Tableau de Parfums/Andy Tauer Ingrid: Antique Florals

Posted on January 12, 2014 by Kafkaesque

Ingrid is a fragrance from Tableau de Parfums, the collaboration between the Swiss perfumer, Andy Tauer, and the American, Memphis-based, indie filmmaker, Brian Pera (who is also a perfume blogger at I Smell Therefore I Am).

Women’s Picture. Source: Fragrantica.

There are three Tableau fragrances (Miriam, Loretta, and Ingrid) and, as the Tableau Parfums website at Evelyn Avenue explains, each one is an olfactory representation of a particular female character in Brian Pera’s film series, Woman’s Picture. According to the website, “Woman’s Picture is an anthology film inspired by classic women’s films of the thirties, forties, and fifties. The story is divided into three sections, each of which presents a portrait of a specific female character.” I’d previously reviewed the tuberose Loretta, but couldn’t wait to try Ingrid given its oriental notes.

Source: Fragrantica

Ingrid was released late in 2013, and is an eau de parfum in concentration. Tableau de Parfums describes the scent as follows:

A fragrant floral gem in an elegant oriental casket, Ingrid is a rich woody floral inspired by classical scents of the fifties, full of contrasts. Draperies of citrus and spices open the stage for sensual frangipani and roses, with hints of lily of the valley adding softness to the flower heart. These rich feminine notes are anchored by a chord of precious woods and resins in the base. Vanilla, tolu and sandalwood add an exotic twist, and underline with the contrasting lines of dark cistus and smoky balsamic styrax the feminine melody. […]

Andy Tauer on Ingrid: “Ingrid is unique, a strong character, yet soft and feminine. She is a beautiful woman, who developed her style, found herself, she is present and demanding, with a past full of questions, unanswered. Her flower is frangipani. I have no doubt.”

Fragrantica and Luckyscent say the notes are:

Bergamot, orange, lemon, cinnamon, clove, Frangipani [or Plumeria], rose, lily of the valley [Muguet], sandalwood, tolu [balsam], cistus, vanilla, styrax

Source: apartmenttherapy.com

Ingrid opens on my skin with lily of the valley and dust, followed by an oddly stale, sharp, leathered, sweetness that smells like styrax resin that has gone a bit off or turned rancid. Seconds later, there is ISO E Super, more dust, a vanillic sweetness, and powdered rose. The lily of the valley tries to add some freshness but it is such a delicate aroma and cannot counter the other elements. My overall sense is of extremely musty, fusty, sweet dust with an odd edge. It’s hard to describe but, to me, it smells like the stale air in a dusty attic that hasn’t been opened in decades. The ISO E Super is a light touch, and isn’t responsible for any of this at all.

Yet, at the same time, there is an undercurrent that is sickly sweet. I suspect the latter stems from the frangipani or plumeria, a flower whose scent I find sickly and quite difficult in general unless it’s handled very lightly. Here, the plumeria isn’t individually distinct in Ingrid’s opening moments, but I’m pretty sure it’s responsible for that particular, nauseating, cloying touch. It injects its syrup from a distance into the faintly leathered, “off” dark notes and the arid dust, creating a combination that I find quite discordant and just plain odd.

Source: wallpaper.metalship.org

Other elements are smoothly blended into the background. There are flickers of cloves with a touch of cinnamon. Much more pronounced is the old-fashioned floral soapiness that dances all around. A soft touch of sweetened citruses lurks in the shadows, alongside the rose. The primary bouquet, however, is of ancient, antique dust with lily of the valley, followed by a touch of fusty greenness and soapiness, all nestled within the strong embrace of stale, somewhat rancid, dark sweetness.

I’m finding it incredibly hard to convey precisely because I can’t explain why I’m smelling what I am, or the extent of the strange combination. It’s akin to the fustiest of mineralised oakmoss, infused with styrax resin gone rancid, cloying sweetness, prickly aromachemicals, vanilla, flowers that feel dried and pressed in an ancient book, soap, and some strange dark element, all doused with the dust of ages.

There is an oldness to the aroma that reminds me of an old lady’s clothes in a closet that she hasn’t opened in years, but the dusty fabrics still carry the lingering traces of her floral perfume and the soap on her skin. I almost never find fragrances to be “old lady,” and it is a pejorative term that I find offensive, but if ever I were to use it, it would be for Ingrid. Most people give that label to heavy orientals or powdery scents, like Shalimar or L’Heure Bleue. I’ve never agreed with that and if I’m using the term here, it’s for a very different reason: the fetid dustiness of accumulated years. I’ve tried Ingrid twice, and with different quantities each time, but on both occasions, I had enormous difficulty with the opening because of that one reason.

The famous, recently discovered Paris apartment, untouched and unopened for 70 years. Source: DailyMail.com http://tinyurl.com/cweo355

Twenty-five minutes in, Ingrid starts to change. The stale, sharp mustiness ceases to be the leading note, though it is still substantial and enormous. It now shares center stage with the soapiness and florals. The frangipani or plumeria makes its first appearance in a distinct way; the orange grows a whiff more noticeable; and the sweetened powder becomes more dominant. Then, the cloves rise up from the base, and… oh boy. I love cloves, passionately, but the note here takes on a medicinal undertone that strongly reminds me of American, clove-based, dentistry analgesics. At the same time, it’s pungent and, yes, dusty. In fact, it merely compounds Ingrid’s overall odd staleness, creating an aura of fusty antiques, florals with old-fashioned soap, strange sweetness, and spice.

Woman’s dusty, antique dressing table and perfumes from the Paris time-capsule apartment. Source: Daily Mail.

Ingrid finally softens about 45 minutes in, and the sillage drops. From a moderately strong opening, it now hovers two inches above the skin as a blur of powdered, sweet florals with medicinal, pungent cloves and a strong dash of vanilla powder over a slightly warm base. Nothing in the latter translates to my nose as richly ambered or darkly resinous. This is not the labdanum of Dior’s Mitzah or Serge Lutens’ Ambre Sultan. It’s not the smoky, leathered styrax resin that I’ve encountered in other perfumes either. In fact, Ingrid’s colour visuals would be powdered pastels with ribbons of brownness from the cloves, and greyness from the dust.

To my relief, the fusty staleness slowly diffuses and weakens, making Ingrid a touch easier to bear. At the 90-minute mark, Ingrid merely smells like old-fashioned, 1930s-style, feminine, powdered florals, instead of being dominated by dust from that same era. The perfume remains largely the same for several more hours to come, though the plumeria or frangipani takes the lead as the main flower, followed by the rose. The always subtle muguet has faded away completely, while the soapiness retreats to the sidelines. However, the cloves continue to blast away, though, thankfully, they’ve lost their medicinal undertone. Lurking all about is an amorphous, indistinct, dry woodiness that has the tiniest hint of something smoky about it. It’s hard to detect though, given the sweetened powder that now infuses Ingrid from top to bottom.

