A while back, I wrote about Cométe by Chanel as the rare perfume that closes the gap between the powdery perfumes of the bedroom – those that comfort and soothe – and the powdery perfumes that are dry and angular enough to project dominance (or at least confidence) in the workplace. Let me tell you now about the powdery, musky scents I identified that provide the peace of a down comforter when I most needed it, with my honest evaluation of how they fare, now, in a more self-secure era of my life.
Gris Charnel is a really pleasant, smooth woody tea fragrance with just enough darkness to make it feel cozy and autumnal. Though initially I believed it to be too similar to Remember Me by Jovoy to warrant my attention, I’ve come to see it as far less lactonic/gourmand/yummy than the Jovoy, the lumbar-yardy sandalwood in the basenotes providing a surprisingly gritty chew to the otherwise clear, sweet nuances of the cardamom and black tea accords.
Truth be told, Gris Charnel could also be seen as the gentle daytime precursor to the far more aromatic, but essentially similarly aromatic, plummy-figgy darkness of Thé Noir by Le Labo. I think that what they both have in common – apart from some shared notes – is an incredibly inviting ‘come hither’ air that feels seductive without running into predatory or try-hard territory.
Compared to both the Le Labo and the Jovoy, however, Gris Charnel feels quite designer-ish. The clearly off-the-shelf sandalwood synths (javanol or ebanol) contribute a bit to that impression. But mostly I think it’s because the cardamom note here is presented in its least confrontational guise, meaning less piercingly aromatic, citric, and coffee-ish than in, say, Starlight (XerJoff) or Abu Dhabi (Memo) and more like a cup of chai diluted with a ton of hot milk, or a particularly doughy version of the Swedish cardamom bun. The cardamom is creamily rather than pungently piquant here, in other words, and goes quite a long way to explaining why it’s such a popular fragrance. It’s the Starbucks version of exotic – a frequent player in the seasonal effluvia of Dark Academia-themed Tik Toks.
Mentally, I tend to classify Gris Charnel in the same group with scents like Jo Malone’s Myrrh & Tonka and Dior Addict, meaning things that are both fresh and dark, creamy and piquant, and almost commercially smooth. The distinctiveness of the shape of fig or myrrh or or cardamom or even orange blossom is worn away to such a thin membrane that all you taste is that utterly pleasant, gently spiced creaminess that you’re told by the brand to expect. Donna Karan did this sort of stuff first of course, with Wenge and Chaos and their ilk, but with these long out of production, nobody born in a century beginning with ‘2’ would know that.
I like Gris Charnel a lot, and though I think Liam Grey by Lattafa does a creditable job of knocking it off, once my teenage son had ‘lost’ my bottle of Liam Grey at school (I suspect he traded it for something else), I was happy to replace it with a travel size of the real deal. It’s not a masterpiece by any stretch of the imagination, or even that novel, but it falls into that category of ‘pleasantly meh’ perfumes that are just so enjoyable to wear that I can easily see myself buying another travel size once this one runs out.
Cover Image: Photo by Brandee Taylor on Unsplash
I hated Rose 31 for years before trying a bit of the body lotion someone had left behind in an AirBnB in Rome about ten years ago which is when I began to see its merits filtering through the haze of itchy-scratchy aromachemicals that had initially bothered me. I spent years testing it in minute amounts to build up my tolerance to its most objectionable, ill-fitting Iso E Super parts, like a vaccine. You might be reading this and wonder – why bother? Like they tell you with clothes, if it’s not a hell yeah, then it’s a hell no, right?
I view Fleur de Peau as a modern, stripped-for-parts version of No. 5 Eau Premiere, the sweet lemon-drop foam of the Chanel aldehydes swapped out for something far more vegetal, like a piece of citrus fruit your mother sliced on a chopping board where a celery stalk just met its fate. Though there is tons of iris in this, it is the rooty stuff that smells like proving bread dough and potatoes pulled from cold storage rather than anything that smells like an actual flower. It is momentarily sweet as the first bubble hits the nose, but then progressively saline.
I notice I own quite a few perfumes that I either disliked or was underwhelmed by on first sniff but bought anyway because I was convinced that everyone else who adores them must be right and I must be wrong. This is what happens when you don’t trust your own taste. Not that I’m giving myself too much grief about it – surety only comes after years of curation and self-learning. Until then, we’re all pinheads in one way or another.
Just to be clear, this is a different category from the perfumes I blind bought and then hated, and from the perfumes I find meh but nonetheless love wearing.
Rather, these are perfumes whose every angle has been inspected and held up to the light, and repeatedly, in case I’d missed something the first twenty times. In fairness, I don’t hate these perfumes. It’s just that they have failed to improve upon deeper acquaintance. And I have grown too old to continue second guessing my own taste.
