Rediscovering The Why
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G. L. Pease - Feb 8, 2022
- 6 min read
Why do you smoke a pipe? We all have stories to tell about what set us along this crazy path, but those stories are too often lost in time, even to ourselves. Pipes and pipe smoking have held a deep fascination for me for many years, but I have felt, recently, a bit like a lost traveler. Sometime during the past couple years, because of, you know, things, I found myself losing touch with my own pipe story, my why. Smoking a pipe started to become almost unconsciously automatic, just something to do. While I still enjoyed it, the celebration, the passion had gone missing.
Some back story may be in order. Pipe smoking is something that’s been in my brain from the first time, as a very young lad on a rainy day shopping trip with my mother, I found myself in Berkeley’s Drucquer & Sons. We were there to buy a gift for my uncle, probably some cigars. That part is fuzzy, but the impact of being in that shop has always been crystal clear. It was a place of wonder. Dark wood and glass cabinets were filled with what seemed like thousands of pipes of all shapes and sizes. The paneled walls with still more pipes, large apothecary jars filled with shop blended tobaccos, and shelves holding hundreds of colorful tins behind the counter all made a lasting impression.
Some years later, I had a high school chemistry teacher, a kind and gentle man, who smoked a pipe. (How things have changed. Today, the thought of a teacher standing in front of a classroom puffing away and pointing at the chalkboard with the stem of his pipe seems as strangely foreign as taking a walk on another planet.) His tobacco of choice was Borkum Riff. It made him easy to find; the aroma from his pipe lingered in the air wherever he’d been. Being a bit of an odd kid (a more polite word might be eccentric), I decided it would be fun to take up the pipe. I bought a blister-packed Medico from the local drugstore, and a couple pouches of tobacco – Borkum Riff, of course, and a Green Apple blend that smelled appealing to my naive sensibilities, but turned out to be something rather more treacherous than its aroma promised.
I did what I thought I’d seen others do, stuffing the pipe with strands of tobacco, pressing it down with my thumb, striking a match and puffing like a steam locomotive mounting a steep grade. It was not a successful start. The tobacco tasted nothing like it smelled, keeping the pipe lit was a Sisyphean task, and whatever minute pleasure revealed itself in the resulting hot, acrid smoke just wasn’t compelling enough to make the whole affair worth what seemed to be considerable effort. I soon gave it up, but the latent shadow of fascination would persist.
I tried a couple more times, but it wasn’t until my early university days that it really took hold. By then, pipe smokers were already becoming something of a rarity, but they were not yet on the endangered species list. One day, encountering a tweedy, bespectacled and bearded professor puffing away as he strolled through Sproul Plaza, a stack of papers and books in one hand, a pipe in the other, memories of that rainy day at Drucquer’s filled my head, so I wandered down University Avenue to pay a visit. In an instant, it all came back, all the magic and wonder. Walking through those doors took me into another world, another time. It felt like home.
The fascination instantly took hold, and I knew I wanted to, had to, perform whatever initiation rites were necessary to be part of this “secret society.” I started learning everything I could about pipes, about tobacco, about the culture and ritual surrounding this ancient pastime. I learned how to fill a pipe properly, how to light it, how to keep it going, and not to be concerned if I had to relight. I met interesting people, and had wonderful conversations. I was accepted into the fold. I became a pipe smoker. The passion and enthusiasm cultivated within those hallowed walls seemed like it would last forever, and it almost did. Until it didn’t.
What happened to change things for me? More than two years of no pipe shows, no casual meetups with like-minded folk sharing pipe and tobacco stories happened. Feeling alone, a stranger in a strange land happened. Not all at once. It was a gradual thing. I’d smoke my pipe in what I thought to be the same state of mind I’d always had. I still enjoyed opening old dusty tins of vintage leaf, savoring the flavors and aromas to be found within them. I still looked at pipes, still acquired new additions to my collection, but it just wasn’t the same. Gradually, the excitement began to wane. Pipes were becoming things, and smoking them was becoming something to do, not a way of being.
I remember thinking about a time when, at the Sacramento pipe show, I’d just picked up a beautiful sandblasted olifant made by my friend Paolo Becker. It was an exhilarating moment. I had a similar pipe made by his late father, Fritz, whom I’d known for years, and this pipe beautifully represented a commemoration of two generations of pipe-maker. I filled it from the tin of Piccadilly I had with me, and was in bliss. My friend David saw my exuberance, and asked, “How is it that after all these years, you’re still so enthusiastic about pipes?” It was a fair question. And, who knew that nearly 20 years later, I would ask myself where that fervor went?