Plumeria or frangipani.

Ingrid’s notes slowly grow hazy and abstract, with only the plumeria and cloves really standing out. If you smell really hard and up close, the rose pops up once in a while in the background to add a very muted, muffled hint of Damask-like richness, but it’s usually indistinct on my skin. The plumeria feels unctuous, while the cloves now remind me of a Christmas baked ham. And the sweetened, vanillic powder infused them both. Yet, even those notes become blurry and nebulous around the end of the 4th hour. Soon, Ingrid turns into a soft, generalized, vaguely frangipani-like, floral powder with vanillic sweetness and cloves.

What is interesting, however, is the base which turns increasingly warm and ambered. It’s a largely abstract amber, to my nose. It doesn’t feel distinct or individual enough to separate out into labdanum amber at all, but just feels like a warm, spiced, slightly leathered, dry goldenness. Call me crazy, but the Tauerade signature seems to take on some Caronade similarities. Or perhaps the cloves in Ingrid are so dominant that, in conjunction with the growing amber, it makes parts of Ingrid resemble Caron‘s clove-based Poivre in its foundational elements. The big difference here is the plumeria with its nauseatingly sickly sweetness.

By the end of the 7th hour, Ingrid turns into a sweetened, powdery, floral oriental with plumeria nestled in a spiced ambered nest. It’s also a skin scent at this point. Oddly, the ISO E Super suddenly becomes much stronger, adding a prickly, peppered, jangling bit of dryness to the base, though it’s not enough to cut through the plumeria’s syrup. The cloves fold into the Tauer base which is actually quite nice, and well-balanced between the dry and warm elements. As a whole, though, the perfume is largely a nebulous blur of powdered, very sweet florals atop a warm base with some dryness and abstract spiciness. Ingrid remains largely unchanged until its end when, 11.25 hours from the start, it fades away as a blur of warm sweetness.

Skin chemistry is a funny thing, and I blame my own for whatever vagaries occurred with the dust, and the “off,” almost rancid, dark-sweet accord. I also need to repeat what regular readers know all too well: I don’t like scents that are either powdered florals, sweetened powder, or soapy. Having all five things together — at the same time — made Ingrid extremely difficult for me. I tried to like it, I really did, but my skin simply wouldn’t comply. The first time I wore it, with just a small amount, I came within inches of scrubbing it off after only 20 minutes, and it takes a lot for me to get to that level. To my surprise, the ISO E Super was very powerful at the lower dosage, but that wasn’t the problem at all. The difficulty was the dryness and fustiness which, in the opening 25 minutes, is excessive on my skin, regardless of the quantity used.

1930s Vancouver street photo by Foncie Pulice. Source: chronicallyvintage.com (Link to website with a series of super cool 1930s street photos embedded within. Click on photo.)

In fact, the dry dustiness I experienced with Ingrid far surpassed anything in L’Air du Desert Marocain. Relatively speaking, that fragrance almost verges on the gourmand in comparison to Ingrid’s start on my skin. Plus, LDDM was never fusty or dated in feel. While Ingrid eventually loses its arid mustiness, it is simply replaced by old-fashioned floral powder and dusty cloves in a way that simply doesn’t work for my personal tastes. I kept imagining a woman from the 1930s or 1940s: older, relatively well-dressed, somewhat matronly in sensible clothing, and who had worn the same comfortingly powdered, floral scent since she was a young bride.

Others, however, seem to really like Ingrid, and had completely different perceptions or associations. The review on the blog, I Scent You A Day, reads, in part:

Ingrid is earthy and reminds me of birch or tar or dried bracken. There is winter spice too, but not in a chintzy Christmas way, you’ll be relieved to know. The Rose is prevalent, and as with other Tauer scents, no Rose is the same twice. In this case, the Rose reminds me of dried petals in a pot pourri- they have gone paper thin and their colour has faded but their scent has gone faintly peppery. Nevertheless it can still be recognised as Rose.

Ingrid is rich and spicy, but dry rather than sweet. It left me thinking I could smell the deep dark scent of Myrrh, but it may have been the resinous Styrax which is used so beautifully.

On my skin, the base notes of Ingrid are Clove, dried Roses, Resin and Frangipani. It’s rich, dark and mysterious yet the ingredients have been used lightly enough not to overwhelm.

If further proof were ever needed for how skin chemistry makes everything different from person to person, consider the experience of WAFT… What a Fragrance Fanatic Thinks:

Andy Tauer has created a fragrance that is all at once foody , pillowy , warm , comforting – in a word delicious . Ingrid just fits my mood and makes me want glue my nose to my wrist . Ingrid never frowns , never argues nor challenges .
This fragrance flows from sunshine and tart nectar and I loved it at first whiff . The frangipani note is so perfect…It lasts a good six hours on skin ( probably longer if you don’t cook or wash dishes – I do .) Ingrid reminds me of a fluffy whipped cream and rice confection called Glorified Rice , which has bits of tart mandarin slices in it .
If I had any complaint it would be the early drydown of Ingrid falls a little flat , but eventually smooths out .

On Fragrantica, there is only one review for Ingrid thus far:

The Cloves and Frangipani make this a great choice for Autumn and Winter. I didn’t get any Lily of The Valley: to me this is dark and full of shadows and mystery.

Ingrid wasn’t my cup of tea, but we’re all different and have different tastes, not to mention different skin chemistry. So, if Ingrid’s notes sound appealing to you, and if you enjoy either frangipani or some of Andy Tauer’s drier fragrances, then give her a sniff.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Ingrid is an eau de parfum that comes in a 50 ml/1.7 oz bottle that costs $160 or €135, and which comes with a free DVD and movie poster. Ingrid is also available in a small 7 ml travel spray that costs $40. In the U.S.: you can buy Ingrid in all sizes directly from Tableau de Parfums, along with Luckyscent. Tableau de Parfums only ships domestically. I’ve read that the line is also sold at Portland’s The Perfume House, but it is not listed on their website. Outside the U.S.: In Europe, you can find Ingrid at Germany’s First in Fragrance which sells the perfume for €135.00 and the travel size for €39. It too carries samples. In the UK, Scent & Sensibility carries Tableau de Parfums, and sells Ingrid for £110, with the purse spray for £25. In Italy, you can find the Tableau de Parfums line at Milan’s Profumi Import, but I’m not clear about price or if they have an e-store. Tableau de Parfums fragrances are also sold at a handful of other locations in Europe, from Marie-Antoinette in Paris, to Switzerland and Lithuania. You can find that information on the company’s website. Samples: You can get a sample of Ingrid from Luckyscent for $4 for a 0.7 ml vial, or The Perfumed Court, where prices start at $6.99 for a 1/2 ml vial. Loretta is not sold at Surrender to Chance.

