Category Archives: Cologne

Early November is a tricky time for fragrance. The first flush of fall excitement, when I get all spicy and incense-like, has passed (Tom Ford’s ‘Amber Absolute‘ and ‘Vert D’Encens‘), but we are not quite to the point where I want to indulge in the sumptuous and rich sandalwood favorites I use around the holidays (‘Santal Blush‘ and ‘Absolutely Vital‘). What are we to do when searching for a fill-in fragrance to carry us into Thanksgiving? Look to Jo Malone.

While much of this line is too light for me, and, in a way, too light for fall, ‘English Oak & Redcurrant’ has proven remarkably durable when sprayed generously. The oak was what first attracted me to it at this time of the year. Oak leaves are currently dominating the wind and raking season, and the subtle yet infinite shades of cinnamon and bark they produce are a beautiful way to transition us into the more muted tones of colder days to come. The earthiness of the oak tempers the sweetness of the redcurrant, even if the latter leans toward tart. Malone is masterful at these fragrance mash-ups, and in her capable hands they’re more like marriages. (For sunnier days, try her basil and neroli coupling – it’s exquisite, even if it doesn’t last.) This one has decent longevity when compared with the rest of her offerings, and it’s a pleasant reminder to myself that I do like the fresh and fruity on occasion. If you’re looking for a brighter scent to set this fall aglow, give ‘English Oak & Redcurrant’ a try.

Celebrity fragrances are a dicey bunch. For every exquisite ‘Truth or Dare: Nake’ by Madonna there are five silly bottles of candy water by Britney Spears. Most famous folk just seem to be in it for the money, their eyes turning all shades of violet in the hope of tapping into the cash-creating legacy of Elizabeth Taylor. Every once in a while, however, someone comes along who puts a little more time and care and research into what the world will forever associate with them, and Sarah Jessica Parker has done just that with her successful beauty line.

I was impressed by the way Ms. Parker came off in ‘The Perfect Scent’, Chandler Burr’s telling of the creation of two new perfumes. She was making her debut fragrance ‘Lovely’ and it sounds like ‘Stash’ was her original, albeit slightly too dark and out-of-the-box for the masses, attempt at what she actually wanted to produce. Thankfully, ‘Lovely’ became a smash and ‘Stash’ came along a few years later for those of us whose tastes veer a little dirtier.

Its triumvirate of top notes includes two of my favorites: grapefruit and black pepper, with some sage thrown in for good measure. After they dissipate a more resonant collection of notes comes through: cedar, patchouli, ginger lily and pistachio combine to give it the woody heart that pulls the perfume to a more traditionally-masculine space. It doesn’t quite stay there, however, as the dry down becomes something exquisitely beautiful and unisex – with the sweet and pungent base notes of olibanum, vetiver, musk and Massoia wood. On me, this turns into a rich sandalwood, which also happens to be my go-to for holiday scents (think Tom Ford’s ‘Santal Blush’ and Diana Vreeland’s ‘Absolutely Vital’). It comes into its own during the fall season, when its smoky edge can ease into the coziness of the cooler nights.

This not-quite-linear journey makes ‘Stash’ an impressive addition to the wildly popular SJP Beauty line, and it’s rare to find such gorgeous complexity at an affordable price point. If you find that it doesn’t linger as much as you’d like, there are supplemental items such as the hair mist and body oil to bolster the effect. Personally, I enjoy its lighter touch, especially in the office or during the crisp early days of fall descending.

It’s strange: some of my most fun cologne memories have to do with my friend Chris, who doesn’t even wear the stuff. The first two happened in the summer he first lived in San Francisco. He was part of some do-good mission that I never quite understood (Greenlining perhaps? Or was that Suzie? I don’t know… I understood as much about their jobs as they do about mine. Our friendships are such that work talk is gloriously omitted.) On that first visit to San Francisco, I decided to save some money and stay with Chris at his co-op, which was a mistake even in my early twenties. The long line of fraternities leading up to his place culminated in the shabby worse-for-wear building that housed his little room. The skunky smell of pot pervaded the entire place. Not that I minded in the least – I was more repelled by the unkempt nature of the surroundings, including its denizens, and the screeching that accompanied their mid-day fucking or murder scene – we could never be sure which it was.

Luckily, we didn’t spend much time in that space. I wanted to see the city, not some ramshackle pot-house near Berkeley. Chris left early the next day for work, while I slept in a bit until the noises of a strange place rustled me into alertness. I boarded the BART and made my way to Union Square. Chris had some more work to do and would meet up for cocktails and dinner later that afternoon. Now that I was back in civilization, and on firmer footing in familiar retail territory, I could find my own way.