Fortunately, the loss of pipe-lust was a relatively short-stayed guest that left my company more quickly than it had arrived. One morning, examining a favored piece in preparation of photographing it, it all came back in a flash. I relished the curves, the lines, the angles, the wood. I looked at it carefully from all angles, admiring the grace of it, the balance. I love photographing pipes. It’s challenging, technically, but even more so aesthetically. I try to not just take mug shots, but to make portraits that express something more than just a shape, a piece of wood and plastic. Pipes are things of both practicality and beauty, and I like to express that through my own art. Something clicked in that moment, the light came on, and Mr. Crankypants was shown the door.
Through the simple act of looking more carefully, more deeply at one of my cherished briars, I inadvertently rediscovered my why. The joy returned. I pulled that Becker olifant from its drawer, filled it from an aged tin of Piccadilly, and in turn, it once again filled me with all the wonder and enthusiasm that it did when I first got it. Now, all I need is to ring up a few pipe pals to arrange a get-together and share my rekindled enthusiasm.
Photo by G.L. Pease
Written by G. L. Pease
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When I first started with the pipe as a quirky and precocious teen, the only tutelage I had at my disposal were scenes from old movies in which a well dressed chap would stick his pipe into a pouch, scoop tobacco into the bowl and press it down unceremoniously with his thumb. Then, with great flourish, he’d strike a match and light the thing with all manner of cinematic excess, puffing up vast clouds of smoke falling just short of completely obscuring his visage. While it may look good on film, it’s a terrible approach to actually enjoying the thing. Somehow, though, this “technique” seems to have survived in the contemporary vernacular, at least to some extent, even with bit-loads of information handily at our fingertips that should dissuade us from the practice. But, at the time, this misguided approach was all I had; it’s no wonder my early days of puffing were fraught with difficult lighting, harsh, bitter smokes and tongue bite, all culminating in a fireproof mass of ye old soggy dottle in the bottom of the bowl. Ultimately, the resulting frustration made me give up the pipe, at least for a while. While the idea of it was still very appealing, the practice of it was not. It wasn’t until a few years later when, still full of curiosity and romantic notions of pipe smoking, I wandered into a real tobacconist’s shop, and learned my “method” was a long way from the techniques that would bring me to any sort of pipe smoking bliss. So, after my poor start, and under the guidance of someone who actually seemed to know how to do it right, I was given the opportunity to approach the process anew, this time with much greater success. It was only because I was both perseverent, and fortunate to have a local shop staffed with knowledgeable people, that I’ve been able to enjoy the experience ever since. At least mostly… How many fledgeling pipe smokers have simply given up on an enjoyable pastime because of similar early mis-starts? Fortunately, today, it’s not hard to find helpful guidance at the press of a key or ten. 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Welcome to The Pipes Magazine Radio Show Episode 604. Our featured interview tonight is with Jon David Cole. JD is the Owner/Tobacconist at The Country Squire in Jackson, MS, and he is the former co-host of the podcast, Country Squire Radio, which ended their 10-year run last year. We’ll have JD with the “From the Country Squire” segment talking about all the new things happening at the store and in the business in general. At the top of the show, we’ll continue our audio tour of Brian’s pipe collection.