Téo Cabanel Barkhane: Mitzah’s Brother

Posted on November 14, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Close your eyes, and imagine a river. It’s heavy, swollen with rain, and moving incredibly fast. It would be a “white-water rapids” except this water is thick, dense, chewy, and powerful. It’s not even really water at all, but more like volcanic lava flow; a turgid, toffee thickness of labdanum and patchouli, a mighty force of smoldering, spiced, slightly smoky blacks, browns, and reds that are lightly flecked with bronzed gold. The heady, potent force field of Mitzah-esque labdanum calls you like a siren. You get on a canoe, and shoot forward on the fast-moving, rich, toffee river with incredible speed and power.

Source: natures-desktop.com

Then, suddenly, abruptly, almost impossibly, after less than two hours….. you slooooow to a crawl. The chewy, dense, smoldering river water starts to dry up around you, becoming thinner, lighter, softer. Before you can blink, it’s turned into to a trickle, evaporating around you, until you’re left stranded in the middle of a dry, leathery riverbed with only the smallest pool of amber around you. A pool so sheer and so soft that you’re almost convinced it’s not actually there, and are completely shocked when you detect faint traces of it every hour when you check.

Source: grist.org

As time passes, the disbelief grows at the severity of the contrasts, and by the mere fact that this seemingly invisible drop of water actually still remains. As night falls, there is no more amber and you are alone with only by the faintest whiff of animalic leather. Then, even that remaining puddle of water vanishes, and you’re left longing for the mighty river that began your journey so many hours earlier.

That story is the nutshell tale of my journey with the brand-new release from Téo Cabanel Parfums. When a small, hugely under-appreciated, relatively unknown perfume house makes one of your favorite fragrances in the world, you tend to root for it, and want to love all its creations. If the house comes with a fascinating history — complete with the notorious style icon, the Duchess of Windsor, as its most ardent fan — and if you’re a history fanatic, then you are even more compelled to want to like it. The reality, however, is that not all perfumes are created equal. And some fall short of the glory set by their siblings. That is the case with Barkhane, a lovely fragrance from the same house that created my beloved Alahine, but hardly a match for the latter’s potent, fierce, boozy, and utterly spectacular, sophisticated, spicy smolder.

The Duchess of Windsor

Barkhane is an eau de parfum from the French perfume house, Téo Cabanel. It is a very old brand that was founded in 1893 in Algeria by Théodore Cabanel, a talented, very prolific perfumer who moved to Paris in 1908 where he developed well over 150 different perfume formulae. He fast came to the attention of high society, and became a favorite of the Duchess of Windsor — the woman for whom King Edward VIII famously gave up the British throne. In fact, she refused to be without two of Cabanel’s fragrances (Julia and Yasmina), ordering bottles in massive quantities, and Cabanel became her official perfumer.

Unfortunately, over time, the house faded away, but it was essentially reborn in 2003 under the direction of Caroline Illacqua who had a distant connection to Cabanel’s daughter. Illacqua brought in the perfumer, Jean-Francois Latty, a very famous “nose” who created YSL for Men, YSL‘s Jazz, Givenchy III, Van Cleef & Arpel‘s Tsar and, allegedly, Drakkar Noir as well. (If so, I assume he worked alongside Pierre Wargnye who is usually credited with that famous men’s cologne). Latty now works solely as the in-house perfumer for Téo Cabanel.

Barkhane in the 50 ml bottle. Source: Téo Cabanel website.

This week, the two released Barkhane, an eau de parfum that is the first of the Cabanel line to include oud. The company describes the perfume (and explains its name) as follows:

Rich, warm and mysterious, Barkhane borrows its name from the smooth, velvety dunes which gently ripple under powerful desert winds. Barkhane owes its refined elegance to the very finest ingredients. All at once powerful and subtle, it develops its own fascinating uniqueness.

The press release documents describe the fragrance as a “woody-chypre,” which I find quite odd as Barkhane has the most oriental notes and smell imaginable. According to the description on Téo Cabanel’s website and on Fragrantica, Barkhane’s notes include:

bergamot, labdanum, Indonesian patchouli, geranium, cumin, curry tree, vetiver, oud, myrrh, tonka bean, vanilla and musk.

Mitzah. Source: Fragrantica.

I sprayed Barkhane on my skin, and my response was instantaneous: I actually cried out aloud, “Mitzah!” Then, I sniffed the vial, sniffed my skin again, and almost did a happy dance. The first line on my note pad is: “Mitzah, Mitzah, Mitzah!” For those of you unaware of the name, Mitzah is one of Dior‘s elite Privée line of fragrances and a huge cult hit with a very passionate following. Or, rather, I should say, it was, since the imbeciles at Dior suddenly decided to discontinue it for reasons that no sane person (including people who work at Dior) can fathom. Mitzah is one of my favorite perfumes, still available at some Dior boutiques and Dior online, but the remaining stock won’t last forever, and one day, it will be nothing more than a ridiculously priced hot commodity on eBay. So, as you can imagine, I was thrilled that there may be an alternative out there should my giant bottle ever dry up.

Source: HuffingtonPost.com

Barkhane opens like Mitzah on steroids. No two ways about it. It has some of Alahine’s explosive, nuclear opening, but with the Mitzah aroma. Could there really be greater joy? When you sniff the vial, it’s all roses and labdanum, but the opening burst on the skin is purely the labdanum. It feels like a tidal wave of brown, nutty, leathery, sweet toffee with an almost caramelized undertone and richness. It’s immediately followed by incense smoke, and dark, chewy, spiced, real patchouli.

Then, the spices appear. There is a heaping teaspoon of sweetened curry, with just the merest dash of dry, dusty cumin. There is nothing sweaty about the mixture, and absolutely no trace of body odor. It also doesn’t smell like food or actual Indian curry dishes. The spices are blended seamlessly into Barkhane, never feeling very noticeable in a heavy, distinctive way, and really smelling more like the dry dustiness surrounding a spice merchant in a Moroccan souk or bazaar. Even if they weren’t so well-blended in the fragrance, the simple fact is that there is little that could possibly trump that powerful wave of labdanum toffee and slightly smoky patchouli.