Regrets, I have a few: Une Voix Noire by Serge Lutens
8th October 2026Not sure what possessed me to buy Une Voix Noire – blind and at enormous cost direct from Paris during a period of my life where I wasn’t earning any income at all – given that I hate the bleu cheese pong of gardenia and can’t conceive of a scenario where a strawberry note wouldn’t ruin a perfume. Maybe I bought it expecting it to change my mind about both gardenia and strawberry. But I think it’s more likely I was sucked in by all that sexy Billie-Holiday-in-a-smoky-bar lore. I know myself.
In late 2024, I undertook the largest professional transition of my career, moving from the private sector to civil service, and spent the next twelve months struggling to feel even minimally competent again. It’s not lost on me that the perfumes I bought in that year fell into one of two categories, namely A. perfumes that broadcast a sort of clean, steely confidence in the office, and B. perfumes that soothed my nerves as surely as a down comforter or a plush toy. Cométe by Chanel is the rare bird that straddles both.
It has exactly the type of violet I wanted – soapy, chalky, and a very light hand with ye olde violet pastilles. The structure is streamlined compared to L’Heure Bleue, to which I’ve seen this compared. And, apart from an almondy thickness to the texture, it doesn’t really smell like most perfumey interpretations of cherry blossom I’ve smelled, which is good, because cherry blossom can smell a bit trite and girlish if not handled with rigour.
What really makes Cométe sing is its discipline. A self-sustaining spurt of ferrous aldehydes acts as the perfume’s whalebone corset, pulling the spray of stodgy florals together into a rigid zip. Everything that could be heavy now feels like thousands of soap particles exploded into space, drifting and fizzing silently around each other. What reads as soap to my nose could read as powder to others, of course, but I never get the impression of make-up, so this may even work as a dandified floral for men. I think the fact that the florals feel slightly chemical helps, adding an arch sensibility that almost approaches ‘man with a monocle’ levels.
Though strictly speaking Cométe is probably too strait-laced to perform the role of the fluffy blanket I needed, I moulded it to my needs by forcing it into uneasy company with my fluffy slippers and chenille robe and my seedy hotel room meals of shame (peanuts, crisps, gummy bears). And then I would pull it out again the next morning to armour up for the day ahead, like a three-piece suit fashioned entirely out of Laura Ashley print. I bought the jeroboam-sized bottle because, even though I now feel semi-competent again, perfumes that stiffen spines and soothe the soul in the same breath are few and far between.
Cover Image: Photo by MOHAMMAD AL JANNAT RAKIN on Unsplash
Chambre Noire by Olfactive Studio: A Review
28th September 2026Chambre Noire falls into the category of perfumes that most people, including myself, find a bit meh on the creativity or construction front but are nonetheless so enjoyable to wear that I have decided they deserve a place in my collection, reviews be damned. I just love wearing this perfume. Chambre Noire reaches absolutely no new heights, but its low-level hum of almost-greatness gives me something to turn over and look at every time I wear it.
Regrets, I have a few: Madagascar Le Baume Vanille by Parfum d’Empire
27th September 2026I bought this blind last December partially because I trust Marc-Antoine Corticchiato as much as my own mother, partially because I’d heard the comparisons to my beloved but by now unobtanium Vanille (by Mona di Orio), and partially because I was about to move to Iran, one of the driest countries in the world, and felt that I’d find the scent of booze comforting and nostalgic. I regret everything.
Madagascar Le Baume Vanille reminds me of Havana Vanille by L’Artisan Parfumeur, which promised me a booze-soaked bread pudding and delivered an experience akin to inhaling the fumes of a sour rag soaked with whiskey-flavoured E numbers. But worse, in Madagascar Le Baume Vanille, there is a strong and unpleasant aroma of melting plastic, like having left a plastic spoon on a gas burner or a power surge burning through the wiring behind a computer server.
This accord persists like a malign spirit, inducing a mild sense of unease in me. Something about it just smells wrong. It could be black pepper or toasted tobacco leaf or burnt banana peel, I don’t know, but it doesn’t present as organic to my nose, which is what makes it disturbing. It kind of smells like the metallic, sour-rich smell of booze sweat seeping through your pores the morning after a night of heavy drinking. Turns out that’s not something I miss much in Iran. Nothing cute about the scent of your liver working overtime.
Eventually it dries down to a familiar chord used in perfumes that try to capture the woody-spicy-pungent tones of a vanilla pod, by which I mean that raisin-tobacco-cacao axis, which smells really good in and of itself, because how could it not, yet is nothing new under the sun, especially if you own stuff like Vanille Havane (by Les Indemodables), Écrin Fumée (Serge Lutens) or Tobacco Vanille (Tom Ford) and so on and so forth. If there is a mirage of vanilla pod being summoned here, it’s lost on me and my peasant nose. So, not only did I buy a perfume that doesn’t fill a gap in my collection, but I also bought one whose burning latex topnotes make it a trial to wear in the first hour or two. Absolute genius, Claire.
Cover Image: Photo by Compagnons on Unsplash










