Classic Camel – or, “Cover Yourself With Pearl!”

When I was a child it was the done thing – the sought-after thing – to be the proud possessor of a camel coat. I see this garment is still described ‘on-line’ as ‘ an iconic style choice’, though seldom seen in my world. It is years since I bought any sort of coat; decades, even. (I wear my dad’s). The camel coat was especially desired by women, but it was also popular with smart children and with the smoother type of man¤. A camel coat was worn in town, to attend church and to go out to dinner. A camel coat was always correct and ‘safe’. Of course, as a tot, I thought these clothes were spun from camel hair whereas actually they were made of alpaca, merino, cashmere or angora. They were soft, supple, warm and usually lined with some thick slippery silky fabric, sometimes detachable for cleaning. ‘Camel’ referred to the colour – a beige, biscuit, fawn or stone. The coats dirtied quickly, being prone to greasy dark smears around collar and cuffs, and down the front breadth. Their second home was at the dry cleaners. Nonetheless I associate them with wonderful smells.

I guess this was because the coats were worn for best. Consequently, small children being kissed in a hallway, or helping to pile visitors’ wraps on a hostess’s bed, were overwhelmed by a whole perfumery of fragrance, redolent and abundant from expectant bodies and scented skin. There were odours of make up, hairsprays, lotions and aftershaves too: sweet, powdery, sharp, plastic or creamy. Even the odd boutonniere of rosebud or carnation pinned to a lapel.

So it was ironic that lately I was reminded how appalling camel and camel hair – the real raw stuff – actually smells. Maybe you’ll recall that back in June I was reading the novels of Pearl S Buck. Buck wrote exhaustively about China: she was bred if not born there, at the very end of the Imperial era, in the last years of the Dragon Empress.  Her memoirs are picaresque and monumental: reading her is like the very slow and relished munching of rich dark fruit cake, thickly frosted. In one memorable passage she talks of a Mongol camel driver in Manchuria, knitting directly from his moulting animal. Then she tells us that “the reek of the camel is eternal, and not to be removed by the best of washings”. In the Great War, American ladies up in the Chinese hill stations had planned to knit vests for European troops from local camel hair. But the smell was “so strong that my mother held her nose and dropped all the yarn into a pail of strong carbolic solution to soak for a day or two ..(but)…when taken out and dried, the camel reek was still there, triumphant..” ¤¤

Now I know a lady who used to spin her own wool on a wheel, back in her former sheep-farming days. Ever anxious to research on your behalf, I popped round to discuss this. I rang the bell. My kind friend is knitting a blanket and has plenty of wools to hand, including some from her old flock. Even after nearly twenty years, each skein has its own peculiar smell – mostly hay-like, even vaguely flowery and aromatic. I asked her about camel. She’d had it on the wheel once, she said. And like Pearl’s mother, she’d found the odour unbearable.

I can’t speak for myself. I came close to a camel only once, in Egypt. My attention was diverted by an almighty row between the camel-owner, his boy and a British lady who claimed to have been short-changed for her ride on the beast. So the camel driver beat the boy; and the lady ended up paying her fare over again to compensate the victim for his ( I think, carefully staged ) sufferings. I don’t recall much about the smell. Only that of the mint tea made with Nile water – “eau de Nil” indeed – which concluded the riotous proceedings.

Mrs Buck also goes into the whole business of the ‘occidental’ smell of milk. Milk – animal milk at any rate – was not  much used in China a century ago. In one of her books Pearl describes the perceived foul smell – the “cow smell” – exuded by westerners returning from milk-product-consuming Britain and America. It took months to wash through the system and for the sweet clean ‘oriental’ body smell to return.

Finally, and to change the subject entirely. Did I mention some time ago my pot of Greek oregano? I certainly intended to. Well, this hot summer is very much to the herb’s liking and it romps along in the back yard. The scent and the taste are unparalleled. Last Saturday night I baked red peppers and threw in a couple of sprigs. Fragrant, savoury, flavoursome. The oregano had much the same smoky salty effect as adding a rasher of  bacon or a couple of anchovies.  If you can’t afford the camel coat, treat yourself to the oregano.

