Montecristo in the Irish Wind
I did not want another Sunday lost to motion. A guitar carried but not played. An umbrella never opened. A cigar never lit. Only held, postponed, forgotten in the rush of people and noise.
We were heading to Cleere’s Bar & Theatre on a cold Irish spring day. I had the Bone Machine band with me, my viola bass, a pork pie hat, and a steel tube. Inside it, a Montecristo Double Edmundo waited. Patient. Certain.
Before gigs, I usually choose something short. A Partagás cigars. A Zino cigars. Reliable, quick. Sometimes between soundcheck and stage, with a glass of Redbreast 12 outside an old pub that smells of wet wood and rope. But this time was different.
Just before the journey, I lit the Montecristo. Hat in one hand. S.T. Dupont, lotus red & gold in the other. I angled the foot. Cut clean. Flame steady. Timing precise. Then the first draw.
The opening was direct. Pepper. Strength. A familiar Cuban assertion. The size of the Double Edmundo gives it narrative weight. It unfolds like a novel that does not rush you. It asks for attention, but never demands effort.
Its name comes from The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. Once, such stories were read aloud to the torcedores as they worked. Literature and tobacco, side by side.
In the second half, it deepens. Oak. Leather. The structure becomes more defined. Some draws carry a quiet note of dark chocolate. It improves with time. Each puff more composed than the last.
The wind fought back. I shielded the cigar with my hand, protecting the burn. Ireland does not make it easy. I wondered what it would be like in winter, lighting one in a park, the ground cold and wet beneath.
The head was slightly soft. The draw, light but steady. Flavours turned grassy, then herbal. Black tea. Wood. A finish of dark toast. In the final stretch, the cigar held its character—pepper still present, never harsh, never intrusive.
After an hour, it came to its close with dignity.
The band was ready. In the background, Tom Waits played softly. A reminder. The night ahead would carry its own rhythm. With the viola bass in hand, I expected the memory of Cuban tobacco to return in fragments. A quiet retrohale, somewhere between notes.
Thank you GQ Tobaccos for this amazing smoke.
