"my pipe smokes damn hot"

I get the feeling he was attempting a smoke while typing those words.

There is no one right way to smoke a pipe.  There are, however, a whole lot of wrong ways.

There are so many things that can make a pipe smoke hot, I probably shouldn't even attempt a post on it.  But here goes.

The tobacco could be too dry, and it's burning too fast.  Try rehydrating the tobacco or get some new stuff.

The tobacco could be too wet.  Wet tobacco causes high humidity in the smoke and this is the most common cause of the dreaded "tongue-bite."  Keep plenty of pipe cleaners on hand and stick one down the stem every so often during the smoke to sop up excess moisture.

You could be puffing too hard.  The tobacco is only supposed to char during the process, right on the borderline of actually smoldering.  It should cease "burning" (for lack of a better term) very quickly if you stop puffing.  If it keeps smoldering for several minutes all on its own, something is wrong.

It could be packed too loosely.  A looser pack means more air inside the bowl and therefore, a better chance for the charring to become actual smoldering (or G-d help you, flaming).

Maybe it's just a bad pipe.  Pipes are just like everything else in the world.  Just because it's more expensive doesn't necessarily mean it's a superior pipe.  It might be more expensive just because of the name on the stem or because the seller thinks it should be more expensive.

Maybe it's the wrong tobacco for that pipe.  This is a strange one, and one that some people have a hard time wrapping their head around, but every pipe will have its preferred tobacco.  You might have to experiment, using that pipe for different blends and different cuts until you find the one or ones that work for it.

Is it an aromatic tobacco?  Or worse, a very heavily flavored aromatic tobacco?  Or something you bought at Walgreens?  Heavy flavors mean more gunk, and more tongue-bite.  Cheap drugstore stuff is saturated with propylene glycol to preserve the moisture, but it's usually too moist.  More moisture, more humidity in the smoke, more tongue-bite.

Perhaps the pipe isn't broken in well, yet.  It might need a build-up of cake inside the bowl before it settles down and starts smoking the way it should.  This is natural.  If it's a new pipe, don't clean it like you're planning on performing surgery with it.  Knock the dottle out and clean the shank and stem, but leaving some ash in the bowl so it can start building up cake.

About the only thing I can say with fair certainty, based on my experience, is that the thinner the bowl walls on a pipe, the more likely it will smoke hot.  Thicker bowl walls provide more mass for heat dissipation.  Pipes with sandblasted or rusticated finishes theoretically have an advantage in heat dissipation because of the increased surface area--just like the fins on a radiator.  Or just like the fins on a pipe.


That's a Porsche pipe, and yes it was designed by that Porsche.

Don't be afraid of re-lighting.  Some people will began to "billows" the pipe with stronger breaths if they notice that it's about to extinguish itself.  Bad idea.  This causes uneven charring.  Stock up on matches, lighter fluid or butane and don't worry about it.  Just lightly re-pack it and re-light it.  And when re-lighting, light it all the way around just like you did the first time.

Someone on alt.smokers.pipes once remarked that if you re-light your pipe more than 5 times per smoke, you will burn out the bowl.  This is nonsense.  I replied that if that was true, I should have burned out at least 150 pipes (he caught it from several other posters there, too).  Sure, it's cool not to have to re-light a pipe, and it happens sometimes, but it isn't necessary for a pleasant smoke.

And if it takes you more than two lights to start a pipe going in the beginning, don't worry about that either.  The theory is that after the pipe is packed, there is first a false or "charring" light to get an even char all across the top.  Then you lightly tamp the char flat and light it again.  I often have to go through 3 or 4 false lights before I get it just right, the way I want it.  However, I tend to be very picky about this because I often smoke a pipe while driving and I don't want to have to relight it on the road.

A rambling post, but maybe it will help someone.

Because I don't have anything else to do.  Part 1 is here.

---

I was eating breakfast at a southside taqueria and had just finished lacing the first taco with a generous dose of habanero sauce when the phone on my belt buzzed.  Nothing like taking the office with you.  It was McCloskey again.

“Got another one for you,” he said.

“Another what?”

“Remember your strangulation victim?  The hooker in the red dress?”

McCloskey was never one to mince words.  I remembered her.  I had bought a tin of Escudo the day after she was killed to cheer myself up.  I must have been feeling pretty bad because it hadn’t lasted more than three days.

