5 stars: 113 posts

When did we develop our insatiable craving for sweet perfumes? I could point to Thierry Mugler’s Angel, the grandmother of all gourmands; launched in 1993, this bonbon of cotton candy, bitter chocolate and patchouli still graces best-seller lists the world over. The success of Angel inspired several generations of perfumes redolent of crème brûlée, caramel and rice pudding, from Chanel Coco Mademoiselle to Kenzo Amour, and the boundary between fragrance and flavor became nebulous.

While Angel set the modern trend, sweet notes are as old as the art of perfumery itself. Many classics have accords that tease with their subtle references to desserts without venturing too far into patisserie. For instance, the combination of peach, roasted almonds and cinnamon in Guerlain Mitsouko, created in 1919, suggests an extravaganza worthy of Escoffier, while the moss and woods add an abstract, distinctly non-edible effect.

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Munnar, a hill station in the southwestern state of Kerala, is one of India’s largest tea producers. Ensconced in the Western Ghats mountain range, the town is surrounded by plantations that cascade down the hills and hide in misty ravines. I was in Munnar for my honeymoon, and my recollections of long languorous walks around the tea gardens, the tolling church bells, and the opulence of flower garlands at the Sri Subramanya Temple are laced with the scent of tea leaves. Crushed in my fingers, they smelled green and tannic; when carried by the morning breeze, the aroma resembled violets and driftwood.

The fragrance of tea has captivated many perfumers, but it was Jean-Claude Ellena who created the tea accord that became a trendsetter. Today it’s known as Bulgari Eau Parfumée au Thé Vert. Curiously, the fragrance wasn’t meant to make a big splash. When the Italian jewelry house of Bulgari approached Ellena, they were merely looking to offer a perfume in their boutiques, an elegant addition to their collection of adornments. Meanwhile, Ellena had a sketch of a fragrance that his other clients deemed a bit too innovative. It was an etude evoking the aroma of tea, and it was perfect for Bulgari. However, as soon as the house started offering Eau Parfumée au Thé Vert in its boutiques, it drew so much attention that Bulgari had to stage a wider launch.

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Incense powder is one of the oldest forms of perfume, and Japan has perfected its craft. Called Zu-Koh in Japanese, incense powder is made by mixing finely ground ingredients like sandalwood, clove, cinnamon, camphor, and patchouli. Different combinations of the same materials can vary from bright and spicy to dusky and mellow. This form of incense perfume is easy to use–just rub it onto the pulse points–and it lasts well. Unfortunately, it’s becoming increasingly rare, and the Japanese incense maker Shoyeido is one of the few brands still offering it.

Shoyeido makes three types of incense body powder, but the difference among them is not so much in terms of scent as in the quality of the components. Johin is the most affordable one at $10.95. It has a soft scent of sandalwood dominated by camphor and clove. It’s the least long lasting of the three powders.

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1917 was the year when the Bolshevik Revolution took place. It was also the year when another revolution happened. It wasn’t bloody, its scale was small, but for the history of perfumery it was as galvanizing as the events in Russia for the rest of the world. This revolution was the creation of Chypre by François Coty. The name Chypre referred to the island of Cyprus, which had been famous for its fragrant moss since antiquity, and while chypre-style fragrances, warm and moss-laden, were popular long before Coty’s creation, his Chypre of 1917 was different.

For one thing, Coty wasn’t afraid of making bold statements. To give a heavy note of oakmoss radiance, he used a novel aroma-chemical called isobutyl quinoline. Pure, it smelled pungently of leather and burned rubber, but when used as part of an accord with bergamot, dry woods and moss, its effect became sensual and luminous. Coty then increased the proportion of green notes and added a delicate floral twist. Chypre evoked the Mediterranean sea breeze and lemon orchards and reminded you that even on the most sunlit of days, shadows are present. Dark leather and inky moss provided the dramatic contrast in his composition.

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My saris are my personal archaeological layers. The turquoise and saffron one was bought from a market in Pune on my very first trip to India. The magenta one with the border of gold thread woven into the peacock pattern came from a cavernous shop in Gujarat, where I sat in a hot daze surrounded by towering stacks of silks. The hot pink one with the silver embroidery was a nod to Mumbai fashions circa 2005 picked up on a whim, along with matching bangles. The sienna and orange one was given to me on my wedding day by my parents-in-law.

My saris live in a box and I wear them only when I’m in India. Here, in Belgium, they don’t feel right. A sari needs the context–the music, the movement, the heat, the chaos of an Indian wedding. So I spread them out on the furniture to enjoy their colors, but I drape myself in a sari-like perfume of layers and folds. Like Neela Vermeire’s Niral, for instance.

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