Yesterday's Perfume

Le Numéro Cinq by Molyneux (1925)

It's happened to everyone who loves vintage perfume. You're on a perfume forum, or reading about perfume, and some lucky bastard recounts the story of how they just happened to stumble upon a rare vintage masterpiece — say, an Iris Gris or Djedi — sealed and in pristine condition. Oh yeah, did they mention it yet? For $10. Damn you, you say under your breath. Why doesn't this ever happen to me?!

I'm here to tell you it can. Before you start gritting your teeth, narrowing your eyes, and involuntarily balling your hands into fists, relax — I didn't stumble upon a perfume so rare you can't find one eBay. I did stumble, however, on a vintage jewel that turns out to have a fascinating perfume history. Before I get into all that, the tale:

My best friend Galadrielle's mother Donna called me this morning and told me her friend Julie had a beautiful bottle of Arpège extrait with an atomizer, NIB (new in box). I went down to Julie's gorgeous store and was thrilled to buy it for less than a bottle of Kerastase shampoo.

Poking around the back, amid turn-of-the-century photo albums, weird lotions/potions, and vintage knick-knacks, I found — tucked in the corner of a wooden box — a micro-mini bottle of perfume still in its clear plastic container: Le Numéro Cinq de Molyneux.

I'd heard of Molyneux, but had never sniffed any of their perfumes. Excited to make a blind purchase and go down the inevitable research path, I paid for my Arpège and Le Numéro Cinq. I paid two dollars for this lovely thing, dear reader. Please don't hate me!

I couldn't wait to get home and try it, but the tiny gold lid was sealed onto the top, making it difficult to open. Galadrielle/McGyver wrapped a rubber band around it, giving it traction, and off it went. I grabbed it, dabbed the dark juice onto my wrists and took a whiff. Wowee! Cinq was fruity, spicy, vanilla-amber-warm and intensely beautiful.

Like any sleeping beauty awoken after a long slumber, Le Numéro Cinq was a little wobbly at the beginning. The top notes lurched out in an almost anisic/licorice-y screech, but just as quickly settled into the primary character of the perfume. (I'm guessing bergamot and aldehydes were top notes.) The rest (and this is just a guess) was: sweet, from fruit and florals, maybe plum and orange blossom or ylang-ylang; warm, perhaps from amber, benzoin/labdanum, vanilla and according to Luca Turin, iris/orris *) and spicy, (still guessing) from sandalwood, oakmoss, and patchouli or carnation.

Most places I look, Le Numéro Cinq is categorized as a floral fruit chypre, but Luca Turin in an old blog post calls it "the only example I know of an iris Oriental." Some perfumes straddle category lines, but in its heavy spicy sweetness, LNC does seem to fit the Oriental category better. It is beautiful and come-hither in a very unsubtle way, and has nothing of a chypre's reserve and good manners. (Think, Tabu, but on a particularly drunk and amorous night!) This is definitely a "come up and see me sometime" perfume.

Stewed fruit and indolic flowers rest on a vanillic and ambery-spicy base kissed with orris. This is Chanel No. 5's darker, more complex cousin — the one who went to art school while Chanel No. 5 went to finishing school. Louche Winona to perfect Gwyneth.

I mention Chanel No. 5 only because Le Numéro Cinq is often called "the other number 5." Lore has it that Edward Molyneux (1891 - 1974), an English fashion designer who started the Molyneux couture house in Paris, made a pact with Coco Chanel in 1921 to make a "Number 5" perfume. As both perfumes launched, so the story goes, they would see which one became more successful. (The other explanation of their similar names comes from Nigel Groom in The Perfume Handbook. Groom says that Molyneux named his perfumes after Molyneux's different addresses: 3, 14 and 5.)

Whichever story is correct, we all know which perfume became successful, and which one had to change its name. Le Numéro 5 became Le Parfum Connu ("the known perfume"), languished in obscurity (ironically enough, given the re-name), and was discontinued in the late '60s or early '70s. * *

Finds like this one keep my perfume lust alive. Not only did this tiny bottle hold an amazing fragrance, surprisingly intact and vibrant after 80-something years, it led me to a fascinating story. Magnificent.

