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

The conversation starts to stall.

Not awkwardly, just that quiet moment where everyone runs out of small talk and starts wondering if it’s time to wrap things up.

And then, Kaitlyn saves the day.

She casually nods toward one of the owner's watches and says something like, "Beautiful piece, you don’t see that in the wild very often."

Now, I should mention, my wife works in luxury goods. Big-time. She’s a leader at a global luxury conglomerate that owns, let’s just say… some of the most coveted names in horology. If it’s bougie, rare, or built by hand in a Swiss mountain village, Kaitlyn knows about it.

And she doesn’t just know it, she lives it.

Meanwhile, I’m over here happy if my watch tells time and doesn’t smell like campfire.

The owner perks up instantly. Like, watch-nerd awakened. He jumps up, walks over, and suddenly they’re off to the races.

Within minutes, the other owner joins in. Now it’s a full-on luxury goods summit in the back of a boutique cigar HQ. I’m just in the corner, smoking an unrelased version of one of their blends (it was fantastic), nodding like a guy who knows something about balance springs. I do not.

They’re dropping names like Panerai, Vacheron Constantin, IWC, brands where the complications (those little features beyond basic timekeeping) are borderline magic.

Minute repeaters. Tourbillons. Moon phases.
We’re talking precision engineering on par with Formula 1.

Turns out, these guys aren’t just into fine cigars; they appreciate craft in all its forms. And Kaitlyn? She’s fluent in the language of craftsmanship.

She’s got them absolutely eating out of the palm of her hand… or her wrist, I should say.

It’s not just that she knows her stuff, it’s how she carries it.

Graceful, sharp, totally unpretentious.
She’s not trying to impress anyone.
She’s just being herself, and they respect the hell out of that.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting there watching this all unfold and thinking,

“If this ever works out, it’s because she closed the deal.”

Sometimes the magic doesn’t come from pitching or posturing.
Sometimes, it comes from authentic connection.

From shared passion. From mutual respect. From knowing when to shut up and let the person next to you shine.

So yeah, I may have lit the spark, but Kaitlyn fanned the flame.

And in that moment, sitting in a cigar sanctuary deep in Central Texas, surrounded by espresso, horological flexing, and a room full of good people…

I felt the slow burn catch.


In between inquiries about limited productions, a command cut clean through the hum of espresso machines and watch talk:

“Take a seat.”

No hesitation. No smile. Just an unspoken vibe: We’re shifting gears now.

So I sat down. Quietly. Ready.

The conversation settled into cigars. Finally.

“So… you’re the Brolo guy?”
“Yes, sir. That’s me. In the flesh.”

“Where are your cigars made?”

“Well… quite honestly, I’m living on a prayer right now. I don’t have any sticks yet, but I’m in talks with a few notable factories.”

I could feel the pitch slipping, so I tried to pivot.“Do you guys do any private label projects for others?”
“No.”

Short. Definitive.

Later I’d find out they do private label work, but only for a select few. People they trust. People who’ve earned it.
Not… outsiders.

“Who are you in talks with?”

I rattled off a couple of names.
They looked at each other.
That silent look that says more than words.

Surprise. Curiosity. Respect.

But then came the gut punch, with a twist of grace:

“I’mma shoot you straight. I don’t give two shits about what you got going on... but because your wife is so awesome, I’mma drop some knowledge on you.”

(Legendary opener, by the way.)

“We get a lot of people through here ‘starting’ cigar brands. We smile and wish them luck. But the reality? There’s way more to this than having a loaded wallet.

Anyone with $10K can fly to Nicaragua, slap a band on a cigar, and try to flip it. Almost all of them fail.”

That hit.
Not in a discouraging way.
In a truth cuts deep kind of way.
Not aggressive. Not rude.
Just real.

This was the moment where dreams meet the industry wall. The part where most people pack it up and say, “You know what? Maybe this isn’t for me.”

But I didn’t flinch.

Because I’ve heard this before.
In other rooms. In other industries.
From people who couldn’t see the vision, until they could.

They weren’t trying to break me.
They were trying to see if I’d break myself.

And I didn’t.

I smiled. Nodded. And kept my seat.

And then something unexpected happened:

We kept talking.

For the next two hours, we dug deep into blending philosophy, distribution strategies, consumer behavior, brand DNA, production pitfalls, running lean, value props for factories...
We nerded out hard.

And slowly, the energy shifted.

