won’t smell a thing.” Well, I guess I’m a bigger fool than I thought because while it works decent, it’s not nearly enough to circumvent the smoke warden from hell. The problem is that in the home, the smoke goes into the vents and travels all throughout the house.

I absolutely love to smoke a cigar while I’m writing and what I wouldn’t give to have an office professionally sealed off with the best smoke eating device money can buy. I can’t explain it but it relaxes me so and puts me into some kind of meditative state. When I had my advertising business, I would open the windows after everyone left and light up. I would stay for hours on end as long as my leafy brown friend decided to hang with me. That same office used to be only five minutes away from JR Cigars in Whippany, New Jersey, and in the afternoons, I’d often bring my laptop there and revel in the scent of premium-aged tobacco.

I wrote a feature story a while back in Cigar Magazine about the positive effects that cigar smoking has on your mental state. Online I found an article from the New York Times that I believe was from 1910. The author surveyed 100 people from that era who were authors, poets, novelists, and playwrights – all who smoked – and asked if they felt that the act of smoking aided in the creative process. It was overwhelming what the writers had to say about their precious tobacco. Of course cigars, cigarettes, and pipes were all included, and even though I focused on the cigar lovers, those who smoked while they worked claimed it was a tremendous benefit and swore how it relaxed the mind and allowed the universe to work its magic through their souls. Some got to the point where they simply could not go into creative mode without the accompaniment of a smoke. Much like lighting incense for meditation, it’s the scent and the repetition of the physical act that puts you into state. Hey, the same thing happens when you light a cigar on the back deck, in the garage, or on the golf course. Your mind goes into a relaxed state and all around is good. Like the scribes from the NY Times article, a good cigar tells my mind and my body that everything is good, everything is right, and creating becomes so much easier.

Some have referred to me as a wuss and ask who wears the pants in my family, yada, yada, yada. But please understand – my wife is an incessant nag, and the nagging is enough to send one off the proverbial deep end. To those who think I’m being cruel about my spouse – you don’t know her. Nagging is in her blood and she’s done it since the day I met her. She doesn’t know she’s doing it, and it’s not to be harmful or out of spite. It’s just a congenital trait of hers and there are days I’d rather pour bleach into my eyes that deal with it. So, go ahead, call me a wuss and taunt me with your belittling barbs – It has NOTHING to do with growing a pair – I choose not to smoke in my home out of self-preservation.

Again I say, I envy you who enjoy your cigars within your domicile – especially during the long winter months where the back deck or the golf course is simply not an option. Wow, I’m craving a delicious, fragrant cigar right this very moment. Hmmm. JR is only half an hour away and a Nicaraguan lunch is just what then doctor ordered.

Tommy Z.

JR CIGARS Blog with the Zman

If you did anything yesterday other than watch the Super Bowl, then you were certainly in the minority amongst the people of North America. Yes, even our Canuckle-headed neighbors to the north hunker down for the American Pigskin Classic. It was a well-played game between the best two teams in the NFL, and you certainly can’t begrudge the winners for their tremendous performance. If only for a short while, the city of New Orleans has risen from the ashes to celebrate one hell of an accomplishment.

To many, the Super Bowl isn’t even about the game. Chicks who don’t give a rat’s ash and non-sports fans alike use the game as a social gathering while asking every five minutes, “Now what has to happen in order for me to get 6 – 8 in my box pool?” I try to ignore them, but when it’s your wife, that’s just plain hard to do.

Whether you like football or not, the food is what brings us all great happiness. Any Bowl game party is an eclectic mix of fattening foods we feast on fastidiously. Pictured here is “yours truly” slow-cooking wings on the grill in 20 degree weather, about an hour before the game. I huddled against the Weber with liquid hops and barley in one hand, and a Nestor Plasencia Special Selection in the other. It’s tough to enjoy a cigar in the outdoors for us in the north this time of year, but I managed to stay warm enough to revel in that delicious premium stick of tobacco. I’m sure those of you in more pleasant climates smoked a number of fine stoags. You have my permission to share your smoking pleasures right here.

