Cabochard by Gres (1959)

Reminiscent of Robert Piguet's Bandit thanks to galbanum and the chemical isobutyl quinoline, which gives both perfumes a harsh, green, rubbery and leather note, Cabochard is nevertheless a kinder, gentler Bandit, down to the demure grey bow around its neck. This is, no doubt, in part due to the sweeter, warmer notes of rose, jasmine, ylang-ylang and orris. 

"Caboche" means headstrong or stubborn in French, suggesting that the wearer of this perfume will broadcast her toughness, in spite of being ladylike. She may smell of flowers, but they're flowers one has to pierce through a fog of cigarette smoke to get to. Cabochard smells a little "lady of the night" to me. (Or, like my piano teacher from childhood, who always smelled like a combination of sweet perfume and diesel fuel combined with stale tobacco smoke.)

I hate to say this, because I want so much to love Bandit and Cabochard, both legendary green leather chypres, but they are both almost too chemical and harsh for my nose. Every time I've taken a whiff, wanting my damndest to fall in love, I begin to get allergic reactions, my nasal passages declare war, fortifying themselves by shutting down. And I begin to sneeze.

This is no way, in other words, to begin an affair.

But more than that, perhaps there is something cliche in this day and age about the whole Stevie Nicks "leather and lace" formulation. Maybe being a tough lady can be broadcast with the most over-the-top "feminine" notes? Does she have to say one thing (flowers) and mean another (leather, tobacco, isobutyl quinoline, galbanum)? This dialectic seems stuck in the '40's and '50s, when these scents originated.

I am beginning to have an appreciation for scents that are either straightforwardly feminine or perhaps signify a femininity that does not refer to masculinity (like Germaine Cellier's perfume for Balenciaga, La Fuite Des Heures or Fleeting Moment). This perfume, unlike Bandit and Jolie Madame, seems to tell a woman's story "in her own words," with notes that refer to the kitchen, the countryside, and to classic perfumery. (I took a whiff from a friend's virtually empty bottle and await my bottle via eBay, but I can see how this scent isn't so "defensively" tough.)

In the end, I surprise myself by saying this, but I think, like a dominatrix with a whip and a scowl, Cabochard and its predecessor Bandit doth protest too much.

Top notes: Aldehydes, citrus, fruit and spice accents

Heart notes: Jasmine, rose, geranium, ylang-ylang, orris

Base notes: Patchouli, amber, vetiver, castoreum, moss, musk 

(please note: Haarman & Reimer guide does not list galbanum or isobutyl quinoline as notes for Cabochard although that harsh accord is present in the vintage)

Comments

[He8ther]

Well, I am very late to comment on this, but for the sake of posterity...

This is just beautifully written, and the Stevie Nicks metaphor (which has me chuckling), I feel, has helped me make up my mind on this fragrance once and for all. You really hit the nail on the head that it's *the image* of femininity that Cabochard conjures up which is dated and seems very cliché today. I have never got along with Bandit, to which I too seem to be allergic, but I can withstand Cabochard and have a small vintage bottle which I have tried again and again every time I've read about how dark and sexy and wicked it is meant to be.

I am reminded now of a well-known English speaker on fragrance, who has described how he feels the chypre category is the sexiest because it's sort of all buttoned up with this, ahem, 'animal' lurking inside somewhere. To hear him talk, and he is openly homosexual, it becomes clear that he's describing some sort of feminine ideal, not a real woman. I have come to the conclusion that wearing Cabochard is like trying to be that imaginary female: corseted and smoking, unable to breathe, and appealing only to men who don't actually like women enough to care how they feel.