¤ children and men often had natty velvet collars to their coats. I’m sure Prince George has a camel coat.

¤¤ extracts from ‘My Several Worlds. A Personal Record’ by Pearl S Buck. London: Methuen 1953

“Too kind..”

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I believe it was “Dizzy” Disraeli who opined to the effect that: “We all love flattery: and when you come to royalty, then you should lay it on with a trowel.”

Certainly the widowed Victoria purred  like a cat under her Prime Minister’s assiduous attentions. Rotund and querulous in black bombazine and crepe, the Empress of India revelled in being cast as Disraeli’s dainty “Fairy” and “Fairy Queen”.

Elizabeth Tudor demanded to be assured that she was the Fairest Princess in Christendom. Not even the grossest flattery was excessive for her: was it a game? Did she secretly enjoy seeing statesman and intellectuals making fools of themselves over a tragic old lady? Perhaps she saw that the demanding and obtaining of continual irrational praise was a measure not of her beauty but of her power. And that was why the horrible ( and boring ) Earl of Essex who surprised her, balding and undressed in her own bedroom, had to die. Elizabeth knew that after that experience – shattering to both Queen and courtier – Essex would never be able to lie convincingly, eyeball to eyeball, again.

I’ve been thinking about all this a lot and I’ll tell you why. My spies in the department stores tell me that currently the most frequently-heard complaint from perfume purchasers is that the fragrance brought the wearer no compliments. No one said a word. The crash of silence! – to coin a phrase.

It used to be widely said that if you could not smell your own perfume then it was the perfect match for you. There is something in this apparent paradox. As we all know, the more you are in love with a scent the less you pick it up. The brain and the nose are all at peace and they don’t need to keeping registering the fragrance. They know you are happy and safe with it. So they simply switch off and worry about something else.

Frederic Malle told us that he knew he’d got a hit with iconic Musc Ravageur when he sent his P.A. down the Metro doused in the new scent, and the Paris commuters went wild. It certainly is a rousing accolade to be told you smell marvellous but I don’t think we should either panic or grouse when we don’t get the compliments.¤

The compliments don’t come largely because many people are still shy about scents. Smell is a very intimate thing. Smelling bad is, as we know, something even your best friend may not be able to tell you. I would hesitate to comment on a stranger’s gorgeous scent unless asked specifically for an opinion. Men can’t help acting on Impulse – but I’d be very wary of stopping someone in the street to pass a remark on their redolence. Especially in these strange days! I wished someone a good morning recently and the sky fell in. “WHAT did you say to me??”

I am just old enough to remember a time when my elders thought it intolerably gauche, tasteless and bad form to praise anything. You thanked your hostess for entertaining you, but you would never single out the food, or her dress, her hair, her jewels or her perfume for specific comment. Diana Mitford’s old nanny told her on her wedding day to stop fussing at the glass, for:

“Nobody’s going to be looking at you, dear”.

Drawing attention to oneself; seeking attention or approbation was then beyond the pale.

This may not have been altogether healthy; but, in any case, do we not wear perfume primarily for our own private delight? When lovely customers come to the shop to find themselves something new, they often worry that their partners may not care for the chosen prize. I always advise them as I’m now advising you. Say Absolutely Nothing to your Loved One; just wear the perfume with quiet confidence. Don’t canvass opinions. Asking others for their views on what you are wearing always makes folks nervous – and consequently “predicates the answer ‘no'” as we used to learn in French grammar lessons. Never explain and never complain.

Well, doesn’t it make sense? Please yourself and then at least someone’s happy.

Have a joyously perfumed week!

¤ “She’s wearing TRAMP – and everybody loves her!” was a wonderfully ambiguous advertising line some 40 years ago.

