AN AFFAIR WITH A FUSILIER
The very last of it.
Made in the USA exclusively for
Blended by Hearth & Home Tobaccos
"lightly scented it with an old fashioned top dressing and hot pressed "
I doubt that very many fusiliers reeked of snuff-casing. The top dressing may be tonquin, but without a laboratory I shan't go out on a limb. Personally I think that Blakeney's Best Latakia Flake produced by McClelland comes far closer.
But I may be biased -- I took a sniff of the tin of Fusilier just to try and identify the odour, and promptly had a sneezing fit, so on second thought it may not be essence of dipteryx odorata (cumaru) -- Samuel Gawith's 1792 Flake has never forced me to shampoo thick rivulets of snot out of my whiskers.
I am somewhat offended. More than.
I am not allergic to tonquin.
Hell no, I'm not throwing it out! Perish the thought! It is in its own way far too interesting and amusing a product. And I won't keep it for curiosity value alone, I shall smoke it.
Just for comparison, here are some actual fusiliers:
SUCH MIGHTY MANLY MEN
Maybe the fusiliers referenced in the name of the tobacco aren't English, but French or Swedish. Quite a bit more poncy and decorative.
Mighty queenly men.
That would explain the addition of perfume.
Another English blend containing Latakia and a top dressing is Samuel Gawith's Westmoreland Mixture, from the Kendal Mayor's Collection. Distinct nose of tonquin. Very nice. Pleasantly velvety in the mouth, and pleasingly perfumy, in an old dame fashion. She's ensconced in the snuggery, discretely having herself a quiet smoke.
There's a row of rum bottles in the bookcase, behind the encyclopedia.
She'll come out for tea when she's good and ready.
Not one moment sooner.
She smells a bit.
My problem with most flakes containing Latakia and Turkish is that they're always too damned smooth. Yes, the creosote dominance is there, but it's almost like whiffing air. Very enjoyable at three o'clock in the morning, in summer, when your windows are open and you are resolved to not get up on time. Spot of sherry, someone snoring softly somewhere else in the house, silence all about.
It's lovely then.
That doesn't often happen. For one thing, my neighborhood has too many drunken twenty-somethings yotzing about at all hours, loudly celebrating their escape from points further east. For another, those intemperate blonde party animals across the way might cream in their easy-off panties at a whiff of fusilier.
Jump the poor bastard and succubate him to death.
So caution is advised.
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