As far as the chow at the Z home went, this year we didn’t go crazy and stayed with traditional fare. My daughter did a crockpot of chili that simmered for hours and made the whole house smell so good. She also made homemade pigs in the blanket, and when you use a good brand like Hebrew National, it really makes all the difference in the world. I basted the bbq wings in garlic and hot sauce, and like I said, slow-cooked them to stay moist. We didn’t go nuts, but I’m sure a lot of you did, and once again, this is the place to share. What kind of ethnic dishes or foods indigenous to your region did you gorge on?

I wanted to have another cigar at halftime, but didn’t want to miss The Who, a band I’ve always loved. And while I give the old boys credit for rocking at their ages, wow – their better days about 20 years behind them. Yeah, Daltry’s 66, but hitting those highs just wasn’t in the plans, and ol’ Petey has sure packed on a few extra pounds. The light show was great the crowd dug it, and I give them high marks for effort… but not so much on the execution. Me thinks I’m being “too” kind.

And then there were the commercials… the coveted Super Bowl spots that ran at 2.5 million dollars for 30 seconds. As and ex ad man of 20 years I tend to look at the commercials with a critical eye. And with that being said – as a whole: they totally sucked. There is NOTHING funny about a guy in a coffin full of orange chips. The problem is that the ad agencies got a little too self absorbed this year, trying WAY TOO HARD to be crazy/clever/wacky, and fell flat on their faces with their execution. The purpose of an ad is to create product recognition and brand retention. This is where the lot of them failed miserably. Inane beer ads, screaming fowl, and Betty White rolling around in the mud is just wrong. And even in satire, the Green Police pissed me off with its all “too-true” politically correct message.

Oh yeah, there was a game, too. I was admittedly sticking with the Manning family while rooting for the Colts. Unfortunately, Peyton threw one bad pass all day – at thee most inopportune time. I think EVERYONE believed he was going to tie the game and send the Bowl to it’s first ever overtime. No denying, Drew Brees has become one of the NFL’s elite and to think that the Chargers just sent the guy packing. And that onside kick was a hell of a goddamned call, one that will be remembered for decades to come. The entire world was taken by surprise and even the cameramen had a hard time following it. That was an incredibly gutsy call, knowing that the Colts could end up with the ball close to mid-field. You know, it wasn’t the greatest Super Bowl ever, but it was certainly entertaining. And what’s very cool is that I have the distinction of seeing all 44 of these matches, although I was a little dude during the first Green Bay wins. I vividly remember the Jets taking SB III and the heavily favored Joe Capp lead Vikings being embarrassed by the Kansas City Chiefs, the following January.

So another “Big Game” is in the books and a new champion is crowned. Around 4:30am the acid reflux set in and it was a hell of a reminder that getting older sure has a way of f’ing with your body. Did I forget to mention the barnyard type flatulence? Okay, okay, no need to stink up a perfectly good blog.

Til next time,

TOMMY Z

JR CIGARS Blog With the Zman

February 2^nd is Ground Hog Day. In Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, the local folk gather round for the bizarre celebration of yanking a groundhog named Phil from his hoggish abode and determining whether the lil’ f@#ker can see his shadow or not. If he does, legend has it that there will be six more weeks of winter. Yeah, and monkeys will fly from my fat Polish dupa.

Tradition is sometimes strange and this certainly is a wacky one. The people of this little western PA town get all worked up as they gather in Gobbler’s Knob, dancing, eating, and celebrating the existence of the pudgy little quadruped. The town has a little over 6,000 residents, yet a good 40,000 people have turned out for this yearly display of celestial prognostication. It’s pure fun and merriment, so what could be the possible harm in that?

Enter PETA, the self imposed animal rights group who perform asinine stunts to gain attention and take it upon themselves to throw buckets of blood on fur wearers while screaming the words “Murderer, murderer!” Seems that smack in the midst of the world’s outpouring of help towards the Haitian people, the sanctimonious psychos of animal land have decreed that it is a torturous act being committed by the holders of the Pennsylvania celebration, which dates all the way back to 1886. You see, they no longer want to exploit fattie Phil… and get this… are you ready… I swear to God, I ain’t making this up… they want the ‘real’ Phil replaced by a robot.

According to PETA executive vice president Tracy Reiman, an animatronic Phil “would attract new and curious tourists” to Punxsutawney’s annual event.

“Hey honey, ya think the robot’s gonna see his shadow this year? Yer not sure? You mean you don’t care? I understand.”

