The Best Burley

"You can't go wrong with the best burley raised in lucky Kentucky."  This should be a slogan.  For what, I don't know.  It came to me while I was thinking about Prince Albert in a can, but I don't think the good prince restricts himself to bluegrass burley, or if he contracts with only the best suppliers between Lexington and Paducah.

Kentucky produces about 70% percent of the burley in the U.S. of A.  The next highest producer is its neighbor to the south, the one and only Tennessee.  The Volunteer State is responsible for contributing 20% of the total burley crop.  The remaining, roughly, ten percent is scattered among a handful of other states of more or less importance.

If none of this makes any sense to you:  I am writing pipe smoking stories.  'nuff said.

Balaenius Rex!

Hamburgers don't inhale

A bit of a hodgepodge today.

The Freie und Hansastadt Hamburg, the Free and Hanseatic City of Hamburg, is a city state in Germany that is near and dear in spirit to Whalehead household.  The city has a very eye-catching flag.  Crisp, simple design.  Fortress Hamburg, the busiest port in Europe.  Remarkably, its sister city in the United States is Chicago, not New Orleans.  One would think these two major ports would share closer ties.  Perhaps some day.  I know one Hamburger who feels deep affection for the Crescent City.

Speaking of another flag that has caught my fancy recently:

Corsica!  That's a beauty.  There isn't any New Orleans connection here, except that the island was the birthplace of Napoleon, who is fondly commemorated in the Crescent City even if he did sell Louisiana to Thomas Jefferson.  Besides Napoleon Avenue, there are streets named after his major battlefield victories, as well as Marengo Street, named after Napoleon's horse.

I'm fascinated by the Corsican flag for reasons that may someday bear fruit.  Until then, keep that image in mind.  You saw it here first.

Speaking of the Hamburg flag, I've added a patch to my summer motorcycle jacket.  Here, our model looks suitably ready not to take any nonsense, as Hamburgers have sometimes been known to be when the subject of fast food comes up...

In other news, a parcel arrived at Chez King.  Some old-time, no-nonsense, pipe tobacco.  Sugar Barrel on your left, Sir Walter Raleigh Aromatic on your right.

I can't find these in New Orleans locally.  They aren't premier blends, just things that have been mass produced for longer than anyone reading this has been alive.  There's a reason these blends stick around from one century to the next, even if you don't see many people smoking pipes nowadays.  They are good.  They take no effort to enjoy.   

Anyone thinking of quitting cigarettes and taking up the pipe is encouraged to do so.  Either of these blends, or anything else available at a drug store, is a recommended way to start.  New Orleans is blessed with a surfeit of fine tobacconists that offer a wide range of pipe tobaccos.  Some of these are better suited for a more experienced connoisseur.  I've seen more people smoking cigars in New Orleans than anywhere else I've ever lived.  It would be nice to see a few more pipe smokers out and about.

New Orleans drug stores do carry pipe tobacco: Prince Albert, Carter Hall, Half and Half.  I would recommend the first two if you are thinking of taking up the briar.  Most drug stores also offer bags of generic tobacco.  You can give it a try, but I'd stick with a name brand that has withstood the test of time if I were you.  The local druggists also stock Dr. Grabow pipes for about $26.00 a piece.  I don't own one but they have their admirers.  Again, this brand has been around for seemingly forever, so it is a solid bet that it will treat you right.  If you can find one though, buy a corn cob pipe for $5.00.  Don't listen to the tobacconist who wants to sell you something pricier.  A corn cob pipe was good enough for Mark Twain.  Experienced pipe smokers swear by them.  I own three.  They are good enough for you.

The next time you see me on the street smoking my cob, you can greet me with the traditional Hamburg, "Hummel, Hummel."  I will respond, "Mors, Mors."  Then we can duck into a saloon to share a toast and a smoke.

Cheers,

WK   

Good customer gets feather in cap

I went to Meyer the Hatter at lunch yesterday.  I have enough hats, so I wasn't in the market for another proper topper.  I just needed some new feathers for my fedoras.  The South's Largest Hat Shop has a box on the counter toward the back with a selection of feathers for sale at 35 cents each.  They are a three feather affair, wide in the back, more narrow in the middle, and the front feather is a little, flourish-y tendril in a contrasting color.

