G. L. Pease
I’m often asked why I don’t try to recreate some of the lost blends of yesterday, and, more pointedly, what I think of others’ attempts to do so. For all the obvious reasons, and a few less so, this is a subject steeped in considerable controversy, and I’ve always been candid with my opinions, but referring back to last month’s column, Balkan Sobriety, taking that one storied blend as an exemplar for further discussion, we can see the first of several problems in the task of our proposed forgery, outlined in rather stark relief.

That article showed that one of the significant components of this single brand varied over a few year period from a high of 50% of the blend’s makeup to a low of 35%. This far from insubstantial change is one that would be immediately noticeable to anyone who smoked two of these "versions" side-by-side, though perhaps would be less apparent if the change was introduced over time to a routine smoker of the brand, allowing him to adapt to the changes incrementally.

G. L. Pease
It’s a fact. I’m no historian. This is clearly evidenced anytime someone asks me a question like, "When did Balkan Sobranie disappear from the US market?" I know it happened within the last decade, but that’s about as specific as my memory gets. A historian would remember when things like this occur, accompanied by the context of the event, important influences that led up to it, and the event’s aftermath, and could paint a fairly elaborate picture of the mechanisms behind it all, the whys and hows and whens of the event.

Certainly, something as important to the pipe world as the disappearance of a justifiably celebrated tobacco blend is a subject that I, as someone in the business, should be able to recall in an instant, and perhaps even expand upon with some windy, byzantine tale, told in hushed and reverent tones, replete with florid language, a colorful parade of adjectives and an archaic vocabulary. I cannot do this. I can scarcely remember when my own brands appeared or disappeared, or, for that matter, what I had for breakfast last Tuesday. I am, and always have been, a little historically challenged.

By G. L. Pease
When I first took up the pipe, and more specifically, the pernicious disorder known as pipe-collecting, I was counseled by a couple grizzled old guys, meaning they were then older then than I am now, that pipes were better back in the day. They patiently explained to me, the wide-eyed, enthusiastic youth, that in the old days, good pipes were made from prehistoric briar, constructed by craftsmen who began their apprenticeships in utero, and that modern pipes are no more worthy of their attention than a Starving Artist’s rendition of Cézanne’s Man With a Pipe bought out of the trunk of a beat-up Chevy in a Home Depot parking lot. They’d contentedly puff away at their ancient briars as they would tell me of the good old days, and how it’s too bad pipe smoking was a dying art, and that pipe making, real pipe making, was already dead, and just hadn’t had the grace to get buried yet, and how it was too bad that I’d missed out on the Golden Age. (I bet when they were kids, someone told them the same thing.)

By G. L. Pease
It starts with the anticipation; a few days, a week, two. The deal was made, then it’s all about the waiting. Some are more calmly patient than I am, taking an almost philosophical approach; "It’ll be here when it’s here," they think, and go about their day. I’m the anxious school kid who jumps up to look out the window several times a day hoping to catch sight of the delivery van rolling up my street. I think, at this point in my life, that’s not likely to change, nor do I really want it to. I love the anticipation, like the little ones waiting for the tapping of reindeer hooves on the roof, and jolly old St. Nicholas’ descent down the chimney.

Finally, there’s the knock at the door, the ringing of the doorbell, the dog’s bark to alert that someone, or something, is waiting for me on the porch. It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for; the opening of the door to have that little box finally find its way into my eagerly waiting hands.

By G. L. Pease
Not long ago, on a hot, sultry evening, I was out back, grilling chicken and burgers for the evening dinner - on days like that, the thought of standing at the stove, or turning on the oven finds me wanting to run to the nearest walk-in freezer and take up permanent residence - while puffing on a bowl of what I thought was my usual choice of tobaccos for hot summer smoking. If you’ve read along for a while, you’ll know that I’m not a fan of heavy Latakia mixtures in the heat of summer, and often forgo the pipe completely in favor of a good cigar. Cigars were born in hot, humid climates, and are as welcome for outdoor cooking as a Panama hat and dark specs. The pipe? The right blend works, and my choice of a particular mixture sporting a little cigar leaf and not too much Latakia has worked really well for me since I accidentally discovered it some time ago. But, full Latakia mixtures? Never! They’re just too bold, too assertive, too fatiguing to the palate during the dog days’ swelter.

