CIGAR, ANYONE?

The best cigar merchants are those staffed by folks older that I.  At sixty, that number is dwindling.  I don’t want the proprietor to appear hip or suave or cooler than me.  I want him to be professorial, or, if not professorial, maybe just of a different ilk than myself.  But more than that, I want him to teach me something about cigars.

Placer County Historical Society

My local guy fits all the requirements and calls his store “the Tobacco Republic.”  Located in an out-of-the-way berg called Loomis, California – 25 miles east of Sacramento, yet off I-80 – the Republic has a humidor the size of many folks’ dining rooms adjacent to a seating area where locals come to taste product and discuss the issues of the day, week or whatever’s buggin’ ‘em at the moment.

I like to browse the humidor but generally walk out with a couple of Rocky Patel “vintage” 1990 Maduros knowing that they will complement whatever my pallet yearns for on the spirit side of the cigar/whiskey equation. 

Occasionally, owner Ron will gently probe: “What are you drinkin’ this evening?” and I’ll reply with some type of Scotch, bourbon or, lately, rye. He knows I’m a mild-to-medium twice-a-month kind of guy.  “Then try this,” he’ll say and he’ll trot out something I’ve not heard of before.  He talks about the wrapper, the binder and the various leaves that make the filler.  He tells me about the history of the group that produces the stick and throws in a little knowledge of Caribbean and Central American politics.

I’m a sucker.  I love the smell of the humidor and rarely, if ever, am I disappointed with the resultant stick.

My beloved old-time doctor retired due to health issues.  Her replacement was not too many year my junior.  In getting to know me, his new client, he asked about my lifestyle choices.  “Drink any alcohol?” 

“Yes.”

“Frequency?” 

“Only when I’m alone or with somebody.” 

“Smoker?”

“Cigars.” 

“How often?” 

“Maybe twice a month depending upon the stresses associated with retirement.”

“Other vices?” 

Somehow mention was made of my enjoyment of two-wheeled travel.  He asked me where I’d been and I shared a link to my on-line presence.  Then he laughed and said he’d always dreamed of touring the west on a Harley.  I questioned him on brand of choice and he admitted, “That’s what I thought everyone rode.”

The examination followed including blood pressure, pulse and a bunch of unmentionables. 

Upon conclusion, I asked him, “So, whadaya think, Doc?”

“Worst thing you do,” he said, “is riding that bike.”

Rightly or wrongly, I took that as approval of the occasional cigar and whiskey.

My computer crapped out today: Wouldn’t print and couldn’t access some on-line links I needed for a contract I was supposed to complete.  My patience for technology is thin.

I headed over to “the Republic” to pick up a couple of Rocky Patels.  A little mid-winter quality time in the back yard with my lab-mix, some Elijah Craig and a Rocky, seated in front of a blazing chiminea would probably put all things in good order. 

The “try this” amounted to something from Cuba Rica.  The Cuban economy has virtually fallen apart, Ron said.  Many of the folks who roll cigars have left the island and work through out Central America.  This particular group of cigars uses Cuban filler – he mentioned a couple of different leaves that I nodded about but completely forgot – Ecuadorian wrappers and yada, yada, yada.  “Try these,” he said.  “Only a couple of bucks more a stick.  Let me know what you think.”

In America, we do many things well.  We invent things like washers, dryers and Z-28s.  We get highway systems.  We practice agriculture to the point where we can feed much of the rest of the world.  We do democracy – whether or not we’re all that enamored with the results of the latest election.  (I happen to be okay with the outcome, but no matter.) 

But we don’t do cigars.

In the gathering dusk, I am rubbing the little lab’s ears, nursing some Kentucky Bourbon and savoring the fruits of those Cuban ex-patriots, handsomely hand-rolled for my personal pleasure.  It’s a good thing I got permission from the Doc.

Today’s Route:  I-80, exit Horseshoe Bar Road.  North ½ mile to Loomis.  Right on Taylor.  One block:  Tobacco Republic, Ugly Mug Coffee Shop.  Across street: Loomis Packing Sheds with great fresh fruit and local products year round.  West on Taylor: a classic burger drive-in, an old-fashioned drug store and one of the finer nurseries in the area.  Loomis is small town America and is worth a visit.

Resources:

Tobacco Republic, the local cigar store: www.trcigar.com They do on-line sales.  Today’s toke: www.viahavana.com Oh me, oh my: the Corojo is good!

Loomis Basin Chamber of Commerce:  www.loomischamber.com

Local Produce at the packing shed: http://bluegooseproduce.com/

High Hand Nursery: www.highhand.com

© 2013

Church of the Open Road Press

SEARCHING FOR A CINNAMON ROLL (V.5) – GUNNISON, CO.