Summer in San Francisco is usually cooler and more pleasant than summer in New York. Still, the days held their sun and their heat, and every city seems to store up its own inferno within the sidewalks and streets of cement and stone. On that afternoon, I went shop to air-conditioned shop, trying out clothing and shoes, both escaping from and celebrating the summer that was at hand.

A window display of ties and underwear drew me into Macy’s – a daunting department store for the uninitiated – a playground for me. I found three ties on a huge sale, and they hang in my closet to this very day, favorites for their style as much as for the memory they evoke.

Passing by the cologne counter, I was taken in by a new Issey Miyake’s Summer fragrance – big on citrus, and light and refreshing in every way. It was an antidote to the heavy patchouli and pot combination that weighed down the heat of a summer day in San Francisco. I tried some on and immediately fell in love. It was housed in a tall, slim container of green glass, and in those vintage days of being able to bring liquids in your carry-on I purchased a bottle. I wore it for the rest of the trip, including that afternoon’s meet-up with Chris in the Union Square Fairmont.

Prior to its renovation, the hotel lobby was a sky-high-ceilinged affair of rich woods and ornate furniture. With its high windows and sprawling scale, it was a magnificent room which would, we discovered years later, be sinfully renovated into a ghost of its former self. Back then, it was a beauty, and the perfect backdrop for a meeting of relatively new friends. Though we had gone to Puerto Rico together, I still didn’t really know Chris yet. But on that day, over a margarita and a Midori sour (don’t judge our younger selves) we forged the first bonds of a friendship that would inform and embolden the rest of our lives.

We sat in that magnificent room, looking out at the city and ruminating on all that two guys in their early-twenties could ruminate on, and in between the laughter and contemplation, the stories shared and learned, we found a certain solace there.

We meandered around Union Square in slightly tipsy fashion before finding a place for dinner, and just being in the company of a straight guy who accepted me for who I was cemented the happiness of that moment. It also gave me a sense of self-worth in ways that my own family couldn’t supply. It wasn’t that they ever maliciously withheld that, they just didn’t know how. For being there when others weren’t, Chris became a surrogate brother to me; I will always be grateful for that.

I would return to San Francisco a few weeks later, to close out that summer in surprise fashion, and on that trip a more light-hearted and frivolous cologne memory was made. A few blocks away from where Chris worked was a Ross store – and if you have the pleasure of not knowing what that kind of retail abomination is, consider yourself blessed. Think of it as a cross between Kmart, Walmart and Marshall’s, with a dash of the worst of Burlington Coat Factory thrown in for bad measure. I don’t know what brought us into the store, but I’m willing to bet it was Chris. We didn’t make it far. I stopped us at the entry cologne counter, where the saddest selection of Curve and Cool Water assembled in discounted dourness. After seeing that, I was done, but Chris was entranced by the young woman behind the counter, and in true, dedicated wing-man form, I stepped up and started sampling colognes. For the most part, I’m the shy guy, especially when compared to Chris, who will talk to any and everyone except the lady who catches his eye. At such times I have to be the one who initiates and keeps the conversation going, which is what I did on this day.

We had a quick side conversation and he told me to just buy something so they could keep talking. I balked slightly, but he was adamant, and in a moment of sheer stupidity/loyalty, I asked her for a small bottle of Cool Water – the absolute least of the evils on hand, considering their featured line of Brut – and quickly purchased it before anyone could see. (My only hope is that the gods of fine fragrance know my heart and realize, in my mortification, how sorry I am. In my defense, I never wore any of it.)

The funniest part in all this was how quickly we moved from insult to injury: Chris never took the next step to get the woman’s phone number. I stood in the doorway of a Ross’s ‘Dress For Less’ store with a goddamn bottle of Cool Water in my bag, and nothing to show for it but a fruitless exercise of embarrassment and shame, and a hilarious memory that we quickly added to the ever-growing bank of such hindsightful joys.

I’ll save our third fragrance memory – a smoky, peppery scent found in the fall at the Standard – for a more seasonally appropriate time… For now, I’m basking in the glow of Issey Miyake’s ‘Yuzu’ scent – an updated version of that long-ago summer scent from San Francisco – and smiling at the way we used to be.

Tom Ford has gotten better about providing some lighter fragrance fare for the summer months (Neroli Portofino, Mandarino di Amalfi, Costa Azzurra, Venetian Bergamot), but at his price points they still feel heavier than most scents out there, designed for a special occasion, not a half-day at the office before cocktails by the pool. Not that Frederic Malle’s line is any cheaper, but they’re often less intense, and a softer feel for summer is just what I was seeking when I stumbled into Barney’s with Andy for our anniversary weekend.