The fanatical folks of PETA have once again proved that they have bats in their collective belfry, which I would imagine are being harmed and may be replaced by robots as well. William Deeley, president of the groundhog club, said that the animal was “treated better than the average child in Pennsylvania”. What I’ve personally heard is that Phil is set up in a pretty swank little place to live and even rooms with a female hog to keep his loins in perfect working order. I hear he even has his own hoggy little humidor to enjoy his favorite smokes. No, really, that’s what I heard. Where did I get this info? I don’t know, are you questioning my journalistic sources? That’s not cool and you know I’m sworn not to reveal my source. The nerve.

Of course several channels on TV are running ‘Groundhog Day’, the Bill Murray film from 1993, where Pittsburgh weatherman, Phil Connor relives the same day of his life over and over and over until the powers of the universe determine that he get things right. I did a little web search and the movie’s writers and producers estimate that Connor spent maybe ten years or more repeating that same day in PA. If that were me, I would have found the nearest smokeshops and herfed until my friggin brains imploded. You could smoke twenty cigars in a day and wake up the next morning without your mouth tasting like a garbage dump fire. I actually just looked up a list of Cigar shops in the Keystone State and while none reside in Punxsutawney, some are close enough where you could hop in the weather van and get there before the blizzard sets in. I’d pack some sandwiches, grab a local broad or two that I tricked into thinking they sat next to me in high school English, and smoke premium cigars until Sonny and Cher sung ‘I Got You Babe’ one more time.

So, Happy Groundhog Day to you all and let’s hope the pudgy fur ball is shadow free again in the 2010.

Tommy Z

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

Pretty good chances are that if you read this blog, you are a lover of the luscious leaf. With deference to sir Quentin Tarantino. We ARE Inglorious Cigar Loving Bastids. Cigars make our lives better. The ritual of cutting, lighting, and then drawing in that first heavenly puff of smoke is one that we relish with all our hearts and souls. Dare I say that we would kill for our cigars.

A good cigar is truly like a friend who accompanies us on long car rides, a day on the links, or on the back deck when the stars litter the sky. It’s an understatement to say that we ‘love’ our cigars. So, I started thinking about the cigars I personally love – you know, my faves. My mind was all over the place as there are so many sticks I smoke. I tried to come up with a list of my top ten favorite smokes and it was too hard. So then I thought, what if I had to choose just five to smoke the rest of my days. Ooooo… now that’s getting more serous and required some intense thought. But then my brain went one bizarre step further. What if the smoke Nazis gained control and we Inglorious Bastids were only allowed to choose one cigar to make our regular everyday stogie. What would it be?

Wow, my brain started to hurt. A cloud of smoke began to seep from my ears as confusion riddled my soul. I have to pick one cigar to spend the rest of my life with. Holy crap, this is just like marriage – you have to be eternally faithful and you still don’t get laid. With my mental faculties in a quandary, I decided to seek the help of some friends. I turned to the cigar forum I frequent (or is it ‘freak’quent) on the internet for some support. I’ve been a member of Herfersparadise for a little over three years and it has become a fixture in my daily regimen. There are a lot of knowledgeable cigartophiles there – some good dudes, some weird ones (yours truly falls into that category) and a few grating assholes, just like any internet forum. (No I Am Not referring to any of my friends who post both here and there.)

So I posted my smoke-filled dilemma in a new thread in the cigars part of the forum and it read like so…

The smoke Nazi’s have cut us off at the balls and every smoker gets to choose one cigar to smoke the rest of their life. Just one to spend the rest of your days with. Price is NOT the object here, only choice. What will it be?

Now I really had no idea what the response would be, but I knew the Herfer’s faithful would enjoy lending their two cents into the kitty. Right off the bat, my bud, Kevin says, “I’ll choose none. If Tommys 8 th grade stupid question ever comes true I will be dead,” which cracked me up, and it was cool because the answers were coming in fast and furious.

And what was amazing is that about 35 answers in, we had 35 different cigars listed and that really surprised me. Finally a few repeats made the list, but what truly surprised me the most was that half of the answers that the guys listed as the ONE cigar they would choose… was a Cuban made smoke. I really didn’t expect that. A lot of guys seem to scoff at Habanas, stating quite emphatically that Nicaragua, Honduras, and the DR has surpassed the Isle de Castro in quality. But after close to 100 posts on the thread and 1,700 views, there are still those who feel that a ‘real-deal’ Havana is still the only way to go.

