The Slow Burn: Buc-ee’s, Bourdain, and a Shot in the Dark (Part I)

Reaching out to cigar factories and brand owners for the first time felt like being a Yelp Elite Reviewer requesting a seat at Anthony Bourdain’s dinner table.

Not because I deserved one…but because I wanted in.

I suppose Bourdain’s famous disdain for self-proclaimed experts proved that even the real ones sometimes listened to the critics. But I wasn’t pretending to be a critic. I was just a fan trying to turn this wild little idea into something real.

My wife and I had planned a trip with my uncle to float the Comal River, a Texas summer tradition, complete with sunburns, smoked meats, and slow drifts. But at the last minute, he backed out due to medical issues. So what was supposed to be a family float turned into a romantic getaway.

We packed up the weenie dogs and hit the road Thursday morning. A change of plans, sure, but no complaints.

Then, the night before we left, somewhere between doomscrolling and insomnia, I stumbled across something in the digital abyss that stopped me cold

One of my cigar heroes was in town.

Not just in town, in the exact area we were headed. This guy lives in Nicaragua. What are the odds?

So I did what you do when a window cracks open:
I slid into the DMs.
From the Brolo Gram.
My first ever message.

A swing. A pattern interrupter. A shot.

“What’s up Chief?!
I’m Joshua, founder of Brolo Cigars—a boutique brand rooted in brotherhood, nostalgia, and small-batch craftsmanship. I’ll be in [your area] Thursday night through Sunday and would love to connect if you're around.

I admire what you've built, especially the way you’ve elevated small-batch production while staying authentic to the culture. I'd be honored to meet, even briefly, to hear more about your approach and share a bit about what I’m building with Brolo.

Hope we can light one up and talk shop. I'll work around your schedule if you're open to connecting.”

I figured it’d end up buried in that weird “Message Requests” graveyard, never to be seen again.

But then:

"For sure, brother. You should come by our HQ on Thursday or Friday afternoon."

Hold up… is this really happening?

Greenlight (as McConaughey would say).

I looked over at Kaitlyn, ready to pitch the world’s quickest change of plans. Before I could get the words out, she was already nodding.

“Let’s go.”
Ride or die.

So Thursday morning, we loaded up the pups, pointed the truck south, and headed toward destiny... or at least New Braunfels.

Buc-ee’s, of course, was a required religious experience. Kolaches, jerky, beaver merch. Texas communion. We hit our Airbnb, unpacked, and I spent the rest of the afternoon nervously burning through cigars on the patio; mentally rehearsing every possible thing I could say… and maybe more importantly, what not to say.

Even though I knew this brand inside and out, even though I’d heard this guy on podcasts and respected the hell out of him, I couldn’t shake the nerves.

It reminded me of that time I ran into Steven Tyler at the urinal at Fogo de Chão in Addison.
(Yes, that Steven Tyler.)

The day after Aerosmith and Lenny Kravitz played Dallas, rumors were flying he was still in town. I’d scanned the dining room between meat sweats and trips to the salad bar, but no sign of him. Then, just when I needed to “wipe the dew off my lily,” there he was.

Now, if you’re a guy, you know the rules. Three urinals open? You go 1 or 3. Never the middle. It’s just a code.

I picked 1.

He walked in… and took 2.

I froze.

Looking back, part of me wishes I had turned to him mid-stream and said something unforgettable. Like, literally unforgettable. Because you can’t forget the guy who peed on you.

But no, I froze. No pee, no words, no memory made.

And that’s exactly what I was afraid would happen again.

That I’d choke. That I’d clam up. That I’d be just another schmuck poking around their headquarters, wasting a rare opportunity.

But then came the secret weapon: Kaitlyn.

Cooler than a cucumber. She carried the entire encounter like she belonged there. (Spoiler: she did.)

We pull into a nondescript business park. No signage. Just one of those places where big things happen quietly.

We step inside, expecting awkwardness…

Instead?

We’re greeted by the whole crew: wives, kids, family.

Suddenly, we’re not strangers, we’re guests.

Arms wide open.

(Under the sunlight... just kidding.)

To be continued…