Cigar review: Avo XO Maestoso

If ever I saw a cigar that was a joy to behold, this is it. Grand, majestic, a ratio of length to ring gauge that commands respect, and a flawless wrapper. Never before have I felt such pain in disturbing the perfection of a cigar. And rarely has a cigar received so apt a name: Maestoso. I've lingered on some beautiful smokes, but this one made me get a good deal of my money's worth just looking at it, holding it, which is a sensual (almost pornographic) experience.
I bought it along with a Partagas Short, and the following choice presented itself: one of the two was to be smoked in the comfort of the homestead, with no onlookers but myself and my dad. The other, reserved for a night out with friends some days later. The egomaniac in me told me to keep this monster for the night out. People are used to seeing me with cigars, but with something of this magnitude I'd still be sure to raise some eyebrows. I'd really have outdone myself in their eyes. Either that, or they'd find me a more arrogant bastard than I had ever been. But then I realised such matters should not be taken into account. Let me smoke a small and modest cigar (if there is such a thing in the perception of non-smokers) in the vicinity of friends. This work of sheer beauty could not receive justice when smoked in some bar, accompanied by lager, receiving scorn from cigarette smokers who find my cigars stink. No, this cigar deserved to be smoked in the utmost concentration, not to the glorification of my ego but to its own credit. This cigar told me it would not just stand to serve me as pleasure, but was to be beheld. The smoker no longer the active object, but subject to an experience that would surpass himself. I was not going to smoke this cigar, I was going to witness it.
With such consideration and marvel already completed, the actual smoking was still to be done. The cigar was not up to an easy task... A vitola as large as this should be the crowning achievement on a production line, a king on its throne serving as a bright example for all others. While greatness can lie in something small, no cigar as big as this should ever be the underdog of a brand. Yet, it finds itself in a precarious situation. How to enthrall the smoker for such a long time? How to provide its profile to the fullest yet maintain that subtlety, complexity and even humbleness wherein true grandeur is to be found? Up until here this review was written before any cut was made, before flame drew near tobacco. Can any cigar live up to such expectancy? No Avo XO had ever disappointed me. This line is a corner of the triangle of Dominican brands I appreciate, the triumvirate wherein the other two are Private Stock and Arturo Fuente (of which I became a believer after only one smoke). All cigars in the line seem similar, yet they differ so subtly that each really can be chosen independently. Like variations on a musical theme, the same deep down but with different accents, complementing each other so as to form an almost mathematical basis, no two identical but each and every one serving to create a complete space. My appreciation for the XO line had been well established long before this point, but its completeness would stand or fall with this cigar. Enough, on with it. The moment of truth hath come.

The scent is typical of an XO and thus that of a trusted friend. It strikes the nose as a piece of exquisite or rare wood, combined with the well-known aspecs of hay and almost-but-not-quite caramel that result (seemingly invariably) from a connecticut wrapper. A taste of that one reveals dry spices, even more vivid than I’m used of the brand.
After clipping, the draw shows itself to be quite sturdy. Yet, it feels reliable, and appropriate as if I couldn’t have expected anything else from this format. A slow taste unlit grants more pepper, a deeper hay aroma and an unmistakable undertone of chocolate (at a guess I’d say gianduja).
And now the moment that is nearly as dreaded as anticipated: the lighting. An exquisitely thin ring of ashes appears at the foot, and Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis blows wide open with the “Kyrie Eleison” (I put on a CD, you must understand, although it would be appropriate to describe the cigar in such terms).
Smoke comes through in carefully measured dose and tastes floral, subtle… like water given flavour. It is like the opening on other fine Dominican cigars and XOs, yet even more refined and elusive, as if the extra inches in length give a boost in all aspects. The flavour speaks of flowers, the most qualitative tea and incense. The scent at the burning end is thick with sweet woody notes. Everything is “XO” through and through, yet all in greater measure… including subtlety.
Already an inch has passed and a scent works its way through the nose that, like the madeleine cake in Proust’s well-loved novel, triggers a faint recognition. My mind scrambles to find a link, but hopelessly falls short as the flavour like a prankster makes room for others. Words thoroughly inadequate here, all I can write down is that a creaminess I’ve come to rely upon in the line has awoken. The “Christe Eleison” sets in and along with the distressful swirling polyphony the smoke from the cigar draws fractals in the air. The flavour thickens, wood claims its place now.
2 Inches. A realisation dawns on me… The template of an XO is unfolding: all its usual evolutions are being walked through. But where the smaller sizes must do so faster, here everything is elongated. There is more time to linger on every stage, all is scaled upwards. It could be argued that there is nothing here you won’t find in other XOs, but the extra time allotted allows you to find more, probe deeper into the nature of the smoke. Thus, you’ll find what could elude you in other vitolas.
Exit wood and enter cream. Whipped cream. It permeates the smoke that changes its texture accordingly. Or is it the other way around?
The ash is flat, the burn remaining straight. It is not slow, yet has the steadiness and elegance of a running athlete.
There is little time to admire the construction since the smoke’s evolution will be stopped at nothing. Boredom is impossible in such company but to the dullest mind. Wood has already returned, but it is not the same as before. Cedar has crept in.
Past the halfway mark, one is led to believe that this cigar is less evolving than it is toying with the smoker’s senses. The moment you have a flavour pinned another will appear. They flutter around like frolicking birds, hard to follow but providing a heart-warming display. Yet there is method to the chaos. Intensity has been picking up. After another inch a certain thickness manifests itself and now one is urged to smoke slower, even more contemplatively, lest you be overwhelmed. The smoke becomes palpable, chewable (for want of a better word).
When the finale approaches, gently beginning to set in even, the taste becomes smokier. An additional hint of resin rears its head, which is a first to me for this brand.
As the utmost serene “Benedictus” from the mass plays, the smoke of this cigar begins to display a certain elderness, as if it has passed a lifetime and now would settle down with dignity and an aloof wearniness. It feels like tormenting it to continue but I must see it to the end. It now seems to look back upon itself. All that went before is gathered, the musical themes compounded into a final chorus. The “Agnus Dei” sets in. The smoke, compassionate with the cigar now so short, swirls ever slower up into the air. As a final farewell, a blast of wine-like depth and fruitiness caresses my tongue. When the Missa Solemnis’ final chords play, this cigar ends. I set it down into the ashtray more reverently than I have ever done before.

All anxiety has been washed away, all promises fulfilled. This truly is the crowning achievement of the XO line. To put a mark on this cigar is as hopeless as trying to score life itself. What fair comparison to make? Can I attribute it a ten knowing full well that there will be cigars that can top even this? Can I grant a nine when I’ve been presented with perfection? To catch its aspects in numbers would be disrespectful when even words fall short of expressing my appreciation.
Now I see how shortsighted my method for checking a list of flavours is as well. With every cigar possibly teaching me new awareness, only trying every one ever produced could obtain a complete list, even then not taking into account new productions. I’ve been taught a lesson in reviewing… There’s no limit to this cigar’s generosity.
The Maestoso has treated touch, sight, taste and smell to grandeur. Beethoven has taken care of hearing. Seldom have I experience such completeness. I could write a thousand more words and come none closer to a full description.
Consider all said.