The top picks: Montecristo # 2 and 4. Siglo VI is popular as well as the Partagas Serie D Robusto. What’s so interesting about the “legal” cigars is that the choices were spread out across the board. And I personally think that’s a great sign for the industry, meaning that a lot of manufacturers are making a vast array of great smokes..

Oh yeah… my personal pick? Papayos? Optimos? Grape Philly Blunts? Well, since price is NO object, I choose to make the everyday smoke for the rest of my life… the 1926 Pardon Anniversario. (Sorry to disappoint those of you who refer to me as the JR whore. I mean I am, but variety is the spice of life, as they say… whoever ‘they’ are.) I think this cigar is so consistently smooth, well rolled, and the flavor profile is amazing.

On a final note, some found it impossible to narrow it down to ONE brand. One guy even said he’d rather give up smoking if he was forced to stick with the same cigar choice forever. To me, that’s completely insane and irrational, but probably every bit as my proposed question.

Okay, I didn’t solve world hunger or our grotesque economical problems, but I did offer up a mind numbing proposition for you to ponder.

Yes, we are the Inglorious Cigar Loving Bastids and the Smoke Nazis will feel our wrath… and smell.

Tommy Z.

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

Since John F. Kennedy signed the Cuban Embargo in 1962, nine straight U.S. presidents have come and gone, with so much talk of lifting it. Now we have the most liberal president in the history of mankind, and the question isn’t “if” the embargo will end, the only question is “when.” Okay, this is only my personal opinion, but it sure seems to be a popular opinion of many.

Many a cigar fan wants this embargo that is approaching half a century to end for selfish reasons. If you love your smokes from Havana, then you are excited about the availability of real-deal Monte #2’s, Hoyo DC’s, Bolivar Gigantes, and Partagas Serie D Robustos becoming a reality at a cigar shop near you.

If you are a pro-Castro Cuban, you want this to come to an end so you can visit your homeland and family again. If you are anti-Castro and your family came over in the Mariel Boat Lifts, then you are for the embargo and want the U.S. government to continue to squeeze Fidel’s cajone’s until he is as dead as a doornail.

As you can see, there’s a lot of mixed sentiment here. Now some of you reading don’t give a rat’s ash about Cuban smokes and are happy as a clam with your sticks from Honduras, Nicaragua, and the DR. But some of us really do enjoy the hell out of the cigars named two paragraphs above and would love to have them readily available to enjoy. But the question is: At what cost?

There are many that believe the cost of Cuban made sticks will double because immediate demand will be off the charts. And don’t kid yourself, demand for legitimate Habanos products will be utterly insane when they are readily available in America.

“There’s no way you can serve Europe and the US if Cuban cigars became big in the US,” Swedish Match Chief Financial Officer, Lars Dahlgren, who declined to say when the ban might be lifted.  “If consumers would demand the same quality of cigars, prices would skyrocket.”

It’s hard to say what pricing will be, but I personally think it will cause a kind of mini-boom here in the U.S. But the smoke Nazi’s will see this coming and raise taxes higher and fight to stop the Cuban invasion, but it won’t matter. People will want their Habanas and that’s gonna piss off a lot of Hidebeast and Pelosi supporters.

Now the interesting thing is, if prices go thru the roof in the U.S., that will again cause people to purchase them via mail order from outside of the country, but now it will be LEGAL to do so. So, to combat this, I’m sure the government will place some insane tariff on imported Cuban smokes and that’ll take care of that brief loophole.

At first, most people will go ga-ga and buy Cuban smokes at a crazy clip and smokes from the other countries will take an initial hit. But if the prices for Cubanos are ridiculously high, within a couple of months we’ll all go back to our favorite domesticated brands.

I think the thing that hits me the most is that it will no longer be considered an act of treason to purchase a real-deal stick from the Island 90 miles south of Miami. Travel will open up to Castroland and they are just going to love the U.S. dollar down there. And, you’ll see a boatload (poor choice of words?) of Cuban players in Major League Baseball. Wow, almost 50 years of talking about this and it looks as if it’s really going to happen in our lifetime. I remember Lew Rothman telling me that when the embargo was first put in place, all of the cigar companies completely believed that it wouldn’t last more than a few weeks. Well, a few weeks became a few months and it started a frenzy in the industry.

