Bury the Leaf

I was intimidated by My Father.

Looking back, I’m not entirely sure why.

Maybe it was the ornate packaging. Maybe it was the presentation. Maybe it was the reputation. Maybe it was simply the unknown.

When you’re first getting into cigars, brands like Rocky Patel, Oliva, Gurkha, and CAO seem to be everywhere. They’re in samplers, catalogs, and conversations. My Father always felt different. Less accessible. More serious. Like there was some unspoken admission requirement I hadn’t yet met.

So I spent entirely too much time standing outside the fence looking in.

Tonight, a $6.94 cigar spent an hour and thirty-one minutes convincing me that may have been a mistake.

By the Numbers

• – Cigar: My Father La Gran Oferta Toro
• – Price Paid: $6.94
• – Vendor: Cigar Page
• – Humidor Time: 43 Days
• – Storage: 69% RH / 68°F
• – Vitola: Toro (6 x 50)
• – Cut: Guillotine
• – Pairing: Water
• – Duration: 1 Hour 31 Minutes

Construction & First Impressions

The typical My Father ribbon foot surrounds a very well-constructed filler and pristine wrapper. Moving upward through a solid and firm, but not hard-packed cigar, everything about this stick communicates quality craftsmanship from a quality manufacturer.

The aroma from the wrapper and foot immediately catches my attention. There’s a sweetness present. Not candy sweet. Not dessert sweet. More like milk chocolate mixed with fresh hay. The cold draw follows with a complimentary sweetness of its own, though not necessarily chocolate. Whatever it is, it’s inviting enough to earn a second cold draw before reaching for the lighter.

First Third

The initial light delivers a sweet but spicy woodiness. Not cedar. At least not yet. Not oak. Not fruitwood. Just wood, sweetness, and spice working together in a way that immediately suggests there’s something interesting happening beneath the surface.

My soft flame got away from me a little during the light, resulting in a slightly uneven start. One thing this cigar isn’t lacking, however, is smoke production. The first few draws produce thick, dense clouds that would make a freight train jealous.

Alongside the wood comes a noticeable minerality and that flavor every cigar smoker eventually encounters but struggles to describe. The closest comparison is lighter fluid, despite the fact we all know it isn’t lighter fluid. That sharp mineral-forward note occasionally appears early in a cigar before the tobaccos settle into themselves. Fortunately, it never overstays its welcome.

The spice continues to build, but not in the way cigar smokers often mean when they say “spicy.” This isn’t pepper spray for your taste buds. There is no assault taking place. Instead, the spice settles quietly on the back corners of the tongue, adding flavor more than heat.

Think seasoning, not punishment.

The sweetness becomes easier to identify through a restricted exhale. Not a full retrohale and not a wide-open release. More of an oval-shaped opening that forces the smoke to take the scenic route. That’s where the sweetness lives. That’s where the chocolate lives. The wood and spice are still driving the bus, but for the first time they’re carrying passengers.

Just a few brief draws in and you know this is a Garcia cigar. The spice is present, but smooth as glass. A few moments later, the brightness of cedar begins to sing through the retrohale.

Now, I’m not the biggest cedar fan. But this one is just murky enough that it feels like some nerdy science experiment where a bunch of guys with thick glasses, beakers, and lab coats got together and attempted to cross-pollinate every tree in the forest. Cedar. Oak. Sweetness. Spice. It’s all blended together into something that refuses to identify itself cleanly.

Eventually, the DNA results come back.

Cedar, you are the father.

The sweetness remains. The spice remains. The chocolate remains. But when the smoke lingers, the family resemblance becomes impossible to ignore. It’s like looking at a five-year-old child and immediately recognizing her father standing across the room. There may be influences from all over the family tree, but nobody is wondering who signed the birth certificate.

Meanwhile, the burn line spends the better part of the first third correcting my earlier mistake. Just over an inch into the smoke, the burn has nearly completed its journey back toward the familiar concentric rings of combustion that My Father cigars seem to produce with irritating consistency.

The cigar is currently outperforming the operator.

Naturally, moments after complimenting that correction, the ash drops.

Cue Snoop Dogg.

That thing fell hot like the pigs was tryin’ to get at it.

Fortunately, old trusty Ryobi thought it was finally getting in the game. The ashtray made the catch cleanly and recorded the out. No burns. No panic. Just a veteran glove flashing leather when its number got called.

Thus far, it’s becoming clear that La Gran Oferta isn’t the centerfold in the Garcia family portfolio.

That’s reserved for cigars like The Judge.

The Judge gets the cover. The Judge gets the spotlight. The Judge is the reason people stop and pick up the magazine.

La Gran Oferta is the articles.

You know…

The articles.

The reason everybody claims they bought the magazine in the first place.

Second Third

As the second third settles in, I find myself in a strange place.

This review started as an evaluation of La Gran Oferta. Somewhere along the way, it became an existential crisis.

Because this cigar has me contemplating a full-blown Machu Picchu soul-searching expedition through the entire My Father portfolio. Not to discover the brand. To discover myself within the brand.

Am I a Le Bijou guy?

