Top notes: Aldehydes, bergamot, lemon, neroli
Heart notes: Jasmine, rose, lily of the valley, orris, ylang-ylang
Base notes: Vetiver, sandalwood, cedar, vanilla, amber, civet, musk
Emeraude by Coty (1921)
Perfumer: François Coty
This drugstore classic is considered by many to be the inspiration for Guerlain’s Shalimar. Initially sharp, aldehydic, and citrusy-resinous, this comforting and haunting fragrance mellows out into a creamy amber/vanilla drydown with a hint of civet.
Top notes: Orange, bergamot, tarragon
Heart notes: Jasmine, ylang-ylang, rose, rosewood
Base notes: Amber, sandalwood, patchouli, opopanax, benzoin, vanilla
Habanita by Molinard (1921)
Originally marketed in 1921 to perfume cigarettes, Habanita came in two forms: scented sachets made to tuck into a pack of cigarettes, or as a liquid you could apply to your cigarettes with a glass rod, to “perfume the smoke with a delicious, lasting aroma.” By 1924, Molinard had turned their scent into a perfume to be worn rather than smoked, but the decadent connotations remained.
Smoky, fruity, and floral notes rest on a base of vanillic, creamy benzoin and leather, making Habanita a complexly comforting scent of sweetness and warmth. A haze of tobacco smoke and the earthiness of leather tie together what starts out sharp (vetiver), gliding later into a jammy sweetness. As the perfume dries down, it smells like the foil that lines a pack of cigarettes.
An advertising trade card for Habanita and a catalog featuring Habanita perfume for cigarettes. Originally marketed in 1921 to perfume cigarettes, Habanita later became a perfume to be worn rather than smoked. (Courtesy of The Farnsworth Collection)
What might at first sniff seem like sensuality in Habanita comes across instead as gourmand, and the tobacco smoke and leather suggest powderiness rather than roughness. So instead of being the dangerous perfume a femme fatale would wear, Habanita signifies comfort—like being stuck in a cafe in Paris on a cold day, comfortably trapped in a room filled with cigarette smoke, an old lady’s violet-scented dusting powder, and the aroma of buttery baked goods.
Top notes: Vetiver, peach, strawberry, orange blossom
Heart notes: Rose orientale, ylang-ylang, orris, lilac
Base notes: Leather, vanilla, cedarwood, benzoin
Chanel No. 22 by Chanel (1922)
Perfumer: Ernest Beaux
Fizzy, bubbly, and fresh, Chanel No. 22 has the character of a popped bottle of champagne. A precursor to Madame Rochas and White Linen, Chanel No. 22 is one of the best aldehydic florals, those motivational speakers of the perfume world unclouded by darkness and with nary a bad thing to say about anyone.
But this doesn’t mean Chanel No. 22 is uninteresting. Clean, white florals feel overexposed like the whites of surrealist photographer Man Ray’s solarized black-and–white photographs. They are met with scratchy vetiver and incense to give their freshness character, while vanilla warms it all up in the base.
Top notes: Aldehydes
Heart notes: Jasmine, tuberose, ylang-ylang, rose
Base notes: Vetiver, vanilla, incense
Nuit de Noël by Caron (1922)
Perfumer: Ernest Daltroff
Perhaps because Nuit de Noël is a perfume that is supposed to evoke the comforts of Christmas, it is one of the few Ernest Daltroff perfumes that doesn’t smell like it needs to go to reform school. Nuit de Noël starts out with a sharp and intense ylang-ylang note, moves into a cinnamony-rose and jasmine heart, and dries down to a spicy comfort scent that evokes mulling spices and the warmth of a room indoors on a wintry day.