Source: hdwallpaperstop.com

Other notes flit about Barkhane’s edges. There is a bitter citrus note like the slightly sour peel of a lemon rind that has been dried. A subtle hint of woody, equally dried vetiver pops up in tiny doses. Underneath the heavy top notes, there are also subtle flecks of geranium’s greenness, some golden musk, and a sliver of vanilla. The geranium is the most interesting thing to me because, at first sniff on the skin, Barkhane differs from Mitzah in not having that undercurrent of rose. But it is the oddest thing: if you smell the vial, you definitely smell roses under the labdanum amber. And, on the skin, the same thing slowly starts to appear. It has to be the geranium whose flowers can often have a spicy, rose-adjacent, rich red smell. In short, something about the combination of the geranium and the patchouli seems to have recreated the aroma of deep, ruby-red roses in Barkhane, thereby completing the similarity to Mitzah.

Source: Huffingtonpost.com

Even if I didn’t know and love Mitzah, I would adore Barkhane’s opening. It’s a chewy, spicy, smoky fragrance that is absolutely stunning. The sweetness is perfectly balanced by the dry spices and the suggestion of woodiness. Speaking of which, to my nose, there is absolutely no “oud” that ever appears in Barkhane. There is a definite dry woodiness underlying the fragrance, but it’s wholly amorphous and lacking in distinction to me. It’s probably the subtlest part of the fragrance as a whole, because Barkhane’s real source of dryness are the spices and incense.

At first, Barkhane is massively potent. In that way, it is like all the Téo Cabanel fragrances that I’ve tried thus far (Alahine & Oha), but it’s not quite as ferocious as Alahine can be. That is a fragrance that is much better with less, especially as a heavy application can completely and utterly blow out your nose at first sniff. (It did to me the very first time I tried it.) To give you an idea of the potency of some Cabanel fragrances, my parents each applied a small dab of Alahine in solid form, and I could smell them almost across the whole length of the house. And even up a flight! (Alahine is unisex, by the way, and found an immediate fan in my father.) Barkhane doesn’t quite pack the same nuclear punch as Alahine in its opening minutes, but it certainly tries. And it’s definitely much more powerful than Mitzah at the start.

Thirty minutes in, Barkhane unfurls and blooms into the loveliest, deep, dark labdanum amber with a floral undertone. It really smells like that heady, powerful, concentrated, dark rose note that Téo Cabanel loves so much and which is probably their signature. The curry note is also starting to become more prominent. It is dusty, evoking an old apothecary’s cabinet from centuries past, a cabinet whose wooden drawers carry the lingering traces of spice and time. The patchouli continues to be forceful, and the smoke seems to have increased, adding yet another subtle dose of dryness to the nutty, slightly dirty, very toffee-smelling amber.

50 minutes in, Barkhane starts to change in weight, texture, and feel. It becomes softer, tamer, milder, dropping quickly in its heaviness, projection, and power. Now, it hovers only 3 inches above the skin, a fact that should tell you something about its opening minutes. While that is still very strong, the more significant fact is that Barkhane feels much thinner than it did at its start. It’s now more like darkened silk, rather than an opaque river of black, viscous, dense resin. The perfume continues to turn more sheer — and, then, suddenly, it drops like the wind.

Source: scenicreflections.com

Ninety minutes into its development, Barkhane is suddenly a skin scent. From a powerful Saharan sandstorm, it’s become a veritable puff of air — and it’s a shockingly fast transformation. Barkhane is now the sheerest glaze of dark, toffee’d labdanum, infused with patchouli, spices and incense. It feels amorphous, intangible, elusive, and likely to slip away at any moment. What happened?! Every 20 minutes, I sniff my arm in the expectation that Barkhane has completely vanished. My nose is right on the skin, and, at times, I have to practically inhale to detect anything beyond the amber, but it didn’t die. My notes are filled with time calculations, and the disbelieving words: “still there.” By the end of the 3rd hour, I wrote “almost all gone.” I was utterly mystified. To have that degree of drastic change is not something I’ve experienced often.

Photo: Heather A. Riggs, available at her Etsy store, ShyPhotog. (Website link embedded within photo.)

Photo: Heather A. Riggs, available at her Etsy store, ShyPhotog. (Direct website link embedded within photo.)

Even more bewildering is the fact that Barkhane seems to have come back to life, albeit in the sheerest, most translucent manner imaginable. Hour after hour, it hung on as a labdanum-patchouli-incense fragrance. To my complete disbelief, Barkhane actually seemed to get stronger around the start of the 8th hour!! It was still a skin scent, but easier to detect. I’ve never been anosmic to amber, especially not to labdanum, so I can’t explain it, but I’m currently at the end of a second full test and the same situation is unfolding. Crazily enough, Barkhane lasted just over 11.75 hours on me. In its final hour, it turned completely leathery with an animalic, musky edge that almost bordered on the subtly urinous, but not quite. The amber warmth remained, adding a faint glow of warmth, but Barkhane was primarily a nebulous, vague, dry, animalic leather fragrance that lingered in gauzy patches that were scattered across the skin.

In the end, Barkhane’s long duration is consistent with the other Téo Cabanel fragrances that I’ve tried, but the sillage issue is quite new to me. I was really convinced that Barkhane was about to die at the end of the third hour! Making matters more bewildering is that I had actually sprayed quite a lot of Barkhane, at least by my particular Téo Cabanel standards: 3 sprays that were very big and full-sized due to the large nozzle. For this generally intense line of fragrances, that is a lot for a starting test! (Do not ever try that with Alahine, for example, at least until you get used to it.) In my second test, I used 4 and 1/2 large sprays, but the situation followed the same path with only a fractional increase in the time that it took Barkhane to turn to gauze.

Barkhane is too new for there to be reviews out in the blogosphere, but I went to Fragrantica in hopes that someone may have shared their experience there. They haven’t, but I was relieved to see some early votes in the longevity and sillage sections:

One person gave Barkhane the lowest longevity rating which is “Weak,” and which is defined as “1h – 2h.” However, two people chose “long lasting” which is defined as “7h – 12h.”
For projection, 2 people gave it the lowest rating at “Soft,” while one person chose “Moderate.”

