The Swisher of Last Resort

Even people who've never smoked a cigar have heard of them: The dreaded Swisher Sweets.

In junior high you might have encountered one in the bushes outside the school dance where the problem kids stood passing around a bottle of Boone's Farm. They'd be smoking Camels, Marlboros and the occasional Swisher: Here, try this, man. Don't inhale, now. It's a cigar.

My older brother liked Swishers. He liked the way they tasted, and the way they sounded when he said them: Swisher Sweets. He'd often play cards with an elderly couple who lived three houses down the street, just to partake of their Swishers. He could get away with it, because he'd blame the old-timers: It wasn't me, Dad. You know those two smoke like chimneys.

Now, as a serious cigar smoker, I've often wondered about those Swishers. Just how bad are they? How syrupy, how campy, how pathetic the nerve of actually coating the tip with some sugary, fruited flavoring? Hah! Such a stick would be below me. And yet, when I ring up my purchases at the local discount store, I can't help but notice the cheap cigars behind the counter: Swishers are always among them. Many's the time I've repressed the urge to buy one. Just out of curiousity. Just for old times sake. Just for the socio-cultural personal historical significance of it.

Well, Sally put an end to all that. On our last foray to the vacation getaway, we stopped at our favorite liquor store and she bought a pack. Just like that. Her rationale: "I don't want a cigarette. I don't have time to smoke one of your big-assed cigars. And I want to smoke it in the car."

Even she subconciously seemed to know that the Swishers needed defending.

"Hey, no problem," I said. "But in the car? Are you sure..."

"Just shut up and roll down the window." Apparently the stress of spending the last 24 hours with our deplorable relatives had put her in need of soothing balm. A Swisher would have to do.

And so, the shameful little experiment: I, high-falutin premium-brand cigar smoker, would get a chance to take a drag from the beleaguered Swisher Sweet.

Man, was it tiny. No bigger than a cigarette. In fact it seemed a trifle slimmer. Sally lit it up and the scent wafted over to me in the driver's seat.

"How is it?" I asked innocently.

"Great," she said, puffing away like a train.

I drove another block or two, then asked, in as unassuming a tone as possible, "Can I try it?"

Suspecting nothing, she handed the cheap stick over to me as if it were a Padilla Signature 1932. I took a drag - a long hard one, to fill my mouth with the requisite amount of smoke that I prefer - and blew out the smoke. It tasted alright. Took another drag. Same thing. But I couldn't get a handle on the flavor. The sweetness on my lips made it irrelevant: When your tongue tastes like vanilla (or cherry, or cinnamin, or whatever the hell it is they coat those things with) the taste of the smoke itself becomes indeterminant. Nice, thick smoke, for a stick that small. But my two drags had taken about a half an inch off the poor little thing. In three more minutes, Sally had smoked it down to the filter.

"Hey, this thing's getting hot!"

"Put it out. That means you're done."

The whole cigarillo had lasted perhaps five minutes. And that was exactly what Sally had wanted. A fast, tidy smoke. So fast you couldn't tell whether it was good or bad. She rolled up the window, satisfied.

I drove on, unsatisfied. So many unanswered questions.

The next day, at the pool, two beers after polishing off my Indian Tabac Super Fuerte robusto and the remnants of Sally's Don Tomas Classico Churchill, I snuck a Swisher out of Sally's purse while she was taking a shower in the locker room.

Damn if the little thing wasnt too bad. But yet again: What did this smoke really taste like? Who could tell with all that sugar in your mouth? In five minutes I'd polished the thing off, and by then I could taste a dry blandness at the back of my tongue. I wondered about the larger-sized Swishers. Maybe they tasted better.

Well, damned if Sally didn't give me the chance to find out. Last night we were out having dinner with friends, and just as I'm leaning back in my chair after the splendid repaste, secretly lamenting the fact that I didn't bring a cigar (even though we were outdoors, nobody would want to sit around for an hour waiting for me to indulge myself, hence I'd left them at home) Sally pulls out a pack of Swisher Sweet coronellas. Man, this girl gets around. This stick looks to be about 6 inches long and maybe 30-ring in width.

"So much for the other pack," I said.

"I wanted something more substantial. But your big fat ones take too long."

Practical gal, that Sally. Moments like these, I admire her moxie, her caution-to-the-wind attitude, her willingness to fly boldly in the face of convention. I waited a respectable minute or two, then reached out to sample her coronella.

Not bad. A nice mouthful of smoke. Same irritating residue of syrup on my lips. But hey, I could see the point of this thing. 30 mouthfuls of smoke, you're done in 10 minutes, ready to pay your check and step into the limo.

Wait, who's kidding who. Not a limo. More like a Toyota or a Chrysler. But as a cigar of last resort, the Swisher does just fine.