I wasn’t just “that Brolo guy.”
I became the little brother, still on the outside, but invited closer to the fire.

I could feel it.
They saw the passion.
They heard it in the way I spoke about storytelling, strategy, connection.

I wasn’t some schmuck with a few bucks and a Canva logo.
They saw the flicker.
Maybe they even saw the flame.

We bonded over our shared reverence for the leaf.
For the process.
For the people.

I’m forever grateful to Skip Martin and Michael Rosales of RoMa Craft for the generosity of their time, wisdom, and straight talk.

Their insights on cigar consumers hit deep:

“Consumers today want more than just a good cigar. They want a reason to care. They want connection. They want to know who’s behind it, and why it matters.”

That stuck with me.

Side note, RoMa comes from Rosales and Martin.
Brolo? Same roots. Brotherly Love.

It’s funny how some things just align.

And by the end of the conversation, they dropped one more gem, an opinion on the two factories I was considering.

They didn’t know my preference…
But they picked the same one.
Perfect alignment.

In that moment, I didn’t walk away with a deal.
But I walked away with something far more valuable:

Direction. Clarity. Confidence.

Everything they told me not to do?
I had already decided not to.

Maybe, just maybe…

I actually know a little something about this game.

The flicker’s getting stronger.

The slow burn continues…

Pictured from left to right: Mike Rosales, Joshua Stephens, Skip Martin

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

Call it ancestral, call it instinctual, maybe it’s something buried deep in our DNA, but the camaraderie of the leaf draws us in like those who’ve gathered around fire for millennia.

The light flickers.
Smoke dances in the wind.
Time slows.
And for a little while… all feels right.

Whether I’m alone or sitting among a tribe, the ritual is the same. My breathing slows. My thoughts shift from “what’s next” to “what’s now.” Cigars have this rare power; they pull you inward while gently nudging you outward, inviting reflection and connection in the same breath.

In the deep, we connect.

Of course, that wasn’t how it felt when we first walked in.

Despite the warm welcome from the family, kids, wives, the whole crew, I found myself standing there, glassy-eyed and awkward, watching the owners work quietly in their dimly lit HQ like monks at morning prayer.

Did I misread the invite?
Was this one of those “come by” invites that doesn’t actually mean “come by”?
Was I the guy who brought a plus-one to a secret handshake?

Before I could overthink it any further, we were gently pulled into the orbit of hospitality.

“Espresso?”

Now, we’re not talking about whatever comes out of the pod machine in your Airbnb. This wasn’t a countertop appliance you order with one click. No, they had somehow acquired a European, commercial-grade, Italian espresso machine; the kind usually bolted down behind marble counters in a Roman café where the baristas wear ties and judge your order silently.

Apparently, these machines aren’t available to us common folk unless you know someone who knows someone... or unless you're them.

It was beautiful. And terrifying.

Operating one of these machines isn’t just pushing a button; it’s an art. You’re dealing with water pressure, grind consistency, tamp weight, milk frothing angles, boiler temps. There’s no room for error. It’s part engineering, part witchcraft. And, according to the stories they told, they had broken it, multiple times, just learning how to master it.

Eventually, a perfectly pulled doppio was handed to Kaitlyn. Smooth crema. Golden brown. Just the right bitterness.

Like everything else in this place, it wasn’t for show. It was about care. Precision. Craft.

After a bit of small talk, we were offered a tour of the facility.

The owners still hadn’t said much but the silence didn’t feel rude. It felt intentional. Like they were measuring the moment. Listening more than speaking. Letting their work speak for itself.

We walked through shipping and receiving, where the bones of the business are stacked and sorted. Boxes, labels, tape guns…everything you need to keep the hustle moving.

Then came fulfillment, a space filled with finished product and curated details. Efficiency with soul.

Then... the humidor.

Except calling it a “humidor” is like calling a vault a closet.

It was sacred. Quiet. Like a museum of the modern cigar movement.

Every release. Every size. Ever.

Shelves stacked with boxes, accessories, swag, and branded ephemera that made me want to drop my wallet and whisper “take what you need.”

This wasn’t just storage. It was storytelling. History. A timeline of how far they’d come.

It reminded me that great brands aren’t built overnight. They’re built one handshake, one stick, one box, at a time.

As we walked through the final room, I felt the nerves fade and something else take their place.

Respect.
Gratitude.
Drive.

I wasn’t just touring a facility. I was being given a glimpse into what’s possible when you stay true to your craft, your culture, and your calling.

