Never underestimate a short dame.
They say never underestimate a short dame.
That's good advice.
Right up there with, "Never play poker with a man named Lucky," and, "Don't trust a restaurant with twelve pages of pictures on the menu."
I've ignored all three.
The poker game cost me fifty bucks.
The restaurant cost me two days.
The dame…
Well…
She almost cost me my opinion.
She was sitting in the humidor the first time I noticed her.
Not showing off.
Not trying to catch anybody's eye.
Just leaning there between a couple of larger cigars like she'd already figured out something the rest of us hadn't.
Four and a half inches.
Forty-six ring.
That's it.
I've seen church bulletins thicker than that cigar.
Naturally, I smiled.
"You're cute," I thought.
That's usually how every bad decision in history begins.
I'd known her family for years.
The Padrons don't exactly produce strangers.
The Exclusivo?
A classy brunette that'll empty your wallet and make you thank her for the privilege.
The Torpedo?
Elegant enough to attend a governor's banquet…
Mean enough to survive it.
Those were serious women.
So when I met the little sister, I assumed she was riding on the family name.
Turns out…
She was the family name.
She introduced herself properly.
Padron 1964 Anniversary Series Principe Maduro.
Now that's a mouthful.
Long enough to sound important.
Short enough to fit on a cigar band if everybody writes real small.
The "1964" isn't a marketing trick.
That's the year José Orlando Padron started building what would eventually become one of the most respected cigar companies on the planet.
Thirty years later, the family celebrated that anniversary the only way cigar people know how.
They rolled something special.
Not louder.
Not flashier.
Better.
Sometimes experience doesn't shout.
Sometimes it simply smiles and lets everyone else argue.
She wore a Maduro wrapper.
Black silk.
Midnight after a rainstorm.
The kind of dress that tells every man in the room, "You can look…but don't confuse that with permission."
I've always liked Maduro wrappers.
Not because they're stronger.
That's one of the biggest myths floating around cigar lounges.
A dark wrapper isn't automatically a stronger wrapper any more than gray hair automatically makes a man wise.
I've met plenty of fools with gray hair.
Maduro is patience.
Extra fermentation.
Extra time.
The tobacco sits quietly while heat, pressure, and time smooth out the rough edges and coax natural sugars to the surface.
Turns out…
People and tobacco both improve when they quit trying to become somebody overnight.
The cut was clean.
The cold draw hinted that something interesting was about to happen.
You should always pay attention to a cold draw.
It's like shaking hands before an interview.
Sometimes you know everything you need to know before the first word is spoken.
The foot glowed.
Smoke curled upward.
And then…
Boom.
Dark cocoa.
Not hot chocolate. Not candy. Real cocoa. The kind your grandmother kept hidden in the back of the pantry because she knew the grandchildren couldn't be trusted with it.
Then espresso.
Deep.
Rich.
Bold enough to wake up a cemetery.
She wasn't introducing herself anymore.
She was making an entrance.
Like she was whisperin' in Spanish and handing you a cup of trouble.
I accepted both.
Earthy cedar wasn't far behind.
Not the polished cedar chest from my Hemingway dame.
No…
This was rough timber.
Old barn wood.
Fence posts that had seen three generations of bad weather and still refused to fall over.
Then came black pepper.
Just enough to remind me she had a switchblade tucked into her evening purse.
Nothing aggressive.
Just insurance.
Every dangerous dame keeps a little insurance.
And then…
Caramel.
Now that's just dirty pool.
You can't walk into a room throwing cocoa, espresso, cedar, and pepper around like you're collecting overdue debts…
…and then suddenly smile with caramel.
It wrapped around everything like a velvet lie.
The kind you know isn't true…
…but you're willing to hear the rest of it anyway.
That's when she had me.
Not because she was sweet.
Because she knew exactly when to become sweet.
Timing has solved more cases than fingerprints ever have.
About halfway through the investigation I finally figured out her secret.