“If I’m still a suspect you’ll have to talk to my lawyer.”

“Suspect.  Huh.”

I knew from past experience that this little grunt was McCloskey’s idea of laughter.  “You’re no suspect.  This time I’m calling you in as a consultant.”

“Consultant, eh?  In that case you’ll have to discuss my fees with my accountant.”

“Huh,” he said again.  “Just get over here.  You know where St. James Walk is?”

“Listen,” I said, “I’m eating breakfast.  You’re gonna have to wait.”

“Get over here quick and I’ll buy you another breakfast.  You still eat it with that godforsaken hot sauce?”  McCloskey couldn’t handle anything hotter than a stale pimento.

I wrapped up my leftovers in a doggie bag of foil and started heading north.  I was only vaguely familiar with the street, and had to check the city map that I kept stashed behind the seat along with one or two other tactical items.  As I navigated my way in, I found myself touching the protection inside my belt for reassurance.  It was a beaten-down housing project, where the sidewalks were addressed like streets and someone had tried to pretty up the place by painting inspirational murals on the walls.  To me they looked desperate rather than inspiring, but then I’m a cynical s.o.b. who rarely sees the beauty in such things.  The apartment was obvious from the collection of police cars skewed around the door.

The cops outside were apparently expecting me and let me through.  “’Bout time,” said McCloskey when I walked up to the door.

“What’s so important that my breakfast couldn’t wait?”

“Listen,” he said, “I know in 24 hours the forensics boys will have the full report on my desk, but this one looks like a repeat and I thought maybe you could give me a head start.”

He pointed at the floor and I hesitatingly looked down.  I never really cared much for seeing victims of violence.  I had spent most of my detecting career taking pictures of unfaithful spouses, which was probably responsible for my positive outlook on life.  She looked like she had lived a hard life and died a hard death.  I couldn’t tell how old she was, but I guessed she was probably a lot younger than she looked.  The bruises on her showed she had been strangled, and there was a small pile of something odd on her sternum.

“He left his card this time,” said McCloskey.

I knelt down next to her and looked closer.  It was a small pile of dottle, ashes mixed with unburned tobacco leaves, and the burn on her skin meant that he had dumped it while it was still hot.  “It’s pipe tobacco,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s what we thought.  Can you identify it?”

“Sorry, I haven’t written any monographs on ashes lately.  You’re asking the wrong detective.”

“Come on, you’re a pipe guy.  Can you tell me anything about it?”

I knelt beside the body and with the tweezers from my Swiss Army Knife plucked at the little pile of leaves and ashes.  A mixture of brown and black leaves, and one small black stem less than half an inch long.

“You see this?” I held up the tiny black stem.

McCloskey moved closer and peered down.

“This,” I held it up toward him, “is almost certainly latakia.”

McCloskey straightened and whipped out his notepad, a movement made natural by many years of practice.  He grimaced and began spelling it to himself, so I spelled it for him.

“Cyprian latakia, I should say,” I added.

“Cyprian.”

“Yeah, that means from Cyprus.  An island in the Mediterranean.”

“Yeah, I knew that.  Anything special about it?”

“It has a characteristic smell,” I said.  “And as you can see, it’s kinda black.”

“Smell?  What’s it smell like?”

Hmm.  How to describe a tobacco smell to someone who had never smoked a pipe.  I took a shot.

“Smells like campfires on a cold desert night, and smoke from the fires of strange oaks.”

“You’re a real freakin’ poet, Falcon.  You should write a book.”

“I don’t know how to write, McCloskey.  My job is just to keep the divorce lawyers in business.”

“Don’t remind me."  McCloskey had been a client of mine, a while back.  "Now about this latakia, is it rare or expensive?”

“Well, you won’t find it in your standard cherry-flavored drugstore gunk, but no, it’s not rare or expensive.”

“Damn.”

I figured that about finished things and was headed out the door when McCloskey said, “Hey Falcon, keep your nose open, huh.”  He was laughing again.

“You’re a real freakin’ comic, McCloskey.  You should write a book.”

“Yeah, you should hear my limericks.”

I finished the tacos in the car.  They weren’t quite lukewarm yet and still tasted good with the hot sauce.  By the time I finished the forensics boys were in full gear.  I pulled an old Wellington from the glove box and loaded it with a tasty blend that included maduro cigar leaves.  Somehow I wasn’t in the mood for latakia.