Well, I say get ready for a new frenzy in the industry, as handmade premium Cuban cigars are about to make their long awaited U.S. return…

… I think.

Tommy Z

JR Cigars Blog With the Zman

So I’m walking through the streets of Little Italy, in downtown New York, enjoying the hell out of the dark, rich, El Rey Del Mundo that I just purchased at a local favorite shop. The temperature is 30 degrees and the Manhattan air is cold and crisp, but the coffee in my other hand keeps me warm as I stroll down age-old Mulberry Street. A passer by says, “Bro, that cigar smells amazing.” I thanked the man, taking his compliment as a personal one.

I stopped to read a menu board outside one of the many restaurants as the manager declared, “That cigar, she smells a so sweet.” Wow, I know Italians are passionate, but to give my stogie a gender was a wonderful gesture. It felt good. “I” felt good. I felt accepted and alive as notes of java and woody tobacco laced my palate. This is New York City, a place where compliments and warm wishes aren’t handed out on a silver platter. While New Yorkers are genuinely good people, you kind of have to “earn” their approval and it seemed my smoky Honduran treasure helped me to do just that.

I walked a bit further then stopped and stared in the bakery window as the pastry chef filled the cannolis with great patience and expertise. I took a long draw on the El Rey, leaned my head back and released a fragrant waft of swirling blue smoke into the heavens. I felt like I was in a movie. It was a happy feeling – a relaxed feeling – almost one of nirvana. And then there came that horrifying sound of a phonograph needle being dragged across a vinyl record album…

Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiipppppppppppp!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!…

“That’s disgusting,” blurted the old crow as she stood behind me on the sidewalk.

I slowly turned my head in pure Di Nero fashion. “Are you talkin’ to me?

She was a haggered old bat of woman – a gnarly old face and hunched over like she carried pianos on her back for a living. “That cigar stinks and I don’t need to smell it.”

Sometimes you fight back, but sometimes you are too stunned to strike. I was frozen like a lawn jockey, cigar in one hand and coffee in the other. All I could do was cock my head to the side and squint my eyes like I had just seen the face of Marley’s ghost in the door-knocker.

“Don’t give me that bullshit look,” she blurted in her raspy Mr. Potter voice. “The whole goddamned country is dyin’ of cansa and you gotta act like the shroud of death.”

I wish I could see the look on my own face – that classic “WTF is your major malfunction” look. Now I’ve had plenty of people give me shit about my cigars in the past, but here I am in the open air, in the middle of a street of a humongous world renowned metropolis – surrounded by enough bus, car, and furnace fumes to grow a tumor the size of the Biggest Loser – and this creature has me playing Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black.

But really guys, what do you do? Do you make a scene? Do you yell back… argue… defend yourself?” Put yourself in that position and think about it. Am I going to yell at a very old woman as nearby smoke Nazis chime in and use me for a Polish piñata? Am I going to lose my cool and make it look like “I’m” the bad guy in this situation? My brain was misfiring as a proper response was not coming forth.

“You people should be castrated and put on your own island!” she snapped as saliva sprayed from her flapping gums.

YOU PEOPLE? Did she just call me “YOU PEOPLE?” I’ve never been called you people before and it was a bizarre feeling. The entire situation was as surreal as it gets as several people gathered to see why this rancid old crab was ranting.

You know, normally I’d give the shpeal about being outside in the open air, or it’s a big city, or there’s nowhere left to smoke any more, yada, yada, yada. But I didn’t. For some reason I just let this wretched shrew have her moment in the sun. For three whole minutes, she was the champion of justice and her verbal flogging was just and most righteous.

Then… it happened…

“Just stand there with yer cansa-stick… ya big pussy,” she said in all of her old lady bravado.

She called me a pussy. First I’m “You People” and them I’m a “pussy.” All I was doing was minding my own business, walking though lovely Little Italy, enjoying my time alone with a good cigar. But now… I was no longer stunned. I was goddamned mad. I dropped my coffee and as the java splashed the pavement, my hand curled up into a fist. This rancid sow actually then yelled out, “Whatta ya gonna do, hit an old woman?”