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* About iris/orris: Here's an interesting link about it on Basenotes. Usually if iris is mentioned with respect to perfume, they are referring to the use of iris's dried and incredibly expensive roots: orris. Some common descriptors, as one commenter reminds us, are "violets, carrots, powder, and lipstick..."

Here's what OsMoz has to say about iris: "Native to the Far East, symbol of Mediterranean culture, iris has a 'powdery, green-woody, violet' scent. Iris absolute, also known as orris, is produced from the plant’s roots, or rhizomes. It is one of the most expensive products in the perfumer’s palette, so it is used in prestige perfumes only." And this "Iris's treasure is hidden away in its roots (or rhizomes), which need to reach at least three years of age before they are pulled up, stored and dried for another three years. The rhizomes can then be crushed and steam-distilled to produce a solid essential oil known as iris butter, which turns into iris essence after purification. This veritable olfactory treasure chest contains a significant quantity of irones, the substances responsible for iris’s woodsy, powdery aroma that is in such demand. Iris is luxury incarnate."

* * Here's Luca Turin's fascinating take on what it might mean if Le Numéro Cinq was in fact created in 1921: "Assuming the fragrance wasn’t changed, the uncertainty about its age then becomes as exciting as the discovery of an Egyptian mummy clutching an iPod. 1921 is when the first oriental, Coty’s Emeraude, came out. 1925 is the birth date of its famous successor Shalimar. If Molyneux’ 5 dates from 1921, perfume history needs to be rewritten. If it dates from 1925, then both it and Shalimar were copying Emeraude, and the question is: why did Molyneux’ line die out ? Maybe the joke backfired, and everything would have been different if Captain Molyneux had said 'Numéro Six.' "

* * * Photo from Le Savoire Faire blog.

Le Dix by Balenciaga (1947)

"Forgiveness is the scent the violet releases upon the heel that has crushed it." — Mark Twain *

Often described as Chanel No. 5 with violets, Le Dix ("The 10"), with its nose-tickling aldehydic sparkle and haunting violet note, holds its head up high among vintage perfumes, like a handsome older woman in a sturdy 1940s suit, hat, and full makeup standing in a sea of Forever 21-clad teenagers. She has to be proud; everyone is telling her she smells "powdery," "old," and "soapy."

Gaia from The Non-Blonde reminds us that  uber-feminine Le Dix came out in the same decade as the iconic leather chypres Bandit (1944) and Miss Dior (1947). Its initial impression of softness and conventional femininity is bound up with a perfume note that has perhaps always signified nostalgia and melancholy: violet.

As I wear Le Dix and let it settle on me, I understand why this is the first vintage violet scent I truly appreciate. It's faithful to the melancholy connotations of violet but adds gourmand richness to round it out and a spicy/woody backbone to give it some edge.

Top notes: Bergamot, lemon

Heart notes: Ylang-ylang, rose, lily of the valley, iris (definitely violet but not listed)

Base notes: Civet, musk, vanilla, sandalwood, and vetiver (Perfumer: Francis Fabron; notes from Notes on Shoes, Cake and Perfume)

As one commenter on Basenotes suggested, there might even be a burnt-caramel, snuffed candle-scented intensity thanks to nitro musks. (Due to the 60-odd years it took for this perfume to travel to me, the top notes were hard to recognize in the vintage sample Wendy from Notes on Shoes, Cake and Perfume so generously gave me .)

I can detect the authorial signature of Francis Fabron, the nose for one of my favorite vintage perfumes, Robert Piguet's Baghari, in the final stages of Le Dix's dry down. In Baghari's dry down, there is an absolutely heady and intoxicating richness (courtesy of boozy-creamy benzoin + vanilla) that makes make swoon. In Le Dix, the dry down is powdery and gentler in its creaminess, but still swoon-worthy. (Baghari and Le Dix have the following notes in common: aldehydes, bergamot, lemon; ylang-ylang, rose, lily of the valley; and vetiver, musk and vanilla.)

