Dressing the Part: What a Dandy Wears

When I first heard about my friend's twin brothers and their obsession with dressing themselves like something out of a Bond film, I asked her whether they wear cologne. I couldn't imagine spending that much thought and time crafting a public persona without scent being a crucial component of your wardrobe.

She said she wasn't sure, so before I headed over to film them, I packed up some of the cologne on hand I thought I might be able to convince them to wear - Hermes Terre d'Hermes, Gucci Pour Homme (2003, natch), Gucci Envy, and Divine L'etre Aime Homme.

There was so much I wanted to bring but doubted I'd get them to try. What could be better for a self-professed, pink-panted dandy than Penhaligon's Sartorial, Caron's Third Man, Yves Saint Laurent's Rive Gauche Pour Homme, or any number of classic man of discerning taste fragrances that come to mind? I'm not about to throw a bottle of Amouage Gold at just anybody.

My subjects, clearly, aren't just anybody. A lot of eighteen year-old guys are obsessed with the way they look. A lot of them spend much of their time and money on clothes. I don't think I've ever met a guy their age whose sartorial interests reference Marshall and Parker's primary influences, let alone one who shares their disregard for the kind of gender inhibitions that keep most men far away from the color pink. It's just as rare in my experience to meet someone their age who isn't afraid to take something seriously and wear it on his sleeve. Fingers crossed they get the scent bug, too. Nothing makes me happier than the thought of someone their age dressed as well as they do, wafting around on the scent of good cologne.

Eye of the Needle: Sartorial

I'm not starved for blessings, but I don't tend to hit the jackpot very often, so I was really excited to win the latest Penhaligon's fragrance in a draw conducted by Indieperfumes.

I haven't been the most ardent fan of Bertrand Duchaufour, Sartorial's creator. Like Jean-Caude Ellena, he works within an artistic vein I can appreciate but find hard to enjoy. The transparency of his best work for L'Artisan, Comme des Garcons, and Eau D'Italie left me irritated more than intrigued, and the conversation around the alleged pleasures of these fragrances still baffles me. Their merits I can acknowledge; the experience of wearing them is something else altogether. Nothing baffled me more than Nuit de Tubereuse, which was the source of much talk online and seemed less rather than more interesting than the other things Duchaufour has done. I feel like I should get that out of the way.

That said, there are a few Duchaufour fragrances I really love. Amaranthine continues to grow on me, and I know that when my small, second decant runs out, I'll be considering a bottle. S.T. Dupont, going back to 1998, is a truly great fruity chypre. Lalique's Flora Bella is pretty lovely, too. But Jubilation XXV is the real treasure for me. I save the big bottle like fine china, I love it so much. Words fail, which I why, loving it as I do, I've written so little about it. I save it for special occasions which never arrive; no occasion seems special enough for this fragrance, which smells like a million bucks and a new lease on life. I love Jubilation so much that I pay close attention to whatever Duchaufour does, because I know that he's capable of great things.

Sartorial is no Jubilation, but it's pretty damn good, and reason enough for its own kind of excitement. Intended as a tribute to and an evocation of the bespoke tailors along London's Savile Row, Sartorial is steam, fougere aftershave, and metal sheen in a bottle. Many fragrances set out to pay tribute in this way but few seem ultimately to bear any relation to their alleged sources of inspiration, or do but only in the most literal-minded way. The wonderful thing about Sartorial is--

Well, there are many wonderful things. What I love most I think is how well designed and executed it is, not just the packaging, which can often seem like an afterthought on its own, but the fragrance itself. It feels like such a gift to the weak, effete world of masculines; bold and imaginatively rich, it engages its wearer and his or her social intimates in a conversation about what masculine is and might be, veering just far enough outside preconceived ideas to keep the dialogue fresh.

The beeswax (prepare for pun) seals the deal. How Duchaufour keeps this element from taking over without sacrificing its sweet, resinous characteristics is a mystery I'll leave to someone more qualified. You feel it could have gone over the fence, dominating the fragrance. Instead, it peeks out from the margins, inflecting every other impression you get as the notes waft in and out of your consciousness. The fougere profile is unmistakable, and at varying points seems as if it too might take over. You get those ferny elements; the woods and herbal touches--but the dull, milky sweetness of beeswax, along with vanilla, cardamom, linden, ginger, and ozonic elements waft steadily in and out, complicating and expanding your initial impressions.

To wear Sartorial is to be made aware of how careful a balancing act great perfumery must be. Still, it feels inarguably modern, speaking to traditional perfumery from a contemporary vantage point. Conducting that conversation successfully, so that each voice rings distinctly at different times, in unison at others, requires delicate calibration. When discussing a good perfume, people often say that no one note is distinguishable from the others. Sartorial tweaks things so that, while no note can be distinguished from the others necessarily, each continues to contrast itself against another, showing you something new.

I think I'll probably wear the hell out of this.