I need to make something clear: sillage is a personal preference. Some people don’t want fragrances that howl at the moon, and that’s fine. Mitzah has discreet sillage, too, but the difference is that Mitzah becomes unobtrusive after about 5 or 6 hours! The comparative difference with Barkhane — and the speed of the changes in so many areas as weight, feel, and projection — can’t be ignored. More to the point, when it feels almost certain that a fragrance is about to die after a mere 3 hours, then it has to be discussed, regardless of what the end result is or one’s personal tastes. Judging by the very early Fragrantica votes, there is clearly someone out there for whom Barkhane didn’t die at the end of the 3rd hour, but even sooner and after a mere 1-2 hours. I have to wonder if sillage played a role in that result; if a perfume’s projection seems virtually nonexistent at times, then people who can’t sniff voraciously at their arm every 20 minutes may well conclude that their perfume has vanished.

On the other hand, early votes also demonstrate that Barkhane had great longevity on some people — and it does. So, if you’re looking for something like Mitzah that is even more discreet and intimate, then you’ve got to try Barkhane. In the ways that perhaps matter most, it’s a knock-out. It’s a sophisticated amber that has been done with great finesse and, as always with Téo Cabanel, with extremely high-quality ingredients.

All in all, only one thing stops Barkhane from getting high ratings across the board. Ignoring that one (significant) issue, Barkhane is really lovely: a heady, sweet, spicy, smoky, slightly leathery, nutty and toffee’d amber with lovely decorative flourishes in an incredibly chic, smooth, seamless, refined bouquet. It’s sexy, and seductive in its dark, smoldering glow, but also comforting in its warmth and softness. It would work well on all genders, and it would be perfect for a very conservative office environment (although I would still be careful with the quantity that you apply, given the potency of Barkhane’s first hour). If you’re not looking for the mighty Saharan wind, but the lightest, sheerest, most intimate whisper of darkened amber, then you should definitely try Barkhane.

DISCLOSURE: My sample of Barkhane was courtesy of Hypoluxe. That did not influence this review. I do not do paid reviews, my views are my own, and my first obligation is honesty to my readers.

DETAILS:

All the Téo Cabanel fragrances in a sample set. Source: Téo Cabanel e-store.

Cost & Availability: Barkhane is an eau de parfum that comes in a 50 ml/1.7 oz size that costs $130 or €95. It is also available in a 100 ml/3.4 oz size that isn’t quite as common and which costs €120. You can order Barkhane directly from the Téo Cabanel website (which also has a French language version), along with a Sample Set of all 7 Cabanel fragrances in 1.5 ml vials for a set price of €8.50.

In the U.S.: you can order Barkhane in the 50 ml size (at $130) from Luckyscent which now carries a number of the Téo Cabanel line, including my beloved Alahine. (I should add, however, that the latter is also available from discount retailers for a cheaper price, and you can check the Alahine review for some old links.) Luckyscent also offers samples starting at $4 a vial for 0.7 ml. (It’s a much better deal ordering directly from the company!)

Outside the US: In Canada, Cabanel’s website lists Fritsch Fragrances as its primary vendor. In the UK, London’s Bloom Parfumery carries some Téo Cabanel, but not all. You can call or email to see if they will carry Barkhane once it releases in the UK. Elsewhere, Téo Cabanel is usually carried at Fortnum & Mason’s, but I don’t see it shown online. Liberty’s states that Téo Cabanel fragrances are available only in their actual store. The Téo Cabanel line is carried at Germany’s First in Fragrance, but Barkhane is too new to be shown on the website yet. There are a vast number of perfume shops in the Netherlands and Germany which carry the Teo Cabanel line, so you can check the company’s website link for retailers that is provided down below. As a whole, for European readers, I saw Téo Cabanel online at Parfums MDP (which I think is in the UK?) for the same Euro rate as the company’s website. They say that there is “free worldwide postage” which I find to be stunning (and hard to believe)! I’ve also read that the perfumes are available at: the Hotel George V in Paris, Les Galeries Lafayette, Douglas (France, Lithuania, Russia), Kadewe Berlin, Oberpollinger Munich, and Albrecht in Frankfurt. For all other countries or specific cities, you can use the company’s Store Locator guide on their website.

Samples: Barkhane is available to test at Luckyscent, at the link above. It is too new for it to be carried at other places, but I will try to update this post if someone other than Luckyscent offers samples. Your best bet for the next few months is the latter, or the Téo Cabanel website with their very affordable sample set.

Tableau de Parfums/Andy Tauer Loretta

Posted on August 29, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Collaborations across different art forms and platforms are always intriguing. I think it is even more so when two different artists use the same source of inspiration to create works in two different mediums. Tableau de Parfums is one such collaboration, consisting of a perfume and movie pairing between the Swiss perfumer, Andy Tauer, and the American, Memphis-based, indie filmmaker, Brian Pera (who is also a perfume blogger at I Smell Therefore I Am).

Source: Tauerperfumes.com

There are three Tableau perfumes (Miriam, Loretta, and Ingrid) and, as the Tableau Parfums website at Evelyn Avenue explains, each one is an olfactory portrait “inspired by the films of Pera’s ongoing series, Woman’s Picture.” According to the website, “Woman’s Picture is an anthology film inspired by classic women’s films of the thirties, forties, and fifties. The story is divided into three sections, each of which presents a portrait of a specific female character.” The Miriam perfume is supposed to be quite heavily aldehydic, so I eschewed that one, and opted for Loretta which is an eau de parfum released in 2012 and which is supposed to be centered around tuberose. It’s my favorite flower, but the fragrance also has orange blossom (another winner in my book), ambergris, and other appealing notes.

Loretta‘s cinematographic tale is about a young woman by that same name who works in a motel. It comes in three parts, two of which are posted here. As Fragrantica summarizes: “She is shy and withdrawn, but creates her own life in a fantasy world where she danced and falls in love with a man. She is sensual, sexy and seductive, but she has a secretive dark side.” The reason why that’s important is because of the way the perfume is intended to reflect her light and dark sides. According to the press release quoted by Now Smell This:

Like the film, Loretta the fragrance explores the way fantasy and reality inform each other in an interplay of light and dark impulses and energies. In the film, the character of Loretta, played by Amy LaVere, deals with a difficult, mysterious past by transforming it into a dream world of possibility and romantic adventure. The balance between the past and her fantastic reinvention of it is delicate, fraught with tensions, where childlike naivete and adult awareness twist and curl into increasingly complex sensual patterns. Fragrance becomes an important gateway into this transformed world.

Andy Tauer on Loretta: “Loretta is an incredibly sensual and erotic story, in which a daydream world becomes a powerful, seductive reality. In Loretta’s world there is music, dance, romantic intimacy, soft light and a natural, childlike shyness confronted with somewhat dark, adult realities. Loretta’s flower is tuberose, and I wanted this fragrance to be as dark and mysterious, as opulent and seductive as her reveries themselves.”

