Branding has become a huge part of the cannabis industry, and it’s only getting bigger. Musicians are hawking pot products, dispensaries want to mirror Apple Stores, and radio ads are telling me how many days I would have to forgo pizza to buy an ounce on clearance. Most of this doesn’t concern me; it’s only fair that the same brainwashing ploys used by other legal industries be allowed in the pot business. And I’m particularly impressed with one stand-alone shop that beat the wannabe suits to the punch years ago — and all it took was a name and sign out front. Mr. Nice Guy’s, at 4501 Adams Street, had always given me a laugh when I drove by the joint-toking smiley face out front; now that it’s a recreational outlet, I stopped in to see if its buds were on par with its humor.
One unfunny thing about the place was the form the dispensary made me sign before entering the bud room. The security guard said it was written by the company’s lawyers to protect Mr. Nice Guy’s if I sold what I bought there to someone else, gave it to a minor, etc. — but one of the bullet points also absolved the shop from any liability if I became sick after consuming its products. That’s not a very nice-guy move, but I signed it anyway.
After that, I had access to the recreational lineup, and spotted some buxom buds with a rich color, all with the same grassy smell of fresh, under-cured herb. Peach Dream was a distinct, vibrant green; since I’d never heard of the strain before, that was enough to push it above the rest. I bought a gram for $19.81 after tax, hoping it wouldn’t send me to the hospital after I’d just signed away all legal recourse.
I couldn’t find any reliable information about Peach Dream online, but that’s what my eyes and nose are for. Like the other strains at the shop, these nugs came chubby and a little wet. The trichome development was spot-on, with limited pistils and milky resin glands covering the lime-green calyxes. Still, the curing process worried me: Subtle fruity notes were dominated by the smell of wet, freshly cut grass. Not to worry: A sesh out of the Volcano at 350 degrees tasted bland, as I’d expected, but the high was sublime. I felt like I had puffed something slightly sativa-dominant, and my energy and concentration held for about an hour before I liquefied into bed with the TV on.
Peach Dream’s beautiful looks and ability to keep me focused before knocking me out like a Holly Holm head kick showed that it was grown with love and attention, but its grassy smell and flavor point to a rushed curing process that nobody likes to taste.
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