I’d been reading raves about Dominique Ropion’s ‘Cologne Indelebile’ and its lasting power, which for a neroli-based scent is a striking aspect, worthy of note. It announces its name definitively, without asking or requesting, content to state itself without any other option for dispute. Yet it does so in the most elegant and refined manner, not flopping excessively about with its sweetness, or departing after one whiff. Its neroli notes are reminiscent of any number of similarly-themed scents, but this has a surprisingly long life on my skin (consider it the powerhouse version of Tom Ford’s Neroli Portofino, with a more masculine slant).

Don’t ask me why I paired the packaging with a peony for these photos, other than the simple fact that I loved the pink juxtaposed beside the fiery orange. I suppose in certain peonies there is a hint of tea and spice, just as there is the slightest hint of such elements in the Cologne Indelebile, so perhaps they are bound together in ways not initially or outwardly detectable after all. Everything happens for a reason. There are no accidents.

For the summer of 2018, this is an auspicious beginning, and a signature scent that recalls summers past with anticipation and citrus vibrations of what’s yet to come. A nod to the before and after.

A crisp white shirt hangs on the door. A black leather belt lies coiled on the counter. A shelf lined with Tom Ford Private Blends tempts the eye and nose. Frederic Malle and Jean Claude Ellena are there too. The fragrances of a gentleman, refined and elegant, co-mingle in pleasant camaraderie. Remembering the fragrance counter at Barneys, when the collective scent of the store and all its olfactory offerings struck a resplendent chord of harmony but could not be narrowed down to a single source specimen, he smiles at what the years of procuring cologne have created: a personally-curated collection of scents.

He opens the glass door and carefully procures the bottle of ‘Bois D’Orage’. He brings the bottle to his nose and inhales, confirming the selection. Two quick sprays over his chest, where he will be the one to smell it the most. Some put it on their wrist or other pulse points. He keeps it closer to his heart; the accessory of fragrance has never been applied in the service of anyone other than himself.

Outside, dawn’s soft sky, echoed by some ridiculous late-season snow, lends a cool blue tone to the little square of light, buffered by a soft white shade. The bare branches of a dogwood allow a mostly unfettered view of the backyard. A late-to-arrive winter left most of the tan papery leaves of a Japanese maple intact and hanging onto their perches. The ruminations of a morning. The ablutions of a gentleman.

He tugs his sleeves and folds the French cuffs into place. A shiny new pair of cufflinks catches the light – silver crowns in facetious, fabulous fashion. He threads them through the slits then adjusts the sleeves as gentlemen have been fussing for ages. Sliding into a glen plaid jacket, he pulls the sleeves out just enough to peek through the edge. A gentleman hints. A gentleman whispers. A gentleman holds his cards close to his chest.

Ladies with an attitude, fellows that were in the mood…

Stepping outside, a Prada bag slung over his shoulder, he inhales. Beyond the ‘Bois D’Orage’, a hint of spring rides on the breeze. No smile betrays his hope, and no one sees behind his Tom Ford aviators. He ducks into the waiting car and is whisked away.

Strike a pose, there’s nothing to it.

Nothing says spring like a new fragrance for the cologne cabinet. Since we’ve had a chilly start of it, this warm and woodsy offering By Kilian – rather unfortunately named ‘Straight to Heaven’ – is the latest addition to my addiction, where it fittingly bridges the transition between winter and spring. The first time I encountered this exquisite gem was in New York several years ago. My Mom and I had just come out of the Plaza and were about to head back to our decidedly-less-fancy hotel when the windows of Bergdorf Goodman and their Men’s Shop called to me. We stepped gingerly through the revolving door and the relative calm was an immediate balm from the bustling street. To the right, a curved wooden and glass display case housed part of their colognes.

I stopped first at the Tom Ford section, quickly assessing that there were no new Private Blends in evidence, and fished around for some news on what might be coming next. Nothing. I crossed over to another counter where a pushy but fabulous salesperson was spraying a multitude of sample cards and intoning me to try them out. At the time I was new to the oud game, but I told her I liked things on the woodsy side, though also partial to citrus and some element of sandalwood. She showed me a new oud By Kilian, which was nice, and then, almost as an afterthought, sprayed a thick white card with their signature scent, ‘Straight to Heaven’. As repellent as the name was, the scent itself was divine. Reluctantly, I admitted I loved it, but at about $300 it wasn’t in my financial vocabulary. Not then, anyway. I pocketed the card and we made our way back out to the sidewalk. Ever since that fateful day in May I’ve thought fondly of the scent, and that moment, and the promise of spring, and it’s remained in my memory.

Having haunted me for all this time, the scent has remained elusive due to my own design. I’ve resisted procuring samples because I didn’t want to alter the memory in the event that I one day did find a way to purchase a bottle. Fragrance is a powerful memory trigger, far more effective than song or sight. I did some reading up on ‘Straight to Heaven’. (When things are out of reach, financially or otherwise, I find solace in researching and reading about them.) A rum-based spicy member of the woody family, the literature attributed its complexity to patchouli, dried fruits and nutmeg, along with notes of musk, cedar, amber and vanilla. Once again, something that sounded hideous on paper (more like a recipe for a dish I would never make) turned into something wondrous when it reached the skin.