Am I a Judge guy?

Am I a La Antigüedad guy?

Is La Gran Oferta secretly the cigar equivalent of the friend who’s been giving solid advice for years while I was busy listening to louder people?

The most surprising development is the lack of development.

And I don’t mean that as criticism.

Sometimes a cigar spends the evening trying to reinvent itself every twenty minutes. One minute it’s pepper. The next it’s leather. Then coffee. Then chocolate. Then somebody swears they found notes of antique library books and Peruvian alpaca tears.

La Gran Oferta isn’t doing any of that.

Instead, it’s doing something arguably more difficult.

It’s being consistently good.

The profile remains remarkably steady. Wood, subtle spice, and occasional sweetness. That’s the recipe. That’s the assignment. The cigar has shown no interest in deviating from the plan.

Much like the construction, the flavors feel solid, steady, and true.

Nothing is fighting for attention.

Nothing is trying to steal the show.

Everything simply works.

And imagine that.

Just as La Gran Oferta reaches cruising altitude and settles into a near-perfect burn line, this ash hole decides to dump its tank directly onto the Evening Draw Lounge floor.

Earlier in the evening, old trusty Ryobi flashed the leather and made a clean catch. Apparently the cigar took that personally.

This time the ash bypassed the ashtray entirely and launched its payload with all the grace and precision of Clark Griswold emptying the RV tank from an overpass.

Thankfully, the damage was limited.

My dignity, however, remains under review.

I also think a cigar’s construction reveals itself in strange places. Everybody talks about burn lines, ash, and draw resistance. I think a cigar says a lot about itself when the bands come off.

La Gran Oferta carries multiple bands, and each one slides away in perfect harmony. No sticking. No wrapper tears. No panic. No delicate surgery requiring the dexterity of a bomb technician.

Just a naked cigar sitting in the stirrup as if the bands had never been there in the first place.

Matter of fact, this stick slipped off its bands with the subtle confidence of that feisty little number removing her hoop earrings.

She wasn’t looking for a fight.

But she also wasn’t planning on losing one.

Final Third

As we round the corner toward the home stretch, the profile finally shows a little movement. Not a dramatic shift. Not a complete reinvention. More like a new guy forcing his way to the front row.

An earthiness has muscled its way into the pit and secured a spot against the barricade.

If we’re keeping with the evening’s soundtrack, it looks fully prepared to mosh to some Bizkit.

The wood remains. The spice remains. The sweetness remains. Earth simply decided it wanted a microphone too.

The final inch and a half introduces a welcome dark chocolate note. It’s richer than the sweetness that appeared earlier in the cigar, but still remarkably restrained. Pleasant. Enjoyable. Present. Never distracting.

The wood remains the foundation. The spice remains civilized. The earth continues occupying its front-row seat. The dark chocolate simply joins the band.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, I finally figure out what this cigar is.

This cigar is garage Busch Lattes and 90’s country.

Not because it’s the best beer.

Not because it’s the greatest music ever recorded.

But because it’s satisfying.

Comfortable.

Familiar.

It feels like home.

Nobody is standing in the garage demanding a wine list. Nobody is debating the merits of an obscure jazz fusion album. Somebody is leaning against a toolbox. Alan Jackson is on the radio. The beer is cold. The conversation is easy. And everybody is having a better time than they’ll admit later.

That’s La Gran Oferta.

It isn’t trying to impress you.

It isn’t chasing complexity for complexity’s sake.

It isn’t demanding your full attention.

It simply shows up, does its job well, and creates an experience that’s remarkably easy to enjoy.

The Millennium of Aftermath

For most of the evening, I kept waiting for La Gran Oferta to reveal some hidden trick. A dramatic transition. A strength surge. A flavor bomb.

Something.

Instead, it spent the entire evening doing something far more difficult.

It remained exactly what it was.

Solid.

Steady.

True.

The construction was excellent. The flavors were balanced. The burn corrected itself. The bands slipped away without incident. The profile never lost its identity.

Wood.

Spice.

Sweetness.

Earth.

Dark chocolate.

No drama.

No gimmicks.

No nonsense.

And maybe that’s why this cigar hit me the way it did.

Because somewhere between the cedar paternity test, the Ryobi defensive highlight reel, the Clark Griswold ash dump, and my imaginary Machu Picchu pilgrimage through the Garcia portfolio, I stopped asking what La Gran Oferta was.

I started asking why more people weren’t talking about it.

The hierarchy will always have Le Bijou.

The hierarchy will always have The Judge.

Those cigars deserve every bit of their reputation.

But La Gran Oferta is the articles.

It’s the utility infielder.

It’s the steel guitar.

It isn’t the reason people pick up the magazine.

It’s the reason they keep turning pages.

My Father.

Your Father.

Our Father.

La Gran Oferta — The Grand Offering — is exactly that.

Not the centerfold.

Not the headline.

Not the lead singer.

But sometimes the articles are worth reading.

Sometimes the utility infielder wins the game.

Sometimes the steel guitar makes the song.

And sometimes a cigar earns your respect without ever demanding your attention.

The Grand Offering demands the respect that title commands.