All In The Mind

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“The desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing.” ¤ 
Round about this time the sluggish torpor of mid-winter begins to lift. You realise that, despite all expectations, a new energy is charging you up, to – hopefully – see you through another year. The sunshine and anticipatory tingle of a single perfect blue day is a promissory note of spring. The light now lasts till after tea. The pink clouds of shepherd’s delight – last night, spreading like an explosion of rose petals – don’t spatter across the sky till gone half past five. The dark begins to retreat, and chilly fresh flowery smells start to emerge once more in the garden. The snowdrops have come, and the first crocus are open. As I grow older, February – formerly loathed and despised¤¤ – now seems one of the more hopeful of months.
They were talking about the wild life and hard times of Lionel – “OLIVER!” – Bart on the wireless. I remember he had a great love of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue, that perfumed dying of the light. In the lean years of his old age, the composer would come into Harrods for a spray-up on the Guerlain counter. In those generous days, the kindly staff would rummage in the bins and the stock-rooms for exhausted L’Heure Bleue testers from which a final precious drop might be squeezed.
Perfume is, above all, a wilful creature of moods, impressions and fantasy. We talk a great deal about sillage, tenacity, batch numbers, raw ingredients and projection: but in the final analysis the magic of fragrance is all in the mind. Most of us interpret scent in an entirely subjective way. The creamy waxen glory of sambac or ylang ylang is, for some, redolent more of bicycle tyres or penny bubblegum than the secret gardens of the Jungle Princess. Remember Giorgio Beverley Hills? The party line described it as an explosion of jasmine and gardenias. I always smelled pineapple sorbet. And that, I liked. One takes whatever one chooses from a scent, and revels in it. The rest doesn’t matter.
Mr Bart’s L’Heure Bleue is notorious for the wildly different associations it evokes. To many it represents the apogee of Edwardian opulence, the frou frou of a lost golden age. This is a view which gains assurance from the continued availability of L’Heure Bleue’s cousins – Apres L’Ondee and (proudly at Les Senteurs) – Grossmith’s feathery powdery Shem-El-Nessim. Other people smell L’Heure Bleue as cakey feasts of almond marzipan; dusty clove carnations in the dentist’s waiting room; or the exhausted sadness of shadowy funerals. None of these images define the perfume: they are the fantasies (sometimes shared) of individuals.
One of the great liberating joys of experiencing perfume is that you can do with it exactly as you will. When we have the joy of welcoming new clients to Les Senteurs, I often say to our visitors, “everyone here does just as he likes”. By which I mean, that we are always on hand – if required – to help, advise and explain: but, in the final analysis, every visitor must feel free to interpret, choose and wear fragrance exactly as she or he chooses. That’s the only work required.
It is possible – I hope not, but it is conceivable – that occasionally the way we describe a fragrance may jar uncomfortably with the image in a client’s mind. It is inevitable, really. The old rigour and definition of the traditional perfume families have long since flown out the window. Nowadays (and, wonderfully) perfumers have access to such a plethora of raw materials that their combinations and formulae are both startling and infinite. A consequent ‘semi-floriental gourmand fougere’ is almost impossible to categorise definitively. And to pick it apart atom by molecule would be to break a butterfly on a wheel. Perfume language still being in the olfactory Stone Age, I prefer to speak in metaphor, if not in tongues. One can only suggest; and paint a personal picture.
But, of course:
 “I say to-MAH-toes
You say to-MAY-toes…”
As my dear father used to remark, it’s as well we all think differently or some of us would be killed in the rush. People discover fragrance in the most unlikely places. When Anne Baxter first goes backstage to meet Bette Davis in reel two of All About Eve the camera lingers on all the friendly dusty squalor behind the scenes – and on the lady hoovering in the Stalls out front.
Says Baxter:
‘You can smell it, can’t you? Like some magic perfume…’
You pays your money and you takes your choice. But always with pleasure – and, of course, always at Les Senteurs.
Thank you.
¤ Isaiah 35.
¤¤ “Messieurs janvier et fevrier sont mes meilleurs genereaux!” – Tsar Nicholas 1st.

Shop Till You Drop

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I was just ending last week’s piece on Regency shopping habits when I bethought me of Mme Du Barry, nee Jeanne Becu, the most notorious courtesan of her day. This gorgeous girl from Champagne began her amorous – and retail – career during the 1760’s. She came up to Paris from the country and found herself a nice little job on the counter at ‘A la toilette’, otherwise the Maison Labille, situated on the rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs.

