Over the last year or so I have developed the habit of smoking at least one bowl of an aromatic on the Sundays that I work with Hector. He looks at me like I've lost my mind, puffs harder on his Nicaraguan cigar, and mutters something in Spanish, before eventually calling me a frightful pervert or suggesting that I probably also like ripping the wings off kittens.
That was seven weeks ago. I remember it with angst and loathing.
Molto Dolce ruined my mouth for the rest of the day.
Worse than chewing barbed wire.
[The open tin is so old it should be dessicated by now, but there's enough propylene glycol in there to embalm it. As well as, most likely, glycerin. It can never dry, but will live forever. It is an evil rotten sodden drecky mess of a tobacco that stinks of caramel and toffee with a hint of coconut that becomes more pronouced with age.]
I cannot believe how popular that stuff is. There are happy selfies all over the internet of people with their pipes "enjoying" a big bowlful of Molto Dolce. Their cheerful glowing faces fill me with resentment, I am made to despise their piercings, tattoos, and eccentric haircuts. Keenly do I wish for the day that their elderly mother throws them out of their dank basement apartments and tells them to get a job. And take that wrecked old Studebaker with you!
Molto Dolce, by Sutliff, is the kind of pipe tobacco that fills adults with distrust of the young.
It is the purest representative of everything tobacco should not be.
Hector and I work together every other Sunday.
It's coming up. Oh boy.
There's an open tin of Peterson's Founder's Choice for sampling. Mangoes, rum, and vanilla spritzed on sugary black Cavendish and very good quality Burleys. Yes, it does ghost the pipe in which one smokes it -- by accident one of those pipes was with me when I visited the Occidental, and I had to deflect Curtis by blaming the faint whisper of bordello perfume on the young people vaping outside -- but it doesn't bite the tongue ferociously and is actually quite smokable. And it really convinces Hector that I am quite the degenerate and wearing fluffy underwear beneath my khaki trousers.
The taste is fairly pleasant, and reminiscent of a girlie drink served in a coconut with a little umbrella on top.
On the Sundays when I don't work with Hector, the open tin of Esoterica's Tilbury beckons. Mostly well-aged Virginias, with very subtle additions of Burley and Perique.
Two bowls yesterday, followed by St. James Flake (Samuel Gawith).
Enough tea (Pu Erh) to sink a battle ship.
It was a very good day.
TOBACCO INDEX
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