FRUITFUL MEETING

A number of years ago I mentioned that the total absence of a love life of any sort weighed on me. Before that I had had a love life -- which lasted for several very happy years -- and not having anyone to eat dinner with or NOT accompany to the symphony was a bleakness. Friends suggested alleviations and solutions. Most of which if analysed would have meant changes equal to or greater than a sex-change and joining a cult.

Yesterday was the meeting of the local pipe club. Many of the members of which are of my age, roughly, with similar bad habits and tastes. Some of whom are actually in relationships. Two of them are married. No, we did not ask them what their secret was. One of them we couldn't because he and his wife were off somewhere doing something. I'm sure he had told her weeks (even months or years) before of the regularly scheduled meetings, which occur once a month and last for less than three hours. Which we all look forward to, because it is both good and refreshing to share time with people like oneself.
The other married member brought the eaties.

There was alcohol there. A few bottles.
Single malt Scotch. Rare Bourbon.

As you would expect, I drank plenty of tea. Which is the extent of my indulgence in cheering beverages nowadays. Goes with both Virginia blends and Balkan mixtures. Perhaps not so much with aromatics (only one participant) or Burley concoctions (best with bathtub gin and clear distilates from your cousin Bubba presently in the federal penitentiary we're praying for an early release on good behaviour because he leads the weekly Bible class).

On my days off I usually head into Chinatown for a cup of hot Hong Kong Milk Tea and something to eat. It's an escape from the wider world, and therapeutic.
Also stress-free. Quite enjoyable.

People in Chinatown don't object to my smoking a pipe on the public street, because they either have a dear relative who still smokes or they are that relative, and they mind their own business, or they are tourists from parts of the world where people smell very much worse and do perfectly awful things habitually so a whisp of burning leaves doesn't register.

Plus it's well policed there. Unlike the rest of the city.
Or Berkeley and Oakland.


A dozen pipe smokers attended. And a good time was had. I should have offered the designated drivers a cuppa from my stash, I realize now belatedly.

At one point I explained an unusual product to two others, who committed to trying it some time. The Beast, comprised of 51% Perique (an anaerobically fermented tobacco)that has been soaked rum for a week, augmented by red Virginia Cavendish and black, with a smidge of fire-cured leaf. Supposedly a tweaked version of what Aleister Crowly enjoyed. Seeing as he was a certifiable freak who dabbled in black magic and occult practices, and probably liked ripping the wings off baby daemons, it's a peculiarity. Not likely to be anyone's desert island blend, though it is .... amusing. Normally Perique is only used condimentally, no more than ten percent max, best as three to six percent of a blend. I've smoked a few bowls of it. From an opened sample tin, because I'm not going to purchase any.
I enjoyed it, and it didn't ghost my pipe.

Note: a few years ago I smoked a pipeful of something that was twenty percent Perique, not rum-soaked, which though quite pleasant left my mouth feeling both raw and processed. And two talented blenders have assured me that ten percent max is bullpucky. But they're both eccentric, so let us disregard that.

At one point there were three of us standing around yesterday with Dunhill shellbriars in our mouths; two Balkans, one VaPer. Two fat straight billiards, one bent.

Ecumenical. Or Catholic. Depends on your definition.


The smoker of the aromatic mixture is conservative, as you would expect. Ex-army.


The three tea drinkers are all intelligent and liberal.

Air force and the navy were also there.
As well academia and industry.
No women, sadly.


The Beast, by Cornell & Diehl, is the kind of pipe tobacco you smoke when performing an exorcism. It will remind the daemon of losing its wings. And give it night sweats, much like what Nigel Farage has when he remembers being deservedly assaulted with a milk shake.
Fruity Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.
You should buy a tin.



AFTERWORD: That there were no women in attendance dismays me. This must change. We're all socially polished and on the whole excellent conversationalists.
And we smell good. Plus there is tea, and whisky.
Also cheese and pâté.

TOBACCO INDEX


==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================