This wasn’t a pitch. It wasn’t an interview.

It was a beginning.

And as always…

The slow burn continues.

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…

The Slow Burn: The Dance

Like anyone standing behind a closed door, before you decide to open it, you ask:

“Who is it?”

Except this time, it wasn’t about my name. Let’s be honest, my name has zero credibility in the cigar industry. I’m not a third-generation anything…well maybe, degenerate but thats for another blog entry I suppose. I’m not an heir to a tobacco dynasty. I’m just the gringo who keeps showing up.

On the other side of that door was an experienced, savvy factory owner. A person who has probably seen more cigar dreams die on the vine than most of us have had hot dinners.

Ahh, but this was familiar territory. In sales, we do this dance every day. Sometimes it’s a waltz…graceful, rhythmic, effortless. Other times, your dance partner is stepping on your toes and you’re misreading every cue while pretending you aren’t.

But me? I’m a seasoned dancer.

(Man, the bros are never going to let me live that statement down.)

The questions came in rapid-fire succession:

“Please tell me what cigars from our brand(s) you like.”
“Have you been to Nicaragua before?”
“Are you looking for a single factory to produce all of your cigars?”
“What’s your desired timeframe for product launch?”

And then…the dreaded casket killer:

“Do you have a background in the cigar industry?”

If you’ve ever pitched anything, anything at all, you know this is where you either try to spin a fairy tale or tell the truth. I knew bull shit wouldn’t get me far.

This was not a moment to polish the turd.

However, if you wanna see me dance, you're getting a show.

So I took a deep breath, and I gave it to ‘em straight (with just enough heart to show I’m serious):

“Do I have cigar industry experience? The short answer, 0%.

But my background is in sales, branding, and startup growth. I’ve helped scale multiple companies from early-stage to maturity, and I’ve spent the last few years preparing to bring Brolo to life.

While I may be new to the cigar industry professionally, I’ve been smoking for nearly 20 years. Cigars have been a huge part of my life and my relationships.

I’ve spent a great deal of time in lounges around the world and am deeply involved in my local cigar community. Over the years, I’ve had countless conversations with brand reps. What I’ve noticed is that many operate with a lot of passion but not much strategy.

My background in sales and branding gives me a different lens. I see a chance to help shift that narrative: to elevate boutique cigar brands through better systems, deeper brand alignment, and more meaningful engagement with the people who light up every day.

Brolo Cigars is rooted in nostalgia, brotherhood, and storytelling. Think late ’70s aesthetics, old-school connection, and slow-burning moments that matter.

I’m not just looking to sell cigars. I’m looking to build something with soul.

From everything I’ve seen, [your] factory shares that kind of creative DNA.”

I hit send, fully expecting the polite “thanks, but no thanks.”

Instead, this landed in my inbox:

“I would like to say that all this seems very impressive, and we picked up on the 70’s vibe right away. We think it’s very unique.”

We’re dancing now, baby.

I felt a little pep in my step. But in true cigar-industry fashion, the next volley came quickly:

“Are you the sole owner? I’d like to understand more about your distribution and sales plan, as I mentioned—this is crucial to the success of any brand. Also, what experience do you have blending cigars, or what attributes do you think will help you in this process?”

This is how it goes.

One step forward, one question deeper.

You keep moving, you keep showing up, you keep dancing, even when you feel like an outsider in the room.

Even outsiders have a place.

Keep showing up, trust your story, and savor the slow burn…one moment at a time.

The Slow Burn: A Gringo with a Dream

So, how do you start a cigar brand?

Well, first things first:

I’ve never farmed a day in my life.

Over the years, I’ve read more about tobacco cultivation than any reasonable person probably should. I’ve dug into the variables that shape a quality priming: climate, sun, rain, humidity, soil, elevation, shade, curing, fermentation, aging…the list goes on. And on. And on. I’ve learned about how even the angle of shade cloth can make or break a harvest, the delicate balance between tradition and innovation, and the endless debate about how long tobacco should rest before it’s rolled.

The truth is, generations of families have devoted their entire lineage to getting it right. Every crop is another chance to fine-tune the process…one season, one leaf, one priming at a time.

Me?

I’m just some gringo with a dream.

I’ve heard more cautionary tales than I can count; stories of people burning through mountains of cash chasing the smoke. Some started with the best of intentions. Others saw dollar signs. Most never made it past the first few production runs.

