Another One Bites the Dust: Fendi Palazzo

I'm having trouble figuring out why it's so hard to find much on the perfume blogs about Fendi Palazzo. I suppose it will be even harder now that the fragrance has been discontinued. Where it is mentioned, more often than not, the reviewer seems resolutely unimpressed with the juice, however high the marks for the bottle. Interestingly, that bottle seems the height of overkill to me, like the coat worn by a woman I saw pumping gas today: floor length velour, a bold print of recurring tiger heads, sparkling cut glass "jewels" for eyes. The bottle for Palazzo strikes me as something someone who pronounces Versace incorrectly might adore all out of proportion. I don't reget its discontinuation. The fragrance itself I'll have a hard time doing without.

On Basenotes they're downright merciless about Palazzo; on Makeupalley.com, a little less theatrically dismissive. The chief complaint seems to be what many of its detractors perceive as a striking similarity to Angel. I smell no such similarity. To me, Palazzo shares more in common with Karma by Lush. It has the bold assertiveness of Angel, along with its odd juxtaposition of off-center elements, and of course, being an Annick Menardo fragrance, it feels foody, all of which might be why people reach for that comparison. Then too, the patchouli is right up front. But for me it's as if Menardo refined and elevated Karma's appeal. There's absolutely a bit of the head shop to Palazzo: some incense, an ambience which comes off like smoke or resin. There's also a strange, citrus brightness there, albeit buried so deeply underneath the surface that it registers almost subliminally.

Palazzo is related to Menardo's Lolita Lempicka, as well, and in fact feels like a simultaneously muted and amped up version of that juice, where the sense of sugary saturation is adjusted to more tolerable levels. Palazzo subtracts Lolita's vanilla ad-infinitum foundation, replacing it with patchouli and gaic wood. Both fragrances have similar notes up top and in the middle. Down below they go their separate ways. I admire Lolita and even owned a small bottle for a time, until I faced the fact that it wasn't something I was going to get much if any wear out of and gifted it to someone else. It was something I wanted to like and wished I could wear, but it made me feel silly somehow, like I'd baked something in my easy bake oven and decided to smear it all over myself. Palazzo wears a more serious expression. It feels a little more sophisticated and I get a lot more mileage out of it.

And why not? There's a lot to like. It last forever, projects exceptionally, and though I seem to be anosmic to most musky scents, this one keeps reasserting itself throughout its lifespan. Palazzo is a friend whose merits I try to point out to the rest of my crowd, without much luck. More for me, as they say--while supplies last, anyway. Sephora, which has pulled Palazzo from its shelves in all but gift set form (packaged with shower gel), classifies it as a woody oriental. Osmoz regards it as "floral - woody musk" and, in addition to patchouli and gaic wood, lists the following notes: mandarin orange, lemon, bergamot, pink pepper, orange blossom, rose, and jasmine. I should also say that I see similarities between Palazzo and Burberry Brit Gold, though again, Palazzo manages to be everything I wish that other fragrance would be.

Balmain Ambre Gris: A Review

Balmain Ambre Gris recently launched in March 2008. The nose behind the fragrance is Guillaume Flavigny. The notes are described as: myrrh, cinnamon, pink pepper, immortal flower, benzoin, tuberose and ambergris.

I know, I know…Balmain must have been required by law to include pink pepper since it’s the trendy note of 2007-08. I was amused by “immortal flower” since I’ve never heard of it before and it sounds imaginary to me. A quick google search didn’t shed any light on immortal flower so I’m guessing it’s a fantasy note.

The perfume itself is very sweet. It’s described by Balmain as a “woodsy-animalic-oriental” and with the mention of ambergris I was not expecting something so über-sweet. When I read the list of notes I anticipated something along the lines of Hermes Eau des Merveilles. Ambre Gris doesn’t bear any resemblance to Eau des Merveilles to me. I definitely smell a rubbery tuberose in Ambre Gris along with soft spices like cinnamon & myrrh. I would categorize Ambre Gris as closer to a gourmand rather than a woodsy-oriental. There might be some woody notes in there but you really have to go sniffing for them. Overall, what I smell is a “sweet, rubbery, chocolately tuberose with soft spices.” This is not so say Ambre Gris isn’t a nice fragrance. Even though it’s sweet, it has its merits. I think I was merely put off by Balmain’s description of the fragrance, which just isn’t accurate to me. If I had been prepared for what I smelled I might have liked it more.

It strikes me as the sort of fragrance that someone who likes Lolita Lempicka (though not fruity like LL), Trouble by Boucheron or Dior’s Hypnotic Poison might like. I think Balmain Ambre Gris is nice, especially if you are expecting a sweet floral-gourmand and not a “woodsy-animalic-oriental.”

The bottle is charming in person – I’d call it handsome. I worried the top might look like a golf ball or perhaps Epcot center but sitting atop the classy cube-shaped bottle it simply works.

I just bought Balmain Ambre Gris for $24.95 from www.parfum1.com. At this price, I’m perfectly happy with the fragrance and I’ll surely give it a go during the cooler months.
Lasting power: Excellent ~ 5-6 hours.
Sillage: Medium ~ if you’re a heavy spritzer others will smell it.
PS: I sprayed this on my friend and it smells much more woodsy on him. It still smells entirely sweet on me but I can smell the woodsy quality along with salt on him. Huh....

