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Abstract

er Gitane. In a desperate fluster, she tamped out the singed fabric with a powder puff that her lover had used for an act of pleasure not legally practiced outside Parisian brothels since 1754.Coco and her amour paused their frisson, sniffed the intoxicatingly infused air, and had a simultaneous petit morte so intense the Eiffel tower rumbled and the Mona Lisa winked. Et voilà, a classic perfume was born!Coco decided she must bottle the essence of this devilishly coquettish bouquet. It was a limited release deemed too powerful for the masses to wear — Chanel could not be held responsible for the cultural and sexual revolution that exposure to the fragrance’s potent musk would entail.Alas, how could such a scent possibly live up to expectations? Age and travel must have weakened her powers, I hear you say. Perhaps you should go and sniff a bit of J.Lo dear, this scent is not for you.This is no mere fragrance, but a daring, decadent moment in time. One must be prepared to wear the French lace, to smother the limbs in hot, sticky leather, to suffocate the senses, to dream of wearing this scent.This spellbinding essence is no walk on the beach, no white floral smorgasbord for the masses. Tom Ford has tried and failed to recreate it in his sad little laboratories in vain. As if an American could ever deduce the secret!The top note bulges with fermented crushed blackthorn berries pooling in the ashtray of a Moulin Rouge showgirl’s dr

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essing room.The middle note is sweet sweat, a salty barefoot walk of shame after a night out on the Riviera.The grand finale of this scent is enticingly cruel: it chokes the senses with a powdery fugue that can only be tolerated in five second increments.It may induce mild hives. It might turn your hair white and your toenails green. The chemical compounds used in early twentieth century French perfume houses were not safety tested.There is a chance you will ignite in flames should you spray it on your clothes and stand near a fire.This is a small price to pay for the honor of wafting this cloud of sumptuous black magic in your wake. People may pass out in your presence, but they will never forget you.Also, for the love of parfum, do me a favor and throw away everything with a pink bottle or flower motif on your dressing table. You’d be better off rolling around in some grass near a horse stable and rubbing yourself on a nearby jockey’s shirt. Do aim for boldness and originality where possible, mon cheris.Thank you for reading — I hope to be back next month. I am currently on the hunt for some voodoo infused frangipani in Venezuela that I have heard is to die for! xoxo until then my little doves.Steffany Ritchie is an American in Scotland who writes memoir, pop culture and and humor. She has never learned to love the rain and yes haggis is really weird.</article></body>

I’m a Reviewer on a Perfume Blog, Prepare to Have Your Mind Blown

I’m just a girl, willing to do whatever it takes for olfactory satisfaction.

Photo by Алёна: https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-in-black-dress-posing-with-bottle-of-perfume-8501676/

Sigh. I suppose the onus falls upon me to describe this legendarily obscure parfum today.

You shall likely never know what it smells like, dear ones, but I am here to give you a glimpse behind the velvet curtain of mythical scents that only we antique aroma addicts are mad enough to seek out.

I finally acquired a tiny vial of this discontinued Chanel fragrance from 1931, Madame Du Pourri. I cannot tell you where I obtained it; that would be more incriminating than Coco’s social calendar during WWII!

Just know that it involved a passport, some light espionage and (shudders) feet pics. Judge me all you will, but this life of olfactory obsession chose me. I am powerless to my nose’s quest for the perfect perfume. (I blame Maman, who bathed me with a few drops of her best Guerlain from the time I was un enfant!).

Rumour has it this scent was birthed when Madame Coco accidentally burned a hole in her tweed skirt with her Gitane. In a desperate fluster, she tamped out the singed fabric with a powder puff that her lover had used for an act of pleasure not legally practiced outside Parisian brothels since 1754.

Coco and her amour paused their frisson, sniffed the intoxicatingly infused air, and had a simultaneous petit morte so intense the Eiffel tower rumbled and the Mona Lisa winked. Et voilà, a classic perfume was born!

Coco decided she must bottle the essence of this devilishly coquettish bouquet. It was a limited release deemed too powerful for the masses to wear — Chanel could not be held responsible for the cultural and sexual revolution that exposure to the fragrance’s potent musk would entail.

Alas, how could such a scent possibly live up to expectations? Age and travel must have weakened her powers, I hear you say. Perhaps you should go and sniff a bit of J.Lo dear, this scent is not for you.

This is no mere fragrance, but a daring, decadent moment in time. One must be prepared to wear the French lace, to smother the limbs in hot, sticky leather, to suffocate the senses, to dream of wearing this scent.

This spellbinding essence is no walk on the beach, no white floral smorgasbord for the masses. Tom Ford has tried and failed to recreate it in his sad little laboratories in vain. As if an American could ever deduce the secret!

The top note bulges with fermented crushed blackthorn berries pooling in the ashtray of a Moulin Rouge showgirl’s dressing room.

The middle note is sweet sweat, a salty barefoot walk of shame after a night out on the Riviera.

The grand finale of this scent is enticingly cruel: it chokes the senses with a powdery fugue that can only be tolerated in five second increments.

It may induce mild hives. It might turn your hair white and your toenails green. The chemical compounds used in early twentieth century French perfume houses were not safety tested.

There is a chance you will ignite in flames should you spray it on your clothes and stand near a fire.

This is a small price to pay for the honor of wafting this cloud of sumptuous black magic in your wake. People may pass out in your presence, but they will never forget you.

Also, for the love of parfum, do me a favor and throw away everything with a pink bottle or flower motif on your dressing table. You’d be better off rolling around in some grass near a horse stable and rubbing yourself on a nearby jockey’s shirt. Do aim for boldness and originality where possible, mon cheris.

Thank you for reading — I hope to be back next month. I am currently on the hunt for some voodoo infused frangipani in Venezuela that I have heard is to die for! xoxo until then my little doves.

Steffany Ritchie is an American in Scotland who writes memoir, pop culture and and humor. She has never learned to love the rain and yes haggis is really weird.