Le Dix's comforting impression of velvety violet and vanilla lingers on my skin even as I write this.

But Le Dix is not just a stuffy, smiling, powdery grandma who smells like a spiced Choward's* * candy. Like her 1940s perfume sisters, Le Dix has a past and some edge if you sit down with her long enough. In spite of its much-maligned note violet, which "radiates from the top note to the fond" as one writer put it, Le Dix takes this melancholy note and turns it into a stalwart, if conventionally feminine dame, like one of Vivien Leigh's characters or the troubled beauty herself. I'm not sure if I could wear this one, but I certainly can admire it. 

* This amazing quote from Mark Twain comes from the beautiful poetry and  perfume blog Memory & Desire. Specifically from her post on the violet note.

* * You can get Choward's violet candies here.

You can read some fun facts about violet here (violet blossoms are high in vitamin C; violets contain ionones which disable your ability to smell it unless you stop and return later; and it was a favorite note in the 19th century, etc.). And here's Edith Piaf, singing what I imagine is Le Dix's favorite song: Je Ne Regrette Rien.

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What Perfume Would You Wear on Your Birthday?

It's my birthday today, and my instinctive reaction was to grab vintage Bandit by Robert Piguet. I'm a Leo/Virgo cusp (Chinese sign: Rooster), and this tough lady perfume that can clear a room and cause migraines is just up my alley. Difficult beauty, this one is.

I'll be eatin' cupcakes and drinkin' Scotch at my favorite bar in San Francisco, the old speakeasy-turned-spectacle-shop-turned sanctuary for weirdos — Specs, in North Beach.

 What perfume would you grab and spritz on your birthday?

Ambre Cannelle by Creed (1949)

George W. Bush once declared that he didn't live in the fact-based community. Maybe he should have been a perfume marketer instead of the POTUS, because as a perfume maven, I can say that one of the most frustrating things about trying to learn about perfume is encountering how unreliable fragrance pyramids can be.

Perfumistas in the know say that fragrance pyramids are almost always partly fiction, the product of a marketer's fevered imagination. "Top notes: bergamot and orchid tears at midnight; heart notes: rose, jasmine, and the condensation from an angel's dying breath; base notes: musk, patchouli and crushed butterfly eyelashes." Um, ok...where do I get in line?!

Take Ambre Cannelle ("amber cinnamon"), Creed's animalic, spicy and warm-ambery-powdery perfume. Said to be Eva Peron's signature scent, it seems to elicit extreme "love it or hate it" reactions. (I love it. It's weird. It smells like a scarlet lady in the 40s would smell after a long night of skankin' it up, her good girl powdery amber perfume mixed in with perspiration and lust.) But those who hate it are in good company. Here's how Luca Turin dispatched with it: "Strikingly devoid of either amber or cinnamon, this is a cheap, skimpy oriental. A sort of dwarf Cinnabar. Smells like a household product." Ouch.

But here's my point: what exactly is in Ambre Cannelle? One of the reasons I sought it out — and one month ago sought out Creed's Angélique Encens — is that they're both supposed to have high concentrations of real ambergris. (Creed is one of a handful of perfumers who outright say, "There is real ambergris up in here.") Only some believe that their expensively-sourced, mostly nonsynthetic ingredients are what they say they are.

But as one Basenotes reader cunningly ferreted out, Creed's UK site and its US site list different notes! And as these other cranky Basenotes readers point out (bless their lunatic hearts), Creed, like everyone else, probably uses the synthetic ambergris Ambroxan, but justifies the $150 - $180 cost by citing the near-mythical ingredient ambergris. From Creed's UK site:

Top notes: Cinnamon leaves, juniper berry

Heart notes: Rose, cinnamon, bay leaves, coriander

Base notes: Ambergris, Tonkin musk

At first whiff, I was hit with skanky amber — something a little rude, civety and haunting. The powdery aspect, as well as the skanky quality, could be ambergris. Or it could be Ambrox. Whatever it is, it is heavenly. Fragrantica calls this a "floral fruity gourmand," which sounds so off to me. It's definitely in the oriental category. Haarman and Reimer would call it a spicy Oriental; I'll call it an animalic spicy oriental.