It all sounds fascinating and intriguing, doesn’t it? Alas, I did not share Loretta’s adventures with the fragrance, not even remotely, which is a sad disappointment given the story, the tantalizingly dark aspects to the short films, and the wonderful notes in the fragrance. Those notes, as compiled from Luckyscent, Fragrantica, that press release, and The Perfumed Court, include:

ripe dark fruit, velvet rose, cinnamon, clove, coriander, spicy tuberose, orange blossom, patchouli, woody notes, ambergris, leather, vanilla, and sweetened orris root.

Source: Boston.com

Loretta opens on my skin with an explosion of grape juice that smells exactly like the American brand, Welch’s, in concentrated form. It’s as though a thousand kilos of Concord grape have been distilled down with about a gallon of sugar into a treacly syrup. There are lots of perfume explanations for the aroma, from the use of methyl anthranilate that occurs naturally in tuberose, to the amplifying effect of the dark fruits like plum. I’m sure the use of fruited patchouli had some indirect effect on the combination as well. Either way, I’m not a fan, and it doesn’t make me happy how prominent the grape juice accord is for a vast portion of the perfume’s lifespan.

Source: tastefood.info

In the immediate seconds after that unbelievably sweet burst of grapes, other notes are introduced. There are candied dark fruits, led by plum, and covered with more sugar, followed by coriander, some amorphous dark notes, and hints of cinnamon. A very hesitant orange blossom peeks her head through the curtains, along with touches of vetiver and sugared orris root, but all three remain on the sidelines for fear that they’ll be plowed down by the stampede of grape and crystallized dark fruits. Have I mentioned sugar yet? God, it seems to be seeping out from so many different corners! Take the orris root which is where one commonly gets the approximation of an iris smell. Here, on my skin, the note doesn’t smell so much of the flower, but of some sugared root. There is also a vague hint of some darkened, aged leather lurking about, but that too is sweetened. It’s simply too, too much for me.

Hovering all around is a wafting floral bouquet. It never feels like tuberose in the traditional sense, and it’s not like typical orange blossom or rose, either. In fact, it’s simply an abstract floral sweetness without much shape, delineation, or substance. It simply smells fruited and cloyingly sweet. (Have I discussed sugar, lately?)

Thirty minutes in, Loretta shifts a little. The leathery undertones temporarily become more prominent, along with amorphous, abstract woody notes and the blasted ISO E Super that Mr. Tauer loves so much. The latter isn’t overwhelming though, nor particularly strong, and it certainly isn’t medicinal in any way. Frankly, I think the reason why it doesn’t smell very noticeable is because not even that synthetic horror can compete with the saccharine grape juice and its bulldozer effect upon everything in its path.

While the perfume is getting a little darker on some levels, it’s also getting a little lighter on other ones. There is the subtle introduction of a powdery element that smells both vaguely floral in nature and slightly vanillic. Lurking underneath is a jarring hint of something that really resembles cooked celery to my nose. Perhaps it is the result of the combination of the vetiver with coriander, orris, and leather, but there is a definite vegetal quality in the base. Alongside it is a faintly sour nuance underlying the fragrance’s woodiness, but the latter is so vague, it’s hard to really analyze.

Source: LTphotographs Etsy store. (Website link embedded within photo.)

At the 90-minute mark, the notes blur, the perfume falls flat, and starts to feel thin. Loretta is still primarily a grape floral with dark fruits and increasingly soft spices, but the patchouli starts to feel more prominent. It doesn’t feel dark, dirty, and chewy like black patchouli, but it’s not wholly fruity and purple, either. Equally noticeable is the powder which is more sugared than anything akin to orris or makeup powder. In his blog entry about the making of Loretta, Mr. Tauer said he used benzyl acetate (a natural component of tuberose) to create a soft, sweet powdery note that lasts throughout the perfume’s development. He succeeded, because it does. Underneath all this are hints of something rooty, but they’re not distinguishable as either orris or vetiver. There are also whispers of darkened leather and vanilla flittering about, but they feel nebulous as well.

Source: theberry.com

By the start of the 3rd hour, Loretta is an abstract, intangible, amorphous bouquet. The notes feel flat, muted, and vague. The fragrance itself hovers just an inch or two above the skin, though it is still very potent when sniffed up close. For the most part, Loretta is a candy, bubblegum floral, thanks to the overall combination of sweet powder, fruits, and flowers. It has little delineation or definition, and not a single bit of it feels like the woman in the tale with her dark side, her quiet eroticism, and her fantasies of seduction. To the extent that Loretta, the woman, had a “soft light and a natural, childlike shyness,” that part is covered, but the seductive, languidly fleshy, heady, opulent and erotic side of such indolic flowers as tuberose and orange blossom? There is not a whisper of it on my skin. I’m quite saddened, not only because of my love for both flowers, but because I know how much work went into the fragrance. Andy Tauer’s blog has a detailed perfume breakdown of what he did to the tuberose, and the other elements he used. All the “tuberose specials” that he talks about, along with the concentrated orange blossom absolute, somehow got lost in translation on my skin. I’m not alone in that, but we’ll get to other people’s experiences in a moment.

For a long time, I was very confused as to why Fragrantica classified Loretta as a floral oriental, but things became clearer at the end of the fourth hour. Until that point, Loretta had gone from being a cloying, unbearably sweet, fruity scent with vague florals, to just plain, powdered Juicy Fruit with less sweetness and still vague florals. At the end of the fourth hour, however, Loretta veers sharply and abruptly into a whole new category when the amber rises to the surface. In less than an hour, it takes over completely. Loretta is now sweet powdered amber with a lingering trace of Juicy Fruit gum. There are hints of a jammy, patchouli-infused rose that pop up every now and then, but they’re fleeting and extremely muted. For the most part, Loretta is merely soft, hazy, sugar-powdered amber, and it remains that way until its dying moments when it is nothing more than powdered sweetness. All in all, it lasted Loretta lasted just shy of 11.5 hours on my skin. It had moderate sillage throughout most of its lifetime, though it was generally quite potent if you sniffed it up close for much of the first 7 hours.