This Week at the Perfume Counter: Milano

Before I left for Milan, Tuesday before last, I googled perfume shops in the area. I needn't have bothered, as there are perfume shops all over the place--in a week, I probably passed thirty, at least--but google brought me to Profumo on Via Brera, and another shop a few blocks down on the same street, so it wasn't a total waste.

Profumo is run by a man who seems to know what he's talking about, though he speaks only passable English. The place has the usual niche suspects (Malle, Diptyque) as well as the harder to come by: I got to smell some of the Lorenzo Villoresi line, the new Heeley, Parfum d'Empire, Mona di Orio, Keiko Mecheri, and Profumi del Forte, an Italian line, my favorite of which was Roma Imperiale, an addictively light but persistent Shalimar-influenced oriental with Bergamot, mandarin, neroli, rose-wood, coriander seed, cinnamon, tomato leaves, orchid, jasmine absolute, tuberose absolute, ylang-ylang, iris butter, Turkish rose essence, seringa, civet, oak moss, grey amber, vanilla, and sandalwood in the mix.

Of the Villoresi, I liked Piper Nigrum and Spezie, which were similar: peppery and robust. The feminine fragrances I liked less. I almost walked away with a bottle of Piper Nigrum, but, projecting ahead, I couldn't see myself reaching for it all that often.

I'd never smelled Mona di Orio either (the perfumes, not the woman). I might have passed altogether on them at first sniff. Luckily, I sprayed some on--Oiro to one hand, Nuit Noire to the other--and enjoyed the depth of their development on my skin over the next several hours. If, as Luca Turin wrote, Nuit Noire is a loud fart of civet, smother me in farts, please. A spicy oriental, it smells different on me at different times, sometimes powdery, sometimes leathery, first floral, then gingered. I've heard reports that di Orio no longer has a US distributor, which would be a shame. The bottles are as gorgeous as the scents.

I returned to Profumo about four times over the course of the next week, spending time with L'Eau Trois ( a nice, dry frankincense from Diptyque; has this been discontinued?), Fougere Bengale (Holy Immortelle!), Andy Tauer (Incense Rose and Lonestar Memories) and more of the Parfumerie Generale line (Coze, anyone?). Eventually, I purchased a bottle of Nuit Noire. Let's hope I can get it back safely in my suitcase.

Down the street was a shop specializing in Penhaligons fragrance. Abigail sent me a bottle of Violetta before I left the country. It's good stuff. So is Elixir, by Olivia Giacobetti. Company copy says Elixir was inspired by Hammam Bouquet, which I own and like well enough, but I'm not sure I see the connection. Elixir lacks the weird, slightly vexing plastic note of Hammam. It's spicier and has more depth. Osmoz lists the following notes: orange, eucalyptus, mace, cardamom, jasmine, ginger, rose, woods, resin, tonka bean, vanilla, and benzoin. All of this, save the jasmine maybe, is discernable to me. I wish Elixir lasted a bit longer, or persisted with the intensity of its opening, but those first thirty minutes might be worth the price of admission.

Aside from these shops I had the best time at 10 Corso Como. The eponymously titled house blend bored me, but there was a lot besides to enjoy. I'd never really given Byredo much of a chance. Pulp is fantastic, and the staying power is equally remarkable. I got to see the Comme des Garçons/Stephen Jones bottle up close, and bought one to take home. Is there a more unusual violet fragrance? Probably not. 10 Corso Como had all the Tom Ford Private Blends, and the Histoires de Parfums, which Abigail and I have been enjoying lately. It was the only place I found any Serge Lutens in Milano (with any kind of selection to speak of, that is). It had some Caron, though not much. Some By Kilian. Some Malle. Some stuff I forget. Mostly it was great to walk around the store, which sells outrageously priced clothes and jewelry, much of it pretty unusual.

While in Milan I also picked up some old favorites. Hermes Caleche EDP, L'Heure Bleue, and, joy of all joys, Clinique Wappings, which I might have gotten in the states but only after waiting until Christmas. At a remote Profumeria I found bottles of Knize 10, Knize Sec, Knize Two, and Knize Forest. I bought Knize Sec, which is an unusual smell I'll try to describe after spending more time with it.

The abundance of perfume in Milano was thrilling. But I was disappointed by how rarely I smelled any on anyone. Several times I passed women whose perfume left a trail of dreamy goodness behind. Not once did I pass a guy reeking of cologne, and I can't tell you how much I'd been looking forward to this. Mistakenly, I was under the impression that men here bathe in the stuff. I envisioned them standing at the sink, splashing eau de whatever into their open palms, slapping their naked chests. Invariably in these fantasies they were dressed in their underwear and flip flops. Then they made me ricotta pie and pesto pasta. Then we spent some alone time, and I got high, up close, on their cologne of choice. The closest I got to this kind of religious experience was the Duomo.