It wasn't stronger tobacco.
It wasn't magic.
It wasn't even the blend.
It was geometry.
Funny thing…
Most folks think bigger cigars deliver bigger flavor.
Makes sense.
Until you actually smoke them.
The wrapper is where much of a cigar's personality lives, and when you shrink the overall cigar without sacrificing that beautiful Maduro wrapper, every puff carries a little more of her wardrobe.
That's wrapper-to-filler ratio.
I know…
Sounds like something an accountant would invent.
Trust me.
It's why this little lady punches above her weight.
She's wearing more of the dress than her big sisters.
And brother…
That dress was worth wearing.
She settled into the second half of the smoke like she'd finally decided I was worth talking to.
The ash stacked up one layer at a time.
Straight.
Solid.
Confident.
Some cigars burn like they're trying to escape the fire.
This one walked through it like she owned the place.
The burn line stayed so clean it looked like she'd hired a surveyor.
No relights.
No touch-ups.
No drama.
I appreciate that.
Life already provides enough drama.
I don't need my cigars auditioning for it.
The smoke grew thicker with every draw.
Not heavy.
Comforting.
Like an old leather chair that's heard a thousand stories and never repeated a single one.
It drifted through the room, curling around the lamp before disappearing into the shadows.
Smoke's funny that way.
It reminds me of memories.
You can never really hold onto either one.
The harder you grab…
The faster they disappear.
Best to simply sit with them while they last.
She never lost her focus.
That's harder than it sounds.
A lot of cigars make a grand entrance and spend the rest of the smoke trying to remember what they wanted to say.
Not this one.
The dark cocoa stayed right where it belonged. The espresso never wandered off. That earthy cedar kept the whole conversation grounded, while the black pepper showed up every now and then like an old detective stopping by your office to remind you he still carried a badge.
And that caramel…
She'd smile…
Disappear…
Then come back just when I thought she'd left for good.
Some dames know exactly how long to stay away before you'll miss them.
By now I'd stopped comparing her to her sisters.
That's another lesson life has a habit of teaching.
Comparison is a thief.
It'll rob a perfectly wonderful experience simply because you're looking over its shoulder.
The Principe wasn't trying to be an Exclusivo.
She wasn't trying to become a Torpedo.
She was perfectly content being exactly who she was.
Funny how confidence works.
The people who have it rarely need to tell you.
I can't tell you how many times someone has walked into the lounge looking for the biggest cigar in the humidor.
There's a certain belief that bigger automatically means better.
Bigger steak.
Bigger truck.
Bigger paycheck.
Bigger cigar.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
I've known little churches with more heart than giant cathedrals. I've eaten at hole-in-the-wall diners that embarrassed five-star restaurants. And I've smoked this little four-and-a-half-inch lady who left behind memories that some seven-inch giants never managed to create.
Size measures tobacco.
It doesn't measure character.
By the final third she wasn't trying to impress me anymore.
She didn't have to.
That's where truly great cigars separate themselves from merely good ones.
They stop performing.
They simply become themselves.
The cocoa had deepened.
The espresso softened around the edges.
The caramel still wandered in and out like she'd left something in my office and couldn't quite remember where she'd put it.
The pepper tipped its hat one last time.
Everything worked together.
Nobody shouting.
Nobody competing.
Just one beautifully written conversation.
I looked down at what was left.
Not much.
A couple of inches.
Funny…
Some cigars feel like they end too soon because they're short. Others feel too short because you're enjoying yourself.
There's a world of difference.
I wasn't wishing she'd been bigger.
I was wishing she'd stayed a little longer.
Those are two entirely different regrets.
Then I laughed.
I'd spent the better part of an hour investigating the smallest member of one of the greatest cigar families on earth.
I came in expecting a supporting actress.
I walked away having met the star.
That's happened to me before.
Usually right after I said, "This'll be easy."
I've learned to stop saying that.
The universe seems to take it personally.