Although Turin says there's no cinnamon here, or amber, I smell something ambery, and there is something spicy and peppery. Perhaps "cinnamon leaf" is more prominent than cinnamon itself? The opening is medicinal/herbal/leafy, what with its juniper berry, coriander, and bay leaf. (Musc Ravageur's cinnamon, for example, is much more legible, gourmand and sweet than the cinnamon here, which seems more aromatic than sweet.)

In addition, there's so much confusion around what exactly amber is. If you're in the mood for reading a really great explanation of what amber is and isn't, check out Helg of Perfume Shrine's wonderful post on amber. The Clift's Notes version is that, first off, there is no such thing as an amber essential oil in the way there is a rose or jasmine, and amber in perfume has nothing to do with the fossilized amber that's used in jewelry.

Amber, Helg explains, is a fantasy accord, a "figure of speech." This fantasy accord is usually in the oriental category of perfume, and imparts a warm, soft, powdery, sometimes animalic quality to a perfume. Natural ingredients that exemplify this quality include ambrette seed and labdanum, and amber accords usually comprise labdanum + benzoin + styrax (or vanilla) or any of the following: tonka bean, Peru balsam, clove, cinnamon, sage, juniper, or olibanum.

I usually rely on the highly-respected Haarman & Reimer guide for my perfume pyramid notes, but in cases like Ambre Cannelle when I have to rely on what I can get, I just try to keep my reviews honest and describe what I'm smelling. I loved Creed's Angélique Encens, and I love Ambre Cannelle even more. If it's Ambroxan Creed is using instead of real ambergris, I almost don't care. I'm loving it enough that I keep going back to this line with the stuffy reputation.

Ambre Cannelle is comforting and disquieting, familiar and uncanny, old-fashioned and modern, if by modern I mean it smells animalic and daring like Serge Lutens' Muscs Kublai Khan, which AC reminds me of in its cuddly skankiness dosed with ambery notes. But then again, these niche scents are hearkening back to the past, so what's old is new again...

In the meantime, if you're interested, get yourself to a Creed counter soon. Something tells me Ambre Cannelle, like Angélique Encens, is on its way out. It's out of stock on Luckyscent.com and on both Creed UK and US sites. Ugh.

P.S. Thanks to Ramses at South Coast Plaza's Nordstrom for givin' me this nice sample of Ambre Cannelle!

P.P.S. Somehow, as a teen, I got my little mitts on Creed's lovely Zest Mandarine Pamplemousse, a very clean and fresh scent. How amusing that now, as an adult, I prefer Creed's skankier offerings. A sign of maturity, or regression? I wonder what Freud would say...

 

 

Sinan by Jean-Marc Sinan (1984)

I had a hard time finding much information on Sinan, a gorgeous spicy floral chypre. Like Alain Delon and Nico's doomed and beautiful son Ari, Sinan — the love-child of Coriandre and Paloma Picasso's Mon Parfum — must float in purgatory, its beauty the only solace for its obscurity.

Although it's not for everyone, Sinan has everything the adventurous chypre-lover would want: soul, depth, eroticism, and wearability with a whiff of the exotic.

Technically, perfumes in the Oriental category are amber-vanilla heavy and either spicy or sweet. Some spicy perfumes in the floral chypre category, however signify "Oriental" for me, if, to be Orientalist about it, we're talking "exotic" and evocative non-Western lands. The coriander, cardamom, patchouli, vetiver and moss in Sinan, shot through with angular green florals, is the olfactory equivalent of putting on a turquoise blue caftan and wearing big gold hoop earrings. (Think of brocaded silk, or LouLou de la Falaise during Yves Saint-Laurent's Orientalist phase.)

