• The next vision in the My Father line, inspired by a friend of the Garcia Family, spawned "My Father MF The Judge". Cloaked in a gorgeous dark brown Sumatra Oscuro wrapper, who's subtle sweetness hides an inner strength, this full bodied blend is rounded out by three different Nicaraguan fillers, all grown on the Garcia's farms as well as Corojo and Criollo binders. Excellent!
• 6 x 56
• Box pressed Toro
• Nicaraguan

All rise, court is in session.

The father and son collaborators at My Father, José “Pepin” and Jaime Garcia have met the demand of their customers by creating a succulent Nicaraguan called My Father The Judge. The cinnamon toned Ecuadorian Sumatra Oscuro wrapper along with a selection of Nicaraguan tobaccos grown on the Garcia family’s private reserve divvies up a wonderful profile of toasted almond, cedar, cocoa and the signature spicy pepper.

This new edition to the My Father catalogue offers up a full bodied, luxurious smoke destined to become one of their most endearing blends ever. The construction is meticulous and the incineration was flawless on the box-pressed toro. It is a robust and hearty smoke which has all the characteristics of a fine Cuban pedigree. Speaking of Cuba.....

My Trip to Cuba- Part dos

The Hemingway House in Cuba is located in a small, modest suburb of Havana named San Francisco de Paula - approximately 9 miles from the capital city. Situated on a hilltop, the Hemingway House was first purchased by Ernest Hemingway in 1940 for a mere $12,500. The Cuban people have always respected the famous writer's choice to live in a modest town among the people he fished with. There Ernest Hemingway wrote two of his most celebrated novels; For Whom the Bell Tolls and The Old Man and the Sea. A Movable Feast was written there as well. Now restored, the rooms are adorned with African game trophies and Life magazines from another era. It’s hard not to daydream when wandering around the house. In my head I poured myself a gin and tonic from the bar in his sitting room and lowered the needle onto a Edith Piaf record. With glass in hand, I browsed the bookshelves and examined the paintings on the wall as I waited for Ernest to come back from a fishing trip. Was that a real Miró? I wondered as he entered the room with his devoted dog, Black at his side. “Oh, Thanks for dropping in. How’s that blog of yours coming along? Can you join us for dinner? We have Gary Cooper staying.”

No better way to daydream than with a My Father the Judge in hand.