Maison Labille was a sort of luxury milliners-cum-drapers and was lavishly stocked with all things perfumed and scented. The vendeuses were as widely advertised as the toiletries. Mlle Jeanne was very soon whisked from the glittering vitrines and mirrored shelves to be installed in a private suite at Versailles¤. Here for six years she reigned as the last and most spectacular of Louis XV’s mistresses.
Mme Du Barry was always in the very van of fashion and subscribed to the new health & hygiene fads of Dr Tronchin. As a young woman she was warned against stepping out in her satin shoes lest they be damaged. But she grew out of this nonsense; and later set great store by cold baths, long walks in the fresh air and loose light clean clothing. Her only cosmetics were said to be roses and milk.

Then, in her middle age, the Revolution and a terrible Fate overtook the Du Barry and she was hauled to the guillotine. The often-told tale of her dreadful end has her tumbril passing under the windows of the Maison Labille. All the grisettes, midinettes and coquettes were out on the balconies and peering from behind shutters in the sleety December dusk. All of them pausing at the height of the Christmas trade to see their old colleague going to her death. (We often recalled this – probably apocryphal – story in the perfumery department at Fortnum and Mason, gazing down on Piccadilly from the great sash windows of the second floor).

It was in Paris that the department store was said to have been invented: the first proper example being the Bon Marche, which opened in 1838. Some social historians reckon that the impact of the new railways coupled with the building of decent public lavatories led directly to the development of the big stores. Now elaborately and inconveniently dressed ladies were able to travel long distances and stay away from home all day, without embarrassment, discomfort or inconvenience.

Perfumes and toiletries were from the first well represented on the counters. The birth of modern commercial perfumery coincided perfectly with this revolution in shopping: the ideal lure for the honey-traps of the ground floor. Though older sources suggest that the earliest fragrance and cosmetic departments were slow to make a profit. Shoppers had formerly bought their aids to nature at more discreet outlets. To be spot-lit at their furtive purchases by gas and – rather later – brilliant electric illumination was, for some, all too much.

So many Continental and British nineteenth century novels paint a dismal picture of working conditions in the retail. The sales assistants were drilled like soldiers under the terrible eye of the Buyer and the Shopwalker. Counter staff were regarded as lower than dirt, and dismissed their posts for as much as raising their eyes to greet a customer. (“Dumb insolence”). They must never initiate a conversation. They had to walk around the vast and terrible Floor, never across it. Staff often “lived in”: sleeping in dormitories on the top floor or down in the basement. They were fed in a communal refectory; and rigidly chaperoned when off-duty. The pay was usually nugatory. No wonder that so many of these decorative drudges were not averse to earning a little more in other ways, thanks to the only people they ever met: lonely customers.

Most stores considered moral turpitude as a reason for instant dismissal. Less scrupulous employers might consider an especially presentable “counter-jumper” as a lure, to be beautifully set off among the crystal flacons and perfumed powders. For memories of the Du Barry have lingered long in the retail memory. She became a kind of secular patron saint of “intimate requisites”, her name commemorated in innumerable lingerie, make up, fragrance and hair products¤¤.

Immortality is often granted in the most extraordinary manner. I once saw a portrait of Marie Louise, the youngest daughter of Du Barry’s royal lover, decorating a very dirty wastepaper bin in a motorway lavatory outside Cambridge. Marie Louise was not only a Daughter of France but a Carmelite nun. To what a very strange and degraded destiny had her image come.

¤ and at Versailles, by a curious coincidence, she ran into old Monsieur Labille’s daughter Adelaide, by then one of France’s leading portrait painters.

¤¤ as well as in the luscious “creme Du Barry” – a cauliflower soup supposedly named because of the fanciful resemblance of the Comtesse’s elaborate hairstyle to the blond whorls of the vegetable.