…from the great Colorado auto tour of 2012…

We’d come in for a simple cup of coffee while “the girls” engaged in their morning constitutional.  The menu in the coffee house was one of those huge black boards littered with item after item – breakfast lunch and snack – calligraphed in colorful if distracting chalk, including eats and coffee drinks I have no desire of ever trying.  Without an eyelid or two full of caffeine, it was futile to try to make sense of the big board.  All I wanted was coffee.

As I ordered, the missy behind the counter extracted a dozen hand-coiled rolls from an oven.

“Cinnamon?” I asked.

“Uh huh.”

I looked the counter girl up and down, my gaze resting on…

…the tray of freshly baked goods.  I guess I wanted more than simply coffee.

The confection arrived still warm and nicely iced with what appeared to be a cream cheese based glaze.  Forgetting I’d determined to photograph the cinnamon rolls consumed on this quest, I immediately plied the fork.  Beneath the baked crust, the breadstuff was delightfully flaky with a hint of saltiness balancing that sweet cream cheese glaze. 

Inside each curl, the light dusting of cinnamon grew a bit more intense as I found the soft, warm and slightly doughy center.  Throughout this exploration, I sipped a nice Italian Roast afforded me from an institutional Bunn coffee urn.

As the end became apparent, I slowed my consumption, reminding myself that these are moments to savor.  As I type, a single bite remains on the plate.  It will serve as my reward for finishing this review.

o0o

Other Gunnison Attractions:

Western State College (of Colorado) – nice place for a stroll; nice place to study.

Ol’ Miner Steakhouse – Four (4!) fine high country steak dinners with superbly prepared veges and taters, and a nice bottle of California red, all for a hundred bucks!  Welcome to the west.

The Gunnison Pioneer Museum – great collection of antique farm and mining equipment, two relocated one-room schoolhouses and some preserved motive power and rolling stock from the old days of narrow gauge.

Some of the collection:

Rebuilt Denver and Rio Grande Station and Water Tower

Checking out the narrow gauge steam loco

Accommodations inside the caboose

A barn holds 40+ antique or simply old autos.  Each with a local story.

Antique tractors dot the greens...

...most appear ready fire over and provide another day's work.

Two schoolhouses have been moved to the property.  Check out the glasswork on this one.

Worksheets!  The bane of every child's existence!

Resources:
Info on the Gunnison / Crested Butte Pioneer Museum:  http://www.gunnisoncrestedbutte.com/activity/pioneer-museum

© 2012

Church of the Open Road Press

IN HOT PURSUIT: BUENA VISTA, COLORADO

…from the great Colorado auto tour of 2012…

Buena Vista, CO Town Hall

The daily 2:00 PM thunderstorm had just swept into town.  I’d stood with our party and predicted as follows: “In about a minute in a half, we’ll be soaked.”  I missed it by forty-five seconds.

Each with a fish taco on a Chinet paper plate balanced on our laps, sitting in the plush, leather accommodations of the rented Lincoln MKX (not my choice) we watched the shower cleanse the streets of Buena Vista, Colorado and the drama unfold.

Back step to Town Hall

No matter how small the berg, constabularies in most towns seem to employ Ford Crown Victorias as their patrol cars of choice.  The smaller and more remote the village, the more whiskers on the car.  BV’s Crown Vic looked collectable were it not for the crease in the right rear fender and the salt rust forming beneath the car on the side I saw.  Its siren whooped, however, as it had been installed only yesterday and it was the bellow of that siren that got our attention initially.  Through the thick veil of rainfall, the cruiser was in pursuit of the suspect on Main.

The Saloon

Citizens in Buena Vista helped.  Two young maidens, who’d been enjoying the cloudburst, clad in cut-offs and string-bikini tops joined the chase, as did a young twenty-something on a bicycle.

The suspect was described as a middle-aged golden retriever, perhaps golden lab, clearly guilty of cavorting about town sans leash. 

We pulled away from our parking slot and monitored the fray.

The Picture Show

The girls seemed to be having the best time of things – next to the dog.  They whistled and hooted and clapped their hands, crouching on one knee cooing and coaxing.  Dog waggled to within an arm-and-a-half length and then bolted.  The lad on the bicycle circled, perhaps more interested in the knit tops the girls were wearing than the stray dog.  No blame assayed here.

The cop had parked the Crown Vic catty-wompus in an intersection and was now in foot pursuit armed with one of those long handled loop things that you lasso over the neck of the offending party – if you get close enough.

           

Tracks thru town

 A well-travelled state highway bisects town.  Visibility was, at best, limited.  The dog was headed for the highway.  The young ladies sprinted after him, their gleeful hoots now sounding more desperate.  Bike boy flashed past.  The officer hotfooted back to his vehicle.  A Coors Beer truck – Coors is big in these parts – pulled in front of us, blocking the view.  Blinded, we waited for the light to change and the traffic to clear.

Two cycles later we were heading south on the state route.

Dog had safely crossed; girls stranded on the other side.  Loping down the street, he looked over his shoulder and appeared to be laughing as only dogs can do.

© 2012

Church of the Open Road Press