Why? Because the cigar business is, in a word, unforgiving.

Consumer preferences shift. A blend that’s hot today is forgotten tomorrow. Crops get lost to hurricanes, fires, disease, or mold. Even the most seasoned industry veterans aren’t immune to the random hand of fate or the slow creep of bad luck. Production strategies shift. Distribution deals fall apart. Costs skyrocket.

You don’t have to look far to see how quickly it can all go sideways.

Yet, here I am.

Not because I think I’m smarter or luckier than those who came before me. But because I believe there’s still room in this industry for something honest, something built on respect for the craft and the people who keep it alive.

Like many cigar aficionados, I spent years as an armchair quarterback. I was quick to pass judgment on a blend or a brand without any idea what actually went into it. That’s how it goes in this world: everybody’s got an opinion, and opinions shape perception.

If I tried something new and it burned sideways, even if the flavor was fantastic, strike.

If the burn was razor thin and stacked dimes but the draw felt like sucking a milkshake through a coffee straw, strike.

If the wrapper color looked “off” to my eye, pass. Strike.

But unlike baseball, cigar smokers don’t usually give you three pitches to hit a home run. They give you one proverbial swing. Maybe you connect, maybe you don’t.

And here’s the kicker; it might not even be the brand’s fault if the experience disappoints. Cigars are subjective by nature. Maybe the retailer’s humidor was out of balance. Maybe the consumer didn’t store the stick right after they bought it. Either way, brands can’t control those variables but those variables still break consumer confidence.

Side note: If your local tobacconist ever hosts a Humidor Discovery Night, do yourself a favor and go. It’s the purest way to experience a cigar. They’ll take two cigars that look similar, remove the bands, and have you smoke them back to back. No preconceived notions. No brand legacy to lean on. Just you and the tobacco. You might be surprised how often you’ll love something you never would’ve picked for yourself. If your in DFW, check out Viso Cigars on Tuesday nights from 6pm-9pm. Great staff. Great people. Unique experiences.

Anyway, back to the gringo with a dream.

Considering everything I’ve just laid out, you’d think I’d have tucked this idea away in the “nice thought, never gonna happen” category. But at some point, you’ve got to put legs on your dream. Carpe Diem.

After months of research, I narrowed my search down to a handful of factories that seemed like the right fit. How did I choose? I wanted something different but familiar. Cutting edge but rooted in tradition. A little unorthodox. A little Brolo.

And yeah, there’s always the question: What if consumers don’t have a good association with that factory? Maybe they don’t like a certain brand that comes out of the same production floor.

This is the part where I channel my inner Steve Saka and say:

STFU and try the cigars.

Then… it happened. I shot my shot.

I sent the email.

And I got this back:

“Hi Joshua,
Thanks for reaching out. Your approach seems intriguing and interesting (in a good way)….”

Could an outsider like me actually get a foot in the door?

The door creaked open.

So no, I’ve never farmed a day in my life. But I’m here. Listening. Learning. And taking the slow burn one leaf at a time.

The Slow Burn: Finding Myself in a Cloud of Smoke

I spent most of my twenties being everything to everyone. Chameleon. Sales machine. Perpetual traveler. I had a killer job that paid me to crisscross North America and Europe nearly 45 weeks out of the year. On paper, it looked like success. The kind you’re supposed to chase. The kind that convinces you to ignore that little voice in your head that whispers:

“Who the hell am I, really?”

When you live on the road that long, you start to lose track of yourself. Airports, conference rooms, hotel bars…it all blurs together. You learn how to smile on cue, close deals over steak dinners, and pretend you’re exactly the person your client expects you to be. It’s exhausting. It’s easy to forget the parts that make you, you.

My introduction to smoking was less than glamorous. My grandma was the original chain smoker. She’d burn through a pack and a half with an oxygen mask strapped to her face. The woman was tougher than a coffin nail, but the sound of her wheezing still echoes in my memory. Then there was my uncle, whose mantra was basically “wake and bake.” He had a pretty functional relationship with the green stuff, but he smoked everything like it was going out of style. Between them, smoking was something I swore I’d never touch.

Well, until I did.

There was a brief, regrettable stint with clove cigarettes. Djarm Blacks. They were a staple of whatever scene I thought I belonged to at the time. I guess we all have our “trying to look cool” phase. If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: If everyone thinks it’s cool, it probably isn’t.