Big Shopper

jane-austen

 

A lovely lady wrote to me this week. She is writing an historical novel, and was curious to know more about shopping for perfume, as it would have been at the time of the Regency. We are talking of a period exactly 200 years ago when the whole etiquette of modern retail was really getting into its stride in Britain. The cities were growing like mad, the roads were improving, the railways were almost in sight. We read about Jane Austen’s aunt shop-lifting lace in Bath – a mysterious episode! – and Mr Bronte’s purchases for the children in Leeds, specifically that famous box of toy soldiers. The Haworth stationer in old age remembered how the Bronte girls were always his best customers, and how grumpy they were if ever he ran out of paper.

 

In the great cities ‘going shopping’ was already one of the favourite pastimes of the well-to-do and the bored. So, in 1817, with Napoleon recently banged-up on St Helena, and with peace declared after a quarter-century of war, where would you have bought scent?

 

Remember that at this time perfume was not really defined or sold by gender – ‘male’ and ‘female’ perfumes would not become classified as such for another century. Scent was sold promiscuously. Perfume lovers at the time of the Regency bought whatever was fashionable and “comme il faut”  wherever they found it. Manners then were less inhibited in some ways (chamber pots in the dining room sideboard); more so in others. For refined wearers of perfume their entire ambience was perfumed: their furniture, clothes and accessories, their bath water – but not their actual flesh. Neat scent applied direct to the skin was considered injurious to health, playing havoc with the volatile humours of the body.

 

The concept of the department store was yet to be thought of. A few names familiar to us today were already current. Although they were not then primarily perfumers, the tailors Creed of Conduit Street were already creating small amounts of exclusive bespoke fragrance for favoured clients. Perfume was also much sold in apothecaries’ shops – this is because it was regarded also as a healing, medicinal preparation. Sometimes you would find it also being sold in the patisseries and confectionery boutiques of the Regency era, alongside jellies and cordials. If this seems odd, think of the way we cook today with orange flower water, rose-water, saffron, edible flowers and the like.

 

Many folk would have ingested herbal or citrus colognes as health remedies on the principle that what smells good will do you good. Consequently perfume would also have been sold by wise women, charlatans, healers, fairground hucksters, pedlars, quacks, witches, fortune-tellers and others of like ilk.

 

These shady characters aside, there was always something suspect about nearly all shop-workers. Anyone “in trade” was automatically degraded. Retailers were necessarily perpetually “on show” and therefore immodest, pushy and mercenary. They perforce mixed with all sorts, with no regard to station or social “place”. They might well be religious dissenters (shop work and nonconformity often went together) and so were doubly suspect. Shopkeepers in many early novels are hideously evil-tempered, crabbed and misanthropic: trying to prove their respectability while chasing a hard-earned crust. Those retailers who sold magical, seductive, luxurious perfume were likely to be of a especially ambiguous reputation.

 

Perhaps it was safer to make perfume at home. Girls of all classes – if leisure and money permitted – would have been taught by their mothers to prepare herbal and floral waters in the still-room of the family home. There, they would have also made fragranced salves, pot pourri, soaps, moisturisers, washes, pomanders, candles and ointments. Raw materials would have been grown in the garden, or bought in the markets or from merchants and travelling pedlars.

 

Perfumery began to be used in a more modern way during the Regency era. This reflected the way that clothes and costume had changed in the last years of the 18th century. Garments for both sexes became much more simple. Cotton and light woollen fabrics became enormously fashionable. These were washable, so people became cleaner. False hair was abandoned after being widely used for over a century: hair hygiene and fastidious personal cleanliness became all the style.

 

Therefore heavy musky perfumes which covered, masked and camouflaged body odours went out; and light citric/flowery colognes came in. Napoleon – “The Corsican Ogre” – was the Great National Enemy but he was still admired in Britain with a kind of horrified fascination – and his passion for drenching himself in bright crisp colognes was much copied by those who could afford it. There was a brief lull in the fighting in 1802 following the Peace of Amiens. Anyone who could afford it dashed across the Channel to Paris to study Napoleon, his elegant consort¤ and the latest styles of the Consulate.