An Open Letter to Annick Menardo

Dear Ms. Menardo,

If you only knew how much time I spend walking around in your head-space—and I don’t even know how to pronounce your last name! What’s the etymology? I haven’t been able to find much out about you online. In the only photos I’ve seen, your face is covered by a handkerchief. I’m guessing the handkerchief is soaked in perfume, and you couldn’t stop working long enough to take a picture. You’re a busy woman. It isn’t just that you’ve worked on many perfumes—though I know you have—but the level of quality you strive to maintain. Body Kouros, Hypnotic Poison, Xeryus Rouge, Roma Uomo, Bulgari Black, Lolita Lempicka (man and woman), Boss Hugo Boss, Hypnose. Stop me anytime here. Aside from Roma, I can’t think of a Menardo scent which lacks in persistence and diffusion. I picture you in your lab with hands so busily mixing and shaking and sniffing and decanting that you appear, like Kali, to have many arms, all moving simultaneously, with superhuman agility and precision.

You were born in Cannes and wanted to be a psychiatrist. I don’t know what Cannes says about you but your interest in psychology makes perfect sense to me. Emotional propositions, your fragrances elicit potent feelings. Impossible to stand in front of a Van Gogh without being moved back or forth in time along some visceral emotional spectrum—and so it is with a Menardo. When I first smelled Bulgari Black, I didn’t know what to think. I’d smelled everything I thought I could possibly be interested in. I was such an authority, couldn’t be bothered with the idea of surprise. I knew what I liked, I had my list, I’d tried everything. I was on my way out of the store, but I’m greedy: one more fragrance, one last whiff before I go. Imagine my surprise. Black stopped me dead in my tracks—because, quite frankly, rubber? I mean, really; you must be joking. “Black is New York, Berlin, Hong Kong or Tokyo and its smoking sidewalks, its concrete buildings and its steel bridges.” Well, okay. If they say so. To me it came out of nowhere—not black tea, not leather but a great big miasmal accord of the uncanny, something out of Ambrose Bierce, the word for which might have been in The Devil’s Dictionary had it not taken up too many pages to get across. What is Black, if not a head trip?

After this I tracked down the others. Lempicka au Masculine is comfort food, recalling the sweet, doughy dishes a mother who loved you might have served. Xeryus Rouge: a spicy something or other from the proverbial Orient, hot to the touch. In the osmoz of my mind, Body Kouros is classified as Camphoraceous-Gourmand. The day I bought Hypnotic Poison, I wore it to a friend’s house. Here is my report: not two steps through the door I was asked what that wonderful smell was. Another convert; another comrade. Were your ears buzzing? If so, they must frequently. And yet very few of your juices, with the exception of Lolita Women, seems to have struck a popular chord. No small surprise, perhaps, given the kind of copy written to sell them. “The mauve color is symbolic of faeries,” someone wrote of the Lolita Lempicka au Masculine bottle. Is it any wonder men didn’t flock to the shelves in great prancing droves, their toes all a-twinkle? Only Black seems to have been packaged and marketed with the right tone of top-down design—and that, I suspect, by happy accident.

For this and other reasons you’re a cult figure, the David Lynch of perfumery. Black is your Blue Velvet, Hypnotic Poison your Mullholland Drive. Like Lynch you are an enigma. Now that I think of it, perhaps your face is covered with the handkerchief by decree. Ludicrously, we’re meant to believe Lolita herself waved her magic wand and—poof! Those little glass apple bottles sprouted from trees. The public, somewhat unconsciously, imagines Yves Saint Laurent in your place, mixing Body Kouros up by trial and error in his velvet-upholstered lab. Dior had a bright idea one day; in a trance, he saw red, then Hypnotic Poison. And so on. Perfumers are kept in the shadows, remaining spectral figures to most, so that very few would ever make the connection between Xeryus Rouge and Roma Uomo, unless it turned out that Laura Biagotti and Givenchy had engaged in a torrid, uber-secret affair. It’s as if The Met had scattered its Van Goghs all throughout the gallery, removing anything indicating who’d painted them. Would someone who'd never been exposed to his art before realize that the sunflower in the vase had been cut from those in the field? Cult figures are great—for those who love them—but it’s nice to be recognized at large. It’s nice to know where the sunflower came from, so you can keep going back for more.

I’m writing to tell you about my plans to start the Annick Menardo fan club, membership of which will include monthly newsletters and bi-weekly sniff-a-thons. Every January, we’ll coalesce en masse at a Holiday Inn somewhere in Iowa or Georgia or Maine, attending panel discussions with names like “Whence came that dreamy, signature vanillic dry down?” “Is Black to Goth as Robert Smith of the Cure is to liquid eyeliner?” “What to do with yourself, should Body Kouros go the way of Havana.” I’ll be the moderator, switchboard operator, and benevolent head of the membership drive. I’ll be your tireless advocate. Barack Obama will thank you for your contribution to world peace in his inaugural address. I'm on it. Like you I’ll keep my arms moving. I’m thoroughly committed to the idea, Ms. Menardo—but we’ll need a clearer picture.

As ever,

Your devoted fan.