By G. L. Pease
I frequently mention wine and pipe tobacco in the same puff of smoke. It’s usually an off-hand, casual remark, and it wasn’t until I was challenged by a friend, a devotée of the grape, but no fan of the leaf, to defend what seemed to be a somewhat tenuous position that I started to examine it more closely, and wound up finding even more similarities than I’d previously thought possible. On the surface, it might be difficult to imagine two things as different as a bottle of wine and a tin of tobacco sharing many similarities; let’s start at the ground, and work our way up.

Though there are many species of tobacco, quite a few of which are grown as ornamental plants for their showy leaves and fragrant flowers, that which finds its way into our pipes is of a single species, Nicotiana tabacum. (N. rustica is sometimes grown for smoking, or for the production of chewing tobacco or pesticide, but it is much to harsh and too strong to find its way into our pipes.) Similarly, the majority of grapes cultivated for the production of wine are of a single species, Vitis vinifera.

By G. L. Pease
In one of his essays on Self-Reliance, Ralph Waldo Emmerson wrote, "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines." If this is true, one look at the ever-changing chaos on my desk must make a statement about my own nature. Perhaps it reflects the fact that I’m too candid to be a particularly effective statesman, and no one who knows me would ever confuse me with one of the divines. That’s actually a relief; statesmen and divines, it seems to me, are forced to bear too much pressure. I’ll accept a little chaos as a good thing. Not all consistencies are foolish, though; there’s certainly a place for them in the world, especially when it comes to the tobacco blends we smoke. But, tobacco is an agricultural product, subject to the whims and fancies of nature’s yearly personality changes. Is it even possible to create blends that are truly, measurably consistent from year to year?

By G. L. Pease
What makes a truly great, memorable smoke? I don’t mean the every day good smoke that we become accustomed to, but those stand-out smokes where everything comes together, and we find ourselves transported to the smoky experience of Pipe Nirvana. For nearly all the years I’ve been puffing away on these wonderful little bits of briar, I’ve wrestled with the question, trying to sort out a set of reliable predictors, some meaningful rationale behind what makes a particular pipe sing with a particular tobacco. I’m sure it’s happened to all of us, and if it hasn’t, it will. We light up a tobacco we know well in a pipe that’s familiar to us, but unacquainted with that tobacco, and something magical happens. Bells ring. Chemistry is in the air.

By G. L. Pease
There’s more than a little irony to be found in the notion that, as I begin to write an article about seasonal smoking, and especially summer smoking, the sky is spitting rain at my windows, the wind is laughing behind my back, and it’s not particularly warm. Of course, last week, it was hot and blue, a welcome relief from the protracted spell of dreary days we’d been having, which is why the thought for this came to me in the first place. I probably should have begun writing then, but being infamous (at least to our illustrious publisher) as a procrastinator (I call it being busy), that wasn’t going to happen. The idea germinated, at least, and now that it’s time to actually do the writing, I’ve probably all but forgotten at least half of the little pearls of brilliance that formed in my oyster when the idea first came to me… What’s a boy to do? Onwards.

By G. L. Pease
Recently, the "market value" of some vintage, no longer produced blends seems to have skyrocketed to record-setting altitudes. A 2oz tin of a once popular English tobacco was sold at auction for over $400, nearly twice its previous record-high, and not long before that, another often talked-about blend achieved similar levels. By my reckoning, $400 for two ounces of tobacco translates to about $20 per bowl. It’s a lot of money, but is it really as extravagant as it first appears? Perhaps not for the person who paid the money, but what about the rest of us? Let’s look a little more closely.