 

After George IV (formerly the Regent) died in 1830, the drawers in his apartments were found to be crammed with all sorts of interesting things. Flasks of opium, laudanum and cherry brandy with other stimulants and painkillers. And also, endless locks of women’s hair, long-preserved love tokens from years gone by. All powdered and stuck up with grease and dressings; all reeking of long-ago scents.

 

¤ Josephine Bonaparte, by the way, spent far more on perfume than any person in the whole of French history: and that includes such famous fragrance-fanciers as Henri III and Marie Antoinette. Mme Bonaparte had her own creations specially prepared at companies such as Rance, Houbigant and Lubin – all still extant today.

Compliments Of The Season

peter-doig-snow

 

Last week began with Gaudete Sunday, the mid-Sunday of Advent when, as our vicar said, we give thanks for having made it half-way to Christmas. I am ashamed to say that this festival of progression was a new one to me. Mind you, I have got to the stage when I might just have forgotten about it. I was struck by the roses-in-the-snow motif – that timeless emblem of hope; and a recurring theme of folk and fairy tale. About her neck the vicar wore a deep dusky pink stole – a stylised damask garland of the Mystic Flower. Roses represent such a complex kaleidoscope of symbols – everything from perpetual immaculate virginity to raging passion. No wonder every perfumer wants to have a least one crack at a rose fragrance.

I can think of nothing more delicious and festive than the gift of perfume. This year I have received one such already. It’s lovely! I was warming a bowl of soup at noon. There was a terrific double knock at the door like the arrival of Marley’s ghost: and there stood a special postie carrying the most perfect cardboard box you ever saw – it was all stuffed with golden paper and in the depths of all the gleam and glitter was a heavenly little bottle. You know, at Les Senteurs when someone purchases scent as a present, we always offer an accompanying sample so that the recipient can try the fragrance from the phial first, in case the gift doesn’t suit. But personally I am so touched by the thought that a kind friend has chosen me something, that I am invariably disposed to be crackers about the incoming perfume.

Also, I am rarely given scent because, of course, people think, “look at him, surrounded by hundreds of the world’s most glorious scents! Why should he want another one?” But life works the other way about. I remember years ago at work we were looking for a leaving gift for a dressy lady, and I voted strongly for a thick silk twill scarf. My mates all cried out, ‘But, no! Joycie already has hundreds of scarves” – and I said, “so evidently they must be her favourite thing!” Fragrance lovers will always be panting for the next one, that I can assure you. Impossible to overdo it.

The University of Prague has produced a survey. They did this test, and they found that if you want to choose the perfect scent for a man – I mean, as a Christmas surprise – then bring along his sister and ask her to pick it out. “The reason may be that brothers and sisters smell the same”; and “that sisters prefer odours that match products of their own genes”¤. For, to really work, a fragrance should compliment the natural odour of one’s own skin. I think we all know that by now. We’re chasing  the beautiful phenomenon whereby a scent seems to bloom on the skin, coming apparently not from the bottle but from the very pores of the wearer. A million molecules of body and perfume blending exquisitely in one perfect reaction.

Reading this newspaper report caused me to think about the fragrances I’ve worn over the years that have provoked a reaction: the rare and much-desired audible, vocal reaction I mean. I can’t answer for what secret thoughts have gone on in people’s heads, thank goodness. A kind friend once told me I should be “very careful” in what I wear, and I appreciated that. It’s sage advice that has resonated down the years.

It’s evidently the oriental tribe that work best for me. The warmest compliments I’ve had in years have been for Malle’s MONSIEUR. (mobbed in the library – and at the butcher’s): and Tauer’s INCENSE EXTREME – solicited in the street. Most gratifying. I remember from thirty years ago the “oooh’s” and “aah’s” in a train carriage on a foggy damp New Year’s Day. These gasps were apparently prompted by a spray of Shalimar – in the eau de toilette concentration. There were those more ambiguous squeaks at the National Gallery indicating strong reactions to that very intense rose-coloured Joop! And – a Warning To The Curious – unmistakable sounds of disapprobation in the stalls during a cinema showing of ‘The Last of the Mohicans’, indicating that I’d sadly overdone Chanel’s Coco.