Then, somewhere between time zones and client dinners, someone handed me a Cohiba Siglo. It was smooth and elegant. Nothing like the stale haze I’d grown up around. Like most things I get into, I went all in. Within a few months, I’d become insufferable, a self-declared Cuban purist. If it wasn’t rolled on an island, I didn’t want it. I oozed pretension. I’d talk about terroir and vintage with a straight face, like I actually knew what I was saying.

Eventually, I grew out of that phase and started exploring heritage brands. The ones with real stories and real craftsmen behind them. But it wasn’t until I walked into a local lounge that didn’t carry a single brand I recognized that everything shifted.

I was ten years into smoking cigars and thought I’d seen it all. But standing in that humidor, I realized I hadn’t scratched the surface. It felt like stepping onto a magic carpet, corny, but true. A whole new world opened up. It was magical. Like Aladin chasing Jasmine, I was in the clouds.

That moment stuck with me because it was the first time in a long time I was curious instead of performative. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I wasn’t trying to be anyone. I was just a guy, holding an unfamiliar cigar, excited to discover something new.

Somewhere in that cloud of smoke, I started to find myself again.

Brolo Cigars was born out of that feeling, the desire to strip away the labels, the posturing, and the ego. To slow down, be present, and just enjoy the ritual for what it is.

If you’ve ever lost yourself along the way, maybe you’ll understand why that matters to me.

Here’s to the slow burn, and to finally being comfortable in your own skin.

The Slow Burn: Why I Started Brolo Cigars

When I first started dreaming up Brolo Cigars, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Most good things aren’t...especially the kind that involve fire, patience, and a little bit of rebellion.

I’m not a third-generation cigar maker.

I didn’t grow up sweeping the floors of a rolling room in Estelí or packing boxes in Danlí. I’m an outsider. Just a guy who has spent decades lighting up with friends, chasing that perfect draw, and falling in love with the way a cigar can slow life down. That was the spark: a desire to create something that honored the ritual, the conversation, and the quiet camaraderie of a good smoke.

But I’ll tell you straight, romantic notions only get you so far when you’re trying to build a brand in an industry that doesn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for newcomers.

I quickly learned that sourcing cigars is not a matter of picking up the phone and placing an order. Factories in Nicaragua, Ecuador, and Honduras are busy crafting blends for established brands that have been around since before I was born. Convincing them to take a chance on someone with no track record felt a bit like knocking on the back door of a speakeasy and hoping the doorman believes your story.

Each conversation started with skepticism, and fair enough. What did I know about primings, fermentation, or filler-to-binder ratios beyond what I’d read and smoked? But I also knew what I felt. Cigars have a soul. They deserve respect. And if I were going to put my name on one, I’d better be prepared to learn everything I could from the people who’ve spent their lives perfecting this craft.

Even after finding factories willing to talk, there were more hurdles. Tobacco is heavily regulated. Importing it is a maze of paperwork and compliance. On top of that, just finding a bank in the U.S. that doesn’t slam the door in your face when you mention “tobacco” is its own special kind of frustration. I’d sit in meetings with local financial institutions, explaining that no, I wasn’t selling vapes or anything illegal, just old-fashioned, hand-rolled cigars, and watch the polite nods that meant, “We’ll pass.”

Those moments can shake your resolve.

They make you question why you’re doing this at all. But for me, the answer has always been simple: Because cigars matter. They matter to the people who gather around them, who share stories, who mark life’s milestones one slow burn at a time.

Brolo was never about chasing a quick dollar. It’s about capturing the feeling of brotherhood; the way a good cigar can connect strangers, bridge generations, and transform an ordinary evening into something memorable. I believe that if an outsider like me can respect the craft, I can create something worth sharing.

So, this is the first post in what I hope becomes an ongoing story of building Brolo Cigars from the ground up. I’m still learning every day. I’m still knocking on doors and sometimes hearing “no.” But I’m also finding partners who believe in this vision, and smokers who are ready for something honest, small-batch, and personal.

Starting Brolo is taking the bull by the horns.

Literally, in my case, somewhere in a shoebox, there’s this photo of me as a kid riding a bull with more guts than sense. Back then, I didn’t know much about fear. Or maybe I just didn’t care. Years later, I’d realize that starting a cigar company as an outsider feels a lot the same way: You hang on tight, you trust your instincts, and you accept that you might get thrown off a few times before you find your stride.

Thanks for lighting up with me. Here’s to the slow burn.