I’m not the only person who found Loretta to be dominated by an incredibly sweet grape note and, to a lesser extent, sweet powder. The Scented Hound had the same reaction, and, like me, found the remaining notes to be hard to pull out from under the deluge. In his very diplomatic review, he wrote:

Loretta opens with candied tart sweetness. It’s bright with just a tinge of sour. Quickly it moves into grape soda. Really??? Then quickly again, the grape soda is met with a light powder. […] Thankfully, the grape soda is met with a bit of warmth that helps to anchor the sweetness. The plum (which to me smells like grape soda) completely dominates and therefore makes it hard for me to pick out additional notes even though I know they’re there as the fragrance starts to even out. Finally, Loretta settles down some to reveal a lightly sweetened patchouli woodiness tinged with a bit of what seems to be some coriander. [¶]

Loretta confuses me. I don’t hate her and I don’t love her and am struggling with when I would want to wear her. I keep reading about the tuberose in this, but that is completely escaping me. Finally, besides grape soda, Loretta reminds me of what the penny candy aisle at the Ben Franklin store used to smell like. Not for me, but I could see someone else digging this for its uniqueness.

On Fragrantica, there is more talk about the fragrance’s sweetness and oddness. To give just one example:

This smells to me as if I was carrying grape flavor Crush inside of a black leather pouch. It’s very weird and dissonant, like an orchestra tuning before a show.

I get a strong leather note, with a sweet plum and tuberose accord. Super strange perfume… it’s sweet, sweet, sweet, but in an airy kind of way that only orange blossom has. It’s also screechy and spicy. I’m reminded of extremely synthetic gummy candies and that’s fun. This is truly a scent for an original individual, I think, while being very sexy and confident. Who can pull this off!!?? It’s all over the place, colorful and confusing, but mesmerizing, like an acid trip. I keep on sniffing it and I get this highly enjoyable repulsion/attraction duality. I love that.

Another trippy perfume that wears me instead of me wearing it… smells just like a purple gummy bear stuck to my black leather jacket. Fun times.

Others talk about how the fragrance smells of “spicy tutti-fruity” gum, sticky sweetness, a greasy oily nuance, or black rubber notes. One commentator finds that “the plum overtakes everything and with the other warm resinous notes it smells of decadence- overripe fruit right on the verge of rotting.” Well, I agree that Loretta has a tutti-fruitti gum note, but, for me, the scent is not “fun times” as stated in the quote above, and I can see why one reviewer finds it “unwearable.” Even apart from the fragrance’s nebulous haziness, I don’t want a weird “acid trip… repulsion/attraction duality” with “purple gummy bears” for $160 for a 1.7 oz bottle. I don’t mind very different, weird fragrances if they smell good, but a cloyingly sweet scent that makes me feel I just got three cavities is not my cup of tea at any price.

Source: weheartit.com

My personal tastes notwithstanding, Loretta is not a bad fragrance, and I think it would be well suited for a young woman who is looking for something different, quirky, and playful. It’s definitely original and unconventional enough to venture into the “fun” category. In fact, I can see CosPlayers dressed up as Japanese anime characters enjoying the scent, or, perhaps, Lolita types. Whether they’d want to pay $160 for the experience, I have no idea. People who love extremely sweet fruity-florals, powdery sugar scents, or Welch’s grape juice may also want to give Loretta a sniff. For everyone else, especially men, I wouldn’t recommend Loretta.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Loretta is an eau de parfum that comes in a 50 ml/1.7 oz bottle that costs $160 or €135, and which comes with a DVD and movie poster. Loretta also comes in a small 7 ml travel spray that costs $40. In the U.S.: you can buy Loretta from Luckyscent or Portland’s The Perfume House. However, neither Loretta nor Tableau de Parfums as a whole is listed on The Perfume House’s website. Outside the U.S.: In Europe, you can find Loretta at Germany’s First in Fragrance which sells the perfume for €135.00 and the travel size for €39. It too carries samples. In the UK, Scent & Sensibility carries Tableau de Parfums, and sells Loretta for £110.00. In Italy, you can find the fragrance at Milan’s Profumi Import, but I’m not clear about price or if they have an e-store. Tableau de Parfums fragrances are also sold at a handful of other locations in Europe, from Marie-Antoinette in Paris, to Switzerland and Lithuania. You can find that information on the company’s website. Samples: I obtained my sample from The Perfumed Court, but I no longer see the fragrance listed on the website. The only available option is a Loretta Soap. Loretta is not sold at Surrender to Chance, so your best bet seems to be Luckyscent which sells samples for $4.

Perfume Review: Xerjoff Mamluk (Oud Stars Collection)

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Mamluk. Source: Fragrantica.

Xerjoff is an uber-luxury, Italian niche perfume house founded in 2004 by Sergio Momo. In 2012, Xerjoff (pronounced as “Zer-joff”) launched its Oud Stars Collection of fragrances which included Mamluk, a gourmand take on agarwood. Like the rest of its siblings, Mamluk was created by the perfume house’s founder, in conjunction with Sonia Espelta and Laura Santander.

The notes in Mamluk according to Xerjoff and Luckyscent include:

Italian Bergamot, Honey, Caramel Accord, Jasmine Garndiflorum, Osmanthus, Laos Benzoin, Vanilla Madagascar, Indian Oud, Crystal Musks, and Amber.

Photo: Blentley via fr.fotopedia.com

Mamluk opens on my skin as the most unbelievably sweet bouquet of lemon and honey with a beautiful, but faint, floral tinge. Quickly, sour notes emerge, smelling rather urinous, though simultaneously infused with an incredible sugariness. Thankfully, both the sourness and the pee-like nuance are very short-lived, and fade away in a matter of minutes. In the meantime, subtle whiffs of a sharp, slightly astringent oud flicker on and off, while musk, amber, and a warm plushness stir in the base.

The famous Cora "Sun Drop" yellow diamond. Source: extravaganzi.com

The famous Cora “Sun Drop” yellow diamond. Source: people.com.cn

What’s interesting about Mamluk’s opening minutes is that, despite smelling the nuances of the individual notes, you’re subsumed by the overall effect which is far more over-reaching, all-encompassing and lovely. Yes, you can detect the lemon or the subtle florals, along with the other elements, but Mamluk envelops you in a blooming cloud that feels absolutely radiant. It’s like a giant, yellow diamond shining in the dark, throwing off rays of crystal clarity and sharpness. And, yet, there is incredible softness billowing out as well. It’s like a juxtaposition of angles but, also, of extremes that’s very hard to describe. Take, for example, that lemon and honey combination. It is so sweet, it almost hurts; so intense, it can verge on the sharp; and yet, there is a radiant softness that almost glitters.

