17 posts tagged "Frederic Malle"
When we ran into Barneys’ Simon Doonan at the Fifi Awards last month, topic one, of course, was fragrance, followed by a somewhat disjointed segue into President Obama’s stand on gay marriage—but we digress. As to the former, Doonan was extolling the virtues of the latest scent from perfumer Frédéric Malle, who frequently debuts his niche offerings exclusively at the Madison Avenue department store. We’re fans of Malle’s work (we happily accepted an invitation to toast his last olfactory achievement, Dans Tes Bras, when it premiered last fall), but at first we weren’t tempted by the laudatory tales of his latest endeavor, Geranium Pour Monsieur, as there seemed to be a slight retail bias at foot. Doonan’s enthusiasm did seem genuine, though, so we eventually got a hold of the new perfume, had a sniff, and have this to say: Sorry we ever doubted your intentions, Simon. With the help of perfumer Dominique Ropion, Malle has created a new, modern take on the forgotten scent of geranium, intended, he explains, as a clean alternative to what he describes as “the all-too mundane fern-type smells that dominate men’s perfumery.” Anise, refined white musks, mint absolute, clove, and cinnamon round out the fragrance, which, although it’s branded as a men’s scent, happens to smell pretty darn good with our female pheromones—so good, in fact, that we are considering switching up our signature eau, which has been with us for the last four years. Change, after all, can be a good thing.
After a rousing public appearance at Barneys last week, in which he was swarmed by fragrance groupies desperate for a chance to get an autograph on their bottles of his new scent, the celebration for Frédéric Malle’s violet and bergamot eau de parfum, Dans Tes Bras, continued last night upstairs at La Grenouille. At the dinner co-sponsored by Barneys, Alexandra of Greece, and Hamish Bowles, Malle was flanked again, though this time by friends and fans like Anh Duong, Simon Doonan, Waris Ahluwalia, and Chiara Clemente. As wafts of the peppery, powdery scent intermingled with flutes of Champagne, conversation turned to signature scents and the issue of whether to name or not to name your own when the prying question of “What are you wearing?” comes from friends, passersby, and the rogue cab driver with a particularly acute sense of smell. The answer, a resounding no, came with the additional determination that withholding this information was not, in fact, petty, but rather a necessary precautionary measure. (Some things, after all, must be kept sacred.)