I went in and there were five other customers and three staff.  The customers were trying on hats and asking questions.  The youngest of the hatters asked me if I needed help and I replied, "No, I'm just here for feathers."  I pawed through the box, careful not to crimp the merchandise and picked two hand-bound feather confection as artful as a trout fly and as dashing as one of Fred Astaire's handkerchiefs.

When I made my way to the register, a hatter was waiting for me with a small paper bag.  "That will be 70 cents plus tax," he said.  I apologized for my "whopping purchase."  "You came in and you knew what you wanted, knew where it was, and bought it.  That kind of customer is a luxury we don't often have here.  Come back anytime," he replied.

Being right off Canal Street, I suppose the staff at Meyer's is used to gawkers who take up their time without spending any money.  The staff is gracious and attentive regardless though they aren't quick to make eye contact.  They've been around a long time and know that sales will be made for their specific niche products eventually.  The same was true of the curmudgeons at L.J. Piretti in Boston.  The same was true of Parade News at 68 State Street, New London, Connecticut, about the only shop of interest that sold sundries and magazines and cigars a block from the ferry and train station.

What?  No Magazine Street photo?  Pshaw.  Here you go:

We've got one more sign to go until this series crosses the street and doubles back.  Pshew!

Pipe smokers! Unite!

Should you ever find yourself in the area, you know where to find good company.

While I doubt I have (m)any readers based in Jacksonville, FL, especially since my critique of that city's flag, I would like to point out to anyone who may be visiting Florida's River City on the 3rd Sunday of any given month that a pipe smoker's club meets at the Island Girl Cigar Bar at 6:30PM.

As you may gather from the illustration above, the proprietor of this blog has a tenuous connection to the esteemed and gentle pipe smokers of Jacksonville.    

The Peterson Pipes Irish Sea imported from Dublin on the Emerald Isle.

Goodwill exists between the pipe smokers of the Pelican State and the Sunshine State.  Believe no one who tells you otherwise.  It's not just Louisiana and Florida either.  Pipe smokers, as an ever-rarer breed, bond like members of a secret society whether they hail from Seward's Folly, the Nutmeg State, the Heart of Dixie, the Gem of the Mountains, the Granite State, Big Sky Country, the Keystone State, the Old Dominion, the Beehive State, or Little Rhody.  Membership is open to all.

Whether you pocket a briar, a meerschaum, a corn cob, or an olive wood bowl....whether you hold in your hand a churchwarden, a bulldog, a pot, a poker, a calabash, an apple or an egg.... bent, quarter bent, straight, or some wizard-worthy, Renaissance faire confection....if you enjoy tobacco in a pipe you are part of a club wherever you happen to find yourself, be it in New Orleans or Jacksonville, FL.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em, folks.  If you don't have a pipe, you should consider it.  Ladies too.  Studies show pipe smokers live longer.  Early death statistics focus on cigarette smokers.  A cigarette is a nicotine delivery device direct to the lungs and if you read about how tobacco is processed to make a Marlboro it will make your cilia curl.  Pipe tobacco isn't inhaled, it is savored.  That difference separates the connoisseurs from the addicts.  Of course, I am biased.

Go into a pipe smokers's den and you'll be greeted by an aroma far different from a cigarette-freindly bar.  In the first, you'll inhale and want to linger so you can examine what's lying around and get a glimpse of what material adds to a thinking person's soul.  In the second, you'll want to wretch and order something quick to dull your senses.  To each his or own, of course.  I'm a natural snob.  You don't toss a pipe away when your done like a dead butt.  You clean it and care for it and get it ready for the next interlude with your thoughts mixed with the sublime, ethereal, vegetable gift the rich land of the American South offers up through the dedication of generations of farmers and experienced blenders.

And now I'll step off the podium.  For more information, you can e-mail jaxpipeclub@gmail.com.

If you are tempted to smoke, pick up a pipe.  It will change your life and your appreciation of it.  'Nuff said.