I’ve just returned from a month in Abu Dhabi, and while I left a very cold and blustery Ireland, I seem to have arrived back in time to witness the kind of spring weather that this country does best – fresh, sunny, with greenery exploding in the hedgerows and fields. It is still cold as hell at night, though, so I find myself turning to fragrances that are bitter and herbacious, but mingled with enough resins, fruit, or wood to kick in that balmy warmth I still crave. These below are doing the trick.
Commune de Paris by Astier de Villatte
An eau de cologne for people who like orientals more than they do eaux de cologne (which would include me). Think less 4177 and more Shalimar Cologne-slash-Shaal Nur-slash-Opus 1144. Its bright, herbaceous start smacks of lemon peel, a touch of something like anise, and garden herbs, but soon settles into a sort of powdered, glittery lemon drop accord, like resins sanded down and stirred into a key lime pie. It is very benzoin forward, and so has that dusty-gummy-gritty texture that I love, i.e., half-cassonade, half-icing sugar. It’s basically the Guerlainade in tisane format.
More than anything, this reminds me of a much brighter, airier take on Parfum Très Russe by Institut Très Bien, a perfume I loved but never bought because of a hesitation I had over the potato starch-like quality of the benzoin in the late drydown. Commune de Paris works much the same idea but its roseate, candied citrus effervescence is held aloft throughout. Vetiver adds a verdant woodiness here and there, but doesn’t dominate. As far as eaux de cologne go, I feel like that guy in Love Actually holding up a placard saying “To me you are perfect”.
Komorebi by Pierre Guillaume
Probably more complex in construction than I’m describing here, but to me this smells like a mint-ade that your children might make from the garden, mixing tapwater with grass cuttings, blackcurrants, and an invasive mint species colonizing your hostas. It smells bitter and powdery – pleasingly so – with a side order of mulch. It’s not an exaggeration to say that the opening of Komerebi fills me with joy. It is evocative and original, a sort of summoning of the memory of a lazy afternoon in a meadow you didn’t even know you’d experienced. I can’t smell mimosa per se, but I sense its particular watery, honeyish pollen at work, casting a sweet golden glow over the herbaceous notes.
Eventually I realise – with a bit of disappointment – that this is mostly built over a base of tonka bean, which is fine but its effect is to turn that gloriously wet, tangy mint garden into a Mentos. I appreciate the chew the tonka bean gives, and I know it’s what’s carrying the more delicate herbs and flowers past the opening. I just can’t help but miss the dewy ethereality of those first twenty minutes.
Wander Through the Parks by Miller Harris
Wow, what a juicy green scent, full of fig leaf, blackberry, and something that smells like stewed rhubarb! It is so wet and dewy that I can imagine sitting on a wooden bench in an English kitchen garden after a downpour, but the door to the kitchen is thrown open and I can smell the delicious bramble pie baking in the oven. There is something so luridly cordial-like about the opening that you kind of suspect that its extreme naturalness will eventually show itself to be a lie. Thankfully, this doesn’t ever happen.
The first time I wore it, I found the tuberose note overbearing and stuffy, like gentile ladies of a certain age sweating gently in a greenhouse. But I’ve worn it several times since and have never interpreted the tuberose note like that again – now I understand its purpose as lending the scent a fleshy ‘hothouse’ feel, i.e., green and vegetal, almost celery like, but also as creamy as gelato. Fig leaf tends to go either pissy or aquatic-rubbery on the skin, and I’d be inclined to say this leans towards the latter. However, it never strays into man’s blue fragrance territory, nor does it copy any other fig leaf perfume I know. It stays firmly in a juicy-green-fruity-naturalistic track. Very good, like a supremely hydrated, almost pulpy version of Ninfeo Mio, and with 100% less cat pee in the drydown.
Winter Palace by Memo
Bubblegum and face powder over a rosy boot polish with a bright, fresh start that seems to have been created from tannins rather than citrus. Later on, a true tea note pushes through, an earthy rooibos, I think, with a slice of orange cooling in the glass. Though this central accord smells more like an orange-tea-flavoured candy or packet of aspartame than an actual tea and fruit infusion, I love that it smells both warm and fresh.
By the way, the more I wear it, the more I understand that certain resins – or resins set inside a certain accord – can smell like the firm candy coating on a tic tac or bubblegum, and not just straightforwardly of incense or of cola. (This treatment of resins is something I also pick up in Le Régent by Oriza L. Legrand and Rouge Smoking by BDK). Though I am not overly fond of this facet of resins in perfumery, I admit that it works beautifully here, set against that almost medicinal tea note and that orangey amber-vanilla backdrop. It smells incredibly jaunty, as if all the notes are doing little whirligigs on the skin – a sort of Theorema for the Gen Z crowd, high on life, THC gummies and Aperol Spritz.
Frosted Moon by Cloon Keen Atelier
I’ve loved this since it was called Lune de Givre, but only bought it last year. In my view, it is the standout of the line, alongside the equally magical (but very different) Castaña. Frosted Moon showcases an exquisite iris material, pale and rooty and buttery all at once. This comes first soaked in the earthy bitterness of galbanum and a silvery note halfway between grappa and juniper berry. Frosted is right, the greenery jostling around the iris is downright icy.
When benzoin joins the party, what happens is the silvery polish of the orris slowly sinks into the dulling warmth of brown wrapping paper – the kind we wrapped our schoolbooks with in Ireland in the late 80s – giving way to an accord that is earthier, drier, and ‘toasted’, kind of like brown sugar warming on a pan but not yet dissolved.
The trajectory from cool-bitter-white to warm-toasty-brown is a bit too short, but may be slowed down by spraying on fabric. Me, I wallow in it until I can no longer smell the orris and simply re-spray myself to relive its bitter green glory. Wearing this perfume is, for me, akin to ordering a side of stewed chicory to accompany a rich roast pork dish. I swear I can feel it deglazing my intestines.
Cover Image: Photo by Dan Nistor on Unsplash