Before we begin, I should tell you: this tobacco review is being written by an A.I. Not the fancy new GPTs or their ilk; no, this is last century’s meat-and-bone, all-organic model. To be fair, a large part of what we call knowledge is merely the accumulated perceptions and impressions gathered from a life wandered through, synthesized into a spongy mass of what-it-is-that-we-think-that-we-know. The algorithm for this prompt is simple enough: pump thousands of bowls of smoldering plant matter into a gaping maw, cross-reference the chemical sensations with all other matter previously ingested or inhaled, sieve it all through the diffuse and fractal twin lens of memory and emotion, and churn out a panoply of adjectives that attempts to convey the sensations to someone who hasn’t experienced it yet. Odds are that a diligently trained monkey could succeed half the time; if this reviewer nears fifty-one percent then that would qualify as an unrivaled success. There must have been some similar musings perambulating through the mind of Per Jensen when he began his mad scientist routine at Sutliff with the Pipe Force project, which brings us to the current mixture under the microscope—Sutliff’s Pipe Force: Episode I. Here again are the unusual ingredients that engendered the series, with the stoved Rustica being the defining voice in this composition. From the tin: The Latakia-forward English mixture offers plenty of smoky flavor from the fire-cured leaf, which is artfully harmonized with floral, earthy Stoved Rustica. A mixture of high-grade Virginias imparts a natural sweetness. Katerini, the sole Oriental component, offers herb and spice notes bringing complexity and nuance to the flavor profile. It’s certainly Latakia-forward, with the stoved Rustica doubling up on the rhythm section like a second bassist. A first whiff from the tin releases the aromas of shoe leather and hide glue in a base of clay soil with a campfire wafted over it like last night’s beach party. Once it’s been accustomed to oxygen again, subtle hints of sweetness poke through from the Virginias: lemon rind, light milk chocolate, the dregs of a peaty Scotch, and muddled cherry. Old regulars like fresh-sawn oak and tilled earth are there, of course, with distinct notes of truffle, creosote, damp peat, and pine bark mulch. As an aside, I’ve been re-potting my camellias and the similarity of aroma to the ericaceous soil mix is notable; the Katerini really brings the unique depth of its vegetal complexion when supported by the Rustica and afforded more voice in the mix. The smoky Cyprian Latakia, in turn, is backed by equal earthiness from the Rustica, which overall exhibits a profile similar to dark-fired Kentucky; it leans more toward the woody and vegetal end of that spectrum, echoing and amplifying those traits of the other constituents. The tobacco is presented pressed and cut into a couple of thick, hearty flakes in the tin, lightly moist and easily crumbled to prepare—I prefer mine with a bit of drying time. The out-of-this-world tin art for this episode in the series is Major O’Meara smoking a cavalier. In the absence of confirmation, I’m going to hazard a guess he’s of the Ithklur species. The first taste from the light is sweet, with hints of that milk chocolate dancing around the edges. The Virginia leads the smoke through the top of the bowl, and orchestrates it well. Thoroughly smoky with lemony, grassy highlights from the Virginia spectrum, it soon segues into the mid-bowl profile: heartier, smokier, with the flavor leaning to the mildly acrid and tangy tinge that is the campfire-esque signature of English blends. Caution advised, it can turn overly bitter if pushed—this is where one’s sipping technique is required to maintain the fullness of flavor through to the heel. I did tend toward a lot of relights, though it may have as much to do with technique as with the blend. Pacing is also important as the nicotine starts to manifest; though the Rustica’s contribution has been tempered well by the stoving, it can certainly upend an empty stomach. At the end of every bowl, the mouthfeel somehow gets better. The balance of sugars in the tobaccos would seem to be spot-on in this regard. I started out my tasting in cobs, then cut short an unpleasant bowl in a meer, and finally landed on my best instrument with the lovely Dunhill 4427 pictured, a quaint group 4 shell briar with a gentle curve and Cumberland stem supporting a perfectly executed acorn bowl. It surprised me here, as I’ve learned through the years that I generally have the best experience with English blends in large, wide bowls. With this blend it seems that to get the best out of the Katerini’s somewhat diaphanous influence the smaller bowl fared much better. Room note is very English, so the company you keep will either love it or hate it, and it doesn’t linger too much. I find it paired best with a strong coffee; Sumatran beans complement the flavors well, as do Ethiopian if a lighter brew is preferred. Overall impressions of the blend are that it’s a curiously interesting take on the English genre, almost a reductive reconstruction of the theme using the unique components. This blend, if nothing else, expanded my vocabulary of sense perceptions with the uniquely treated leaf. While the average human can distinguish approximately one trillion (1,000,000,000,000!) different aromas, multiplied by seven basic tastes, and wholly dependent on variables from body chemistry to atmospheric conditions, our overworked and underpaid simian brains can’t effectively catalog them all. Our pet adding machines are exceedingly good at this, however, and someday soon they’ll be the ultimate and unequivocal authority on what something tastes, smells, looks, or even feels like. Until that time, friends, revel in the moments that can be stolen to savor over a bowl of Pipe Force: Episode I.
Another great piece Greg. Thank you. I enjoyed reading it with my morning coffee and a bowl of well aged Chelsea Morning. It gave me cause to reflect on the same question for my own pipe smoking.
I always enjoy your photography of pipes. You always capture the pipe properly, it’s shape, lines and textures in a way I haven’t seen before. Just marvelous.
Timely article! A good guide for helping me get back to the level of magic I had a while ago.
Thank you.