Top notes: Bergamot, green note, coriander, aldehydes, rosewood

Heart notes: Rose, geranium, lily of the valley, jasmine, orris, ylang-ylang, cardamom

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

Sinan starts off green and herby (galbanum, rosewood, coriander and bergamot are lifted up by aldehydes), and its coriander, although prominent, is dosed with a lighter hand than it is in Coriandre. That funky, dusky herb note links to radiant and fresh florals whose verdant freshness is underlined but muffled at the same time by the intense note of coriander. Geranium's piquancy, lily of the valley's green facet, ylang-ylang's sharp sweetness are all lightly cloaked with the musty damp herbaceous blanket that is coriander.

I have so many questions about Sinan, though. First off, who the heck is Jean-Marc Sinan, and where did he go? Also, could that bottle, with the half moon top, be any hotter?

If anyone knows information on this Jean-Marc character, let me know. Until then, I will continue to sniff my wrists for a whiff of this beauty.

(If you're interested in my far-fetched Sinan/Ari metaphor, check out the trailer below for Nico Icon, a great documentary about the beautiful and self-destructive German femme fatale chanteuse.)

Cristalle by Chanel (1974)

It is something of a revelation to revisit perfumes you once thought were simple after having some experience with "reading" perfume.

Take Cristalle. I used to think it was just a nice, crisp floral that was transparent like its name. Nothing more, nothing less. But its tart lemon, reserved florals, and velvety, sueded, mossy dry down gives it a subtle sophistication that belies its simplicity. After some time on my skin, it smells like the inside of a suede purse that someone spilled a citrusy perfume in. (Haarman & Reimer categorize it as a "fresh chypre.")

Top notes: Bergamot, Sicilian Lemon

Heart notes: Rosewood, hyacinth

Base notes: Oakmoss, vetiver

(Perfumer: Henri Robert)

I'm sure everyone says this, but Cristalle is a perfect summer scent, bursting with a green citrus at the beginning and settling down into something light but warm and spicy on your skin. It reminds me a lot of Diorella, but without the funky, garbagey fruit undertones; Cristalle is much dryer. Its vetiver gives it some olfactory texture, like scratched glass. In addition to oakmoss, the vetiver in Cristalle makes its dry down complex: woody, incensey, grassy.

You would think that a perfume as effervescent and crisp as Cristalle wouldn't be able to accrue associations or memories, but such is the nature of perfume that even the lightest perfumes, if worn at heavy times in one's life (in my case, early adolescence), may forever be weighed down or haunted by the past.

When I was in my awkward teens (13? 14?) a family friend in Paris who worked as a rep for Chanel got me Cristalle. Seems perfect for a teenage girl, right? Crisp, cheerful, chic-on-training-wheels. The only problem for me now is that as beautiful as I think Cristalle is, it feels slightly melancholy every time I wear it. Its crisp, almost neutral tone (emotionally) signifies a time in my life when I didn't know who I was, when I, too, was somehow neutral, yet to be written on.

But back to shop talk. Apparently, it's hard to find the eau de toilette Cristalle now (which I'm reviewing). In 1993, Jacques Polge created an eau de parfum Cristalle with heavier notes, including civet. (Here are the notes I found for it in my Haarman & Reimer guide: TOP: Bergamot, Lemon, Basil, Cumin, Hyacinth, Peach HEART: Jasmine, melon, narcissus, cyclamen, lily of the valley, tangerine BASE: oakmoss, musk, civet, patchouli, sandalwood). I can't speak to that formula, but many commenters elsewhere say it is very different from the superior original.

My melancholoy adolescent associations notwithstanding, Cristalle is an austere beauty. I'm wearing it anyway.

Vetiver by Hové Parfumeur (1931)

"Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

And miss it each night and day

I know I'm not wrong, the feeling's gettin' stronger

The longer I stay away..."

Tucked away on the 800 block of Royal Street in New Orleans' French Quarter, Hové Parfumeur has the faded flower charm of an aged Southern Belle. The shop, which resembles a Victorian drawing room with small glass cabinets of curiosity, sells women's and men's perfumes and fragrant bath products, with scents and names reminiscent of New Orleans.