But, what the hell? Any kind of reaction brings a perfume to life, and slightly too much scent is always preferable to rather too little. Otherwise, what is the point?

Wishing You All a Very Merry and Joyous Christmas filled with Sweet Smells and Happy Thoughts.

¤ see The Times Tuesday 13/12/16; report by Tom Whipple on p.3.

Be My Valentine?

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What’s one of the very nicest things you can buy your loved one on Valentine’s Day?

“Perfume” I hear you murmur, with quiet confidence. Quite right.

I’ll tell you why.

Perfume smells lovelier than store-boughten flowers which nowadays seem to have sacrificed scent for gorgeousness of colour and immensity of size.

It will smell even more delicious than a fine dining experience or a designer box of chocs; and fragrance carries none the concomitant risks to health and fitness.

And it lasts so much, much longer than either of the above. You always get your money’s worth with scent; besides which, you can personalise it in witty and exquisite ways.

Look, I’ll show you:

To make a successful gift of perfume you have to give a lot of yourself and that is always the best gift of all. You need to plan your purchase to fit your loved one as snugly as a pair of hand-made shoes. Get into his (or her) head – take a tour around his personality and choose a scent accordingly. Staff at Les Senteurs are always happy to help you translate ideas into actions if you need a little assistance.

Think laterally: consider, say, your partner’s favourite movie, colour or flower and pick a perfume to reflect that. If you were going down the cinematic route you might choose a fragrance notably worn or inspired by your inamorata’s favourite star ( Frederic Malle & Dominique Ropion created Carnal Flower with Candice Bergen in mind; Catherine Deneuve was Francis Kurkdjian’s inspiration for Lumiere Noire). Or you could select a perfume worn in a much-loved film. Think of Norma Desmond’s tuberoses in Sunset Boulevard or Caron’s Fleur de Rocaille in The Scent of a Woman. If you wept over Titanic, then track down a scent that was captivating the world in 1912. We have several such treasures – cast your eye and nose over the great Houses of Houbigant, Grossmith and, once again, the inevitable and unique Caron.

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Candice Bergen in Carnal Knowledge

Matching flowers is easy to do, but so romantic and adorable if you take the trouble to discover what she really loves: we have luscious rose perfumes of all types ( dark, dewy, spicy, fruity, innocent, lascivious, smoky, waxy ); but Les Senteurs also holds captive the most beautiful examples of gardenia, ylang ylang, lily of the valley, magnolia and orange blossom. A married gentlemen may like to remember what his wife carried in her bridal bouquet and match those blooms in fragrance. Ladies, you can do the same with your husband’s boutonniere or the favourite plants he cultivates for the garden show. Don’t forget: men love flowers too.

A rose that's perfect for men and women.

A rose that’s perfect for men and women.

Now I mentioned colour which may surprise some of you. I don’t mean the colour of the packaging or the bottle (though this may play its part). I’m talking about a factor that’s rather more subtle. By and large, if a person likes brilliant, strong vibrant hues then that individual will go for expressive rich perfumes too. Contrary wise, admirers of white, beige, cream and pastels will tend to prefer lighter airier fragrances. So consider the colours your beloved wears, the shades your lover paints his rooms and let your instinct guide you like a bee to the honey.

Bette Davis in 'Now, Voyager'

Bette Davis in Now, Voyager

Nothing stimulates memory like the sense of smell so another cute idea would be to conjure up thoughts of a special time you have enjoyed together and celebrate it in scent. If the earth moved for you, try Nu_Be’s explosive and elemental dawn-of-the-universe fragrances. Recreate a day at the sea; an ocean voyage; a holiday in Havana, Istanbul, London, China or Morocco; an evening at the ballet. Or, more modestly, an afternoon in the vegetable garden, a shared creamcake, a romantic breakfast – even the wicked intimacy of a shared cigarette. “O Jerry don’t let’s ask for the moon, we have the stars.”
Getting the idea? Choosing a romantic gift should and can be such a pleasure: and I think I can promise that the more you enjoy the selection, the more delight the chosen perfume will give to the recipient.

Happy Valentines from all at LES SENTEURS!