When Sephora finally featured it on their website, I quickly dug out the gift certificate that Andy had presented on Valentine’s Day and used it to pay for a portion of a bottle. I’ve been in need of a fragrant jolt, something special to kick off a spring season that seems determined to stay on the snowy side of things. ‘Straight to Heaven’ bridges that gap beautifully. It opens with the aforementioned blast of rum, and all the other ingredients conspire to make an initially-questionable cacophony of sensation. One is unsure whether to sniff, feast, swallow or run from the thing. Relax and let it play out, or get riled up and upset because the relief and the dry-down will be even better; there’s a reason the bitter is designed to go with the sweet.

I’d forgotten how powerful the opening was, as well as how quickly it dissipated, so I went with the roller coaster until it evened out. And then it was absolute heaven. Maybe the name wasn’t so silly after all. A sophisticated woody scent soon emerges, with just enough spicy sweetness to balance the dry heart of the cedar. The fragrance remained semi-prominent for only about five hours, slightly disappointing given the enormous price point, but this is a scent designed for intimacy, not screaming and shouting. It pounds on the door and arrives in an over-the-top party outfit, but then wants nothing more than to sit in a quiet corner and be worshipped by the few super-select deemed worthy.

In other words, it’s a scent after my own heart.

“What is most intimate is what will speak to others. Perfumers build the labyrinth in which we lose ourselves out of all those secret harmonies and connections. They bring out its beauty: reinvent it so that it can be felt by all.” – Denyse Beaulieu, ‘The Perfume Lover’

Tom Ford gets all the flashy olfactory glory in these parts, but his scents aren’t always the most user-friendly. That’s partly why I like them. They are not meant for everyday use (nor are their price points). For everyday office wear, I prefer something softer and more subtle, something less garish and out-there. That something should retain an elegance and refinement as befits a person struggling to maintain some sort of nobility and style in a world of Axe body spray and Cool Water.

The House of Hermès had a genius run when it employed Jean-Claude Ellena as its fragrance-maker. Mssr. Ellena crafted the exquisite ‘L’Eau d’Hiver’ which is an understated classic for Frederic Malle. Yet it was his work for Hermès that truly struck a chord with me. Under his tenure they produced some wonderful scents, such as the gorgeous Jardin series featuring garden-inspired fragrances from around the world. I recently discovered that he was also the person behind my latest acquisition – Voyage d’Hermès.

In the past few years, on the hunt for the ever-elusive niche scent that no one else around me had, I’ve veered into pricey territory, giving Andy and my parents undue financial stress when it came to Christmas and birthdays. Along with those heftier price tags came heftier fragrances – if you’re going to drop $310 on a small bottle of Eau de parfum, it damn well better project, slaying with sillage and leaving no doubt who was coming and going. That is all very well for special events and memory-making moments. For the long stretches of in-between time, however, someone like Mssr. Ellena handily beats the heavy hand of Tom Ford. Perfect for the office or family gathering where one wants to be distinguished but not glaring, Voyage d’Hermès is a quietly sophisticated addition to the fragrance arsenal.

A frigid lucidity greets the New Year. The clarity and clean slate demand something fresh and pure. The heaviness of the holidays now behind us, we are free to move beyond the excess and seek out something simpler. To that end, I’m trying out a classic Frederic Malle fragrance, ‘Geranium Pour Monsieur’. Created by Dominique Ropion, this is at first glance a spring or summer fragrance, but as I occasionally do with some citrus scents, I find winter a perfect time in which to wear it. We need something to break up the claustrophobic weight of the moment. There are more than enough weeks to surrender to the smoky, heavy warm scents of winter; some days you need something to break it all up.

Piercing the cold like a sliver of sunlight through an icicle, the bright notes of ‘Geranium Pour Monsieur’ are a welcome distraction. With a heady dose of its namesake grounding the whole experience, the fragrance also pulls in mint, rhodinol, aniseed and assorted spices to give it just a hint of warmth. It’s as light and breezy as it sounds, which means it’s not the longest-lasting out there, but a mid-day reapplication never hurt anyone. Such freshness is not long for such a brutal season anyway, but this is an instant antidote for the winter doldrums, when your olfactory senses are ripe for a surprising twist.

For me, fragrance is usually reliant upon seasonal influences. This is one of those rule-breakers that can find a place for itself in any season, not unlike Tom Ford’s ‘Oud Wood’ or the exquisite ‘Eau de gentiane blanche’ by Hermes. It depends on the mood and the whim of the wearer ~ a dangerous aspect for most of the time, but here it works.