With my right hand, I slowly brought my cigar to my lips and drew in the largest puff of smoke I could possible muster, then cocked my head while raising my eyebrows. For a solid ten seconds, I stared dead into the eyes of the bullying bitch, as she awaited my response – and so I gave it to her. I leaned into her face, nose to nose, and let forth the thickest puff of billowing Honduran smoke this world has ever known.

In plain English, the broad lost her marbles. She stumbled, then fell backwards, ala Fred Sanford, into the brick wall of the bakery, clutching at her chest while calling out to her god. She yelled out obscenities that even only I use on rare occasions, coughing and hacking up a lung as if she had encountered Death, himself.

That very moment was a triumph for cigar smokers everywhere. And, as I looked around, a small crowd of people clapped and laughed as the Chinese dude selling scarves and gloves actually said, “Good for you, Mr… Dat bitch focking crazy!”

Yeah, she was focking crazy, all right. But for a small moment in time, I was a just little bit crazier.

Smoke ‘em if ya gottem.

Tommy Z.
JR Cigar Blog With the Zman

It’s always sad when an era comes to an end. Whether it’s sports, business, or music, when greatness sings its swan song, it’s hard to even imagine life being the same. And so goes the story for the famed Villazon factory in Cofradia, Honduras. On December 11, 2009, the operation closed its doors as a cigar manufacturing facility, moving its revered brands six hours away to Danli.

Villazon, owned by General Cigars, was home to such legendary brand names as Punch, Hoyo de Monterrey, El Rey Del Mundo, and a host of JR premium lines. But like the rest of the world, the economy and imposed taxes have claimed their latest victims, and hundreds of dedicated people in that region of the Central American country are out of work, and God only knows how they’ll be able to survive.

As many of you know, in April of 2008, I spent several days at this facility, with Lew Rothman, as we were guests of then General CEO, Daniel Nunez. In less than half a week I developed an appreciation for cigars and the people who make them, like I had never known. The time, sweat, and dedication involved is fascinating, and we here in America could take an invaluable lesson from the people of this culture and their unrelenting work ethic.

The factory floor operations was run by a man named Manuel Zavala, who has thankfully been moved to Danli. I interviewed Manuel through an interpreter (a very cool and different experience) and was truly blown away by his love for tobacco, his company and his employees – of whom I’m sure he is heart broken over. The guy cared like not many bosses I have ever seen in my lifetime. The cigar making biz is a team operation, relying on many different parts to act as a whole. Manuel spent sixteen-hour days on the premises, overseeing all phases of the operation, while personally dealing one-on-one with those he felt needed the attention. The man had tears in his eyes, several times during our interview – tears of an unrelenting pride that was infectious to anyone in his presence. And let me correct myself, Manuel actually spent 24/7 on the premises, as he, his wife and children lived in a home on the compound, provided by General. Don’t see that in the U.S. of A.

After touring the plant and meeting just about everyone who worked there, my heart goes out to these wonderful people. They are all cigar people and I’m not sure how they’ll be able to recover. That area of Honduras is a headquarters for Chiquita Banana, as well as fish farming. More than half of the world’s tilapia consumption originates there, and at least that helps their fragile economy. One good thing is that the grounds in Cofradia will remain a tobacco processing and warehousing facility, which will be able to retain some of the employees, and, can be used again as a manufacturing plant if needed. One can only hope, but with the state of the industry, with its egregious taxes and Smoke Nazi shakedowns, it’s hard to imagine that a comeback will ever take place.

It is the end of an era. Villazon of Cofradia made some of the world’s legendary cigars for many decades, and within an instant, it becomes a memory of what once was – a time when a man’s right to chose a premium smoke was accepted and not looked upon as an act of immoral disgust.

So I ask you to light your next cigar in the memory of the people of Cofradia. Day in and out they gave their hearts and souls so you and I could enjoy one of the greatest passion that man has ever known. The attached photos of the plant and Manuel were all taken by yours truly. This last one is of me, Lew, and Daniel at Pat’s Steakhouse, in San Pedro Sula, Honduras. (The bulletproof wearing, AK 47 carrying bodyguards were cropped from the photo.)

Long live Villazon.

Tommy Z.

JR Cigars Blog with the Zman