Started in 1931 by Mrs. Alvin Hovey-King, a woman who learned perfumery from her French Creole mother, Hové is in its third location since its inception (all shops have been within blocks of each other in the French Quarter) and has been run for generations by family members. I've heard that Hové was one of the first shops in the Quarter that reopened after Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans. Of course people really needed food, water, and shelter, but it makes me happy to think that, in the spirit of New Orleans' decadent inclinations, perfume was one of the first things you could get again in the Quarter (along with a stiff shot of Bourbon, no doubt).

Although Vetiver is categorized as a men's cologne, it's my favorite Hové scent. Hové's perfumes for women boast some of the best names I've ever encountered, each one a Film Noir or romance novel waiting to happen — Mantrap, A Kiss in the Dark, and Rue Royale come to mind — but they're often a little too sultry-sweet for my tastes. Tea Olive is probably their most famous fragrance, and, like Hové's other women's scents, it has a reassuring vintage feel to it, comforting and even simple.

Direct as Hové's Vetivert may be, simple it is not. It has what the more composed, dressed-up vetivert perfumes I love (Guerlain and Prada's newest, for example) do not: it smells wild. Lemony, hay-like and grassy, with the bright herbiness of verbena, a whiff of licorice that could come from tarragon or maybe even sassafras, Vetiver evolves into something dusty, incensey, and peppery. It is as interesting as a niche perfume, its frayed edges an unselfconscious artifact of its source note. It would bloom anew on your skin in New Orleans heat, the Vetiver's dry roots reconsituted by the wearer's endless supply of perspiration.

Its lovely nose-tickling incense effect reminds me of Bulgari Au Thé Vert's smoky green tea accord. (Au Thé Vert also has a vetivert note.) Its dry down is alternately bright and dusky/musty/musky, "fresh" like high quality tea or the smell of dried Kaffir leaves, the limey herb used to scent Thai soup, among other things. (I wish I could provide you with the perfume's actual notes, but a rep for Hové, in what I think is misguided secrecy, told me they won't share their perfumes' notes for fear their formulas will be duplicated.)

In the copy written on the back of Hové's Vetiver soap box, we're told that the word Vetivert comes from the East Indian "Vettiveru" which means "root that is dug up." We're also informed that no fashionable Creole home's drawers or closets was ever without this lovely grass/root, which was associated with Creole aristocracy.

I am writing this review of Hové's Vetivert not from New Orleans — where I spent six wonderful and self-indulgent months writing about perfume, biking all over the city, eating shrimp Po Boys and fried chicken, and drinking up a storm with my new (and life-long) pals — but rather from Orange County in California, a temporary pit stop before I get back (hopefully) to the place that really feels like home.

There are so many ways to carry New Orleans with you wherever you go, and I don't scoff at tourists with their Café du Monde beignet mixes or their Mardi Gras beads in July. No matter what wonderful cities they're from, there's just no place like New Orleans; no wonder they want to take a little bit of it (even if it's corny) back with them.

My friend Elizabeth told me a great story about a little game her friend Birgid plays to ensure she returns to New Orleans on a regular basis. Before she leaves New Orleans, she always buys a bar of Hové's Vetivert soap to take home with her, and when it's whittled down to nothing, it's her reminder to book another flight to NOLA. Nevermind that they have an online store...

You can get a dram of Vetivert for the ridiculously cheap price of $19, and the soap is $7 a bar. (A dram is the unit of apothecary weight equal to 1/8 of a fluid ounce.) If you're really interested, you can even get three bundles of Louisiana-grown vetiver for $10: "Its thin feeder roots are clipped off every two years, washed and dried in the sun and used to scent and deter moths in armoires, closets and bed linens." 

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans? Well, one way to miss it and remember it all at once is to put on the wild and beautiful Vetiver from Hové.

"...Miss the moss covered vines, the tall sugar pines

Where mockin' birds used to sing

And I'd like to see that lazy Mississippi, hurryin' into spring...

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

When that's where you left your heart

And there's something more, I miss the one I care for

More than I miss New Orleans..."

 

 

 For anyone reading this as of June, 2011 — I'M BAAAAAAACK!