Bergamot. Source: a1.ro

Ten minutes into Mamluk’s development, the perfume turns even sweeter and warmer. The citrus is heady, conjuring images of the fruit lying ripe, thick, and heavy on the branch, and so sweetened by the sun that it verges on the over-blown. The subtle floral nuances are simultaneously airy, thick, gauzy, dainty, indolic, and slightly voluptuous. Again, it’s the story of contradictory extremes. In the background, the Indian oud now feels so sweetened that it almost verges on the caramelized. It’s a far cry from the medicinal, ripe cheese and fecal characteristics of the very aged, rare agarwood from Laos that dominates Mamluk’s very masculine sibling, Zafar. The overall effect of the different elements in Mamluk is an intoxicating, honeyed headiness that feels almost piercing in its sweetness and glitter.

Slowly, slowly, the sweetness starts to take some shape. Twenty minute in, the heavy honey cloud takes on a definite salty caramel undertone. There is a similar salty vibe to the musk and golden amber, leading me to believe that there may be actual ambergris — that really rare, difficult to find, incredibly expensive ingredient — in Mamluk, and not the generic sort of “amber” that is used in most perfumery. The floral notes aren’t as easy to distinguish. They feel amorphous, and never like distinct jasmine or osmanthus. In fact, I don’t smell any of osmanthus’ tea or apricot undertones, though I detect something that feels a lot like peach. Perhaps, it’s the effect of the rich honey and the lurking caramel that have made the osmanthus into something far richer than delicate apricot. Over time, the caramel becomes stronger and more powerful, infusing everything with its sugary tones. When combined with the honey, the sweetness completely overpowers and overshadows the subtle flickers of oud, which now retreats far, far to the background, never to be seen again until the drydown. At the 40-minute mark, even the flowers feel as though they’ve been drenched in caramel and, to be honest, it’s a bit cloying at this stage. Have I mentioned that Mamluk is a very sweet fragrance?

Source: Wallpaperscraft.com

Mamluk never changes in its primary essence, only in its shape. From start to finish, it is predominantly a very sweet citrus-honey fragrance with other notes that circle around it like planets around a honeyed sun. For the first three hours, the florals are the main lady-in-waiting, though they always feel abstract and indistinct. Sometimes the floral-peach note seems a little more prominent, sometimes the caramel, but, at all times, the star of the show is the tangoed dance of honey and heavy, sun-sweetened lemon.

The only big change in this period is in Mamluk’s texture which becomes softer, warmer, smoother, lighter, and less thick. The edges have been rounded out, even blurred, so that the whole thing feels more billowy than ever. The perfume feels better balanced, particularly the sweetness which, at the start of the second hour, seems much less overwhelming. Mamluk is that oddest of combinations: a fragrance whose potent, indolic notes feel simultaneously thick and airy, strong and light, voluminous and heavy, sharp and blurry. It would almost feel like a vague cloud, except you can clearly detect those main notes — limited and monotonous as they may be.

It’s only around the fourth hour that the notes themselves start to shift their place in the rotation. Now, the oud starts to peek out from behind the sun. It’s as though it needed the power of the other notes to fade a little before it had the chance to be noticed. Taking its place in the background is the floral bouquet which becomes softer and less noticeable with every passing hour. Mamluk is now a honey-citrus perfume infused with sweetened agarwood and the barest suggestion of rich vanilla bean paste. In its final moments, Mamluk is nothing more than abstract sweetness with the vaguest suggestion of honey.

All in all, Mamluk lasted a little over 11.25 hours on my perfume-consuming skin. It’s an incredibly powerful perfume, even when its projection drops from its initial heady heights towards the end of the second hour. At that point, Mamluk only wafts 3 inches above the skin, though it is still extremely strong within that small cloud. It takes the fragrance about 7.5 hours to become a skin scent, though it doesn’t require voracious sniffing to detect it even then. For all that Mamluk sometimes feels like a billowing, radiant cloud in weight, the strength of the fragrance cannot be under-estimated. I merely dabbed, approximately 2.5 large-ish smears, and I cannot imagine the power of Mamluk if one actually sprayed it on, never mind if one sprayed on a lot. My God, they might smell you out at the space station!

I like Mamluk, though I think one could get a little bored of it and exhausted by the fierce onslaught of its richness. It’s linear, monotonous, far from complex, and, yet, it’s also pretty, lush, rich, heady, and languid. Mamluk is really a honey lover’s fragrance, and not something I’d ever recommend to those whose skin chemistry always turns the note sour, urinous, or animalic. I’m lucky and, with one single perfume exception, honey always blooms on my skin, so obviously this review reflects that aspect. As a whole, Mamluk feels quite unisex, though it may be too feminine for those men who like their agarwood on the very undiluted, masculine, edgy, raw side (like in Zafar). Mamluk is actually a perfect fragrance for those who normally struggle with oud, who like it highly tamed and sweetened, and who prefer it to be a minor, unobtrusive player instead of a main one. It’s definitely a fragrance for those who love very sweet or gourmand perfumes. For me personally, it’s a little too repetitive, one-dimensional, and boring, but I can definitely see its heady charms. Mamluk is frightfully expensive, however, and I personally think it’s actually far too expensive for its very simple nature. However, price is always a subjective issue, and Mamluk does feel opulently luxurious, so if you love honey and dislike strong oud, then you may want to give it a try.

DETAILS:

General Cost: Oud Stars Mamluk is an eau de parfum that is only available in a 50 ml/1.7 oz bottle that costs $315 or €240. In the U.S.: you can buy Mamluk from Luckyscent, though they seem to be back-ordered. There is also an Oud Stars Discovery set of 6 fragrances in 15 ml sizes for $250, but they are sold out of that too at the moment. Mamluk is also offered by Parfums Raffy for the same price of $315, and it is not sold out there. MinNY does not list Mamluk, though it does offer a sample for purchase. Outside the U.S.: You can order Mamluk directly from Xerjoff for €240, or you could opt for the sample set (which is currently sold out) for €195. In the UK, Xerjoff is carried at Roja Dove’s Haute Parfumerie in Harrods. In Paris, Mamluk is carried at Jovoy which sells it for €240, Germany’s First in Fragrance sells it for €247, and the Netherland’s Aafkes for €240. In Russia you can buy Mamluk at Orental for what seems to be 6,000 Ru, and also at Lenoma. The Oud Stars Discovery Set is offered by some perfume retailers, such as Aafkes and First in Fragrance. It’s priced at €195 for 6 different fragrances in 15 ml sizes. For all other locations from Sweden to the Middle East, you can turn to the List of Retailers on the Xerjoff site to find a Xerjoff vendor near you. Samples: you can buy Mamluk from Surrender to Chance where prices start at $6.99 for a 1/2 ml vial. Samples are also sold at MinNY.