Notes: Rose, jasmine, ylang-ylang, sandalwood, moss, musk
Rallet No. 1 by A. Rallet & Co. (1923),
previously Bouquet of Catherine by A. Rallet & Co. (1913)
Perfumer: Ernest Beaux
Few people know that Chanel No. 5 is a palimpsest—that is, a text that has been reused or altered, which still carries traces of its earlier incarnation. For perfume historians Philip Kraft, Christine Ledard, and Philip Goutell (as they argue in an article for Perfume & Flavorist magazine), Chanel No. 5 is a retweaked version of Ernest Beaux’s earlier Rallet No. 1, which just also happens to be his Bouquet de Catherine (1913) by another name. In a landmark article published in Perfume & Flavorist magazine, they concluded that their research showed that the formulas for Rallet No. 1 and Chanel No. 5—both composed by Ernest Beaux—were strikingly similar.
The story behind these multiple renamings and reformulations involves wars, histories, Gabrielle (aka Coco) Chanel’s love life, some royalty, and the inevitable mythologizing and cover-up that makes the idea of Truth with a capital T recede further into the distance.
Before Ernest Beaux was Chanel’s perfumer, he was the perfumer for A. Rallet & Co., a Russian perfumery founded in Moscow in 1843. In 1896 it was bought by Antoine Chiris of Grasse, France, who moved its operations to Paris in 1917, when Russia nationalized its assets. Rallet catered to wealthy Russians, many of whom would come to Paris to shop. To celebrate the three hundredth anniversary of the Romanov dynasty’s rule in Russia, Rallet had Beaux create his first perfume using aldehydes—Bouquet of Catherine (1913)—inspired by Robert Bienamé’s 1912 floral aldehyde, Quelques Fleurs. Unfortunately, war broke out in Europe the next year, and Beaux enlisted with the French army and was conscripted until 1919.
It’s unclear at what point Bouquet of Catherine was rechristened Rallet No. 1, but it was released with that name in 1923. When the Bolsheviks did away with the Imperial Russia that was in power, the Russian market that had purchased Rallet could no longer afford these perfumes, and Beaux had to hawk Rallet No. 1 elsewhere. First stop: Coty. Denied. Then, a fateful introduction between Beaux and Gabrielle Chanel was made through her purported lover, Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, an exile from Imperial Russia, and the Chanel No. 5 we know now, with its over-the-top, expensive jasmine, rose, and ylang-ylang, was born as a high-end reformulation of Rallet No. 1.
A wonderful reader gave me a sample from an original Rallet No. 1 bottle. Sniffing it is like recognizing a movie star’s familiar, if less dazzling, sibling.
A promise of the Orient via Un Air Embaumé from Rigaud
Cuir de Russie (or Russia Leather) by Chanel (1924)
With Russia Leather (also known as Cuir de Russie),Chanel combines a luxurious balsamic creaminess and spice with the animalic smell of leather in a collision this 1941 ad calls paradoxical.
Perfumer: Ernest Beaux
In this legendary leather perfume, flora and fauna are locked in an erotic embrace, a swirl of floral notes fattened by rich balsams and dirtied by animalic leather. I’m not sure that there’s any vintage perfume that telegraphs opulence and elegant languor quite like Cuir de Russie, once called Russia Leather for the American market. Smoke, leather, and bitter birch tar take the floral notes in Cuir de Russie into a dark, erotic place, but then when the darkness subsides, a decadent ylang-ylang, without its characteristic sharpness but with all its richness, blooms with amber and vanilla. As the vintage dries down, Cuir de Russie toggles between creamy balsamic notes with the undeniable animal of fur and hides. Swoon-worthy.
Top notes: Orange blossom, bergamot, lemon, mandarin, clary sage
Heart notes: Orris, carnation, rose, ylang-ylang, jasmine, cedarwood, vetiver
Base notes: Leather, amber, opopanax, styrax, heliotrope, vanilla
Knize Ten by Knize (1924)
Perfumers: François Coty and Vincent Roubert
Started in 1858 by a Czech military man named Joseph Knize, Knize is a Viennese bespoke tailor/men’s clothing house that’s still kicking today. The “ten” in Knize Ten represents the highest handicap in polo, the chic sport whose images Knize used in its advertising.
Knize Ten starts with a hot blast of birch tarry-leather, petit grain, and rosemary that tops its bright notes of bergamot/orange/lemon. Soon after, the woody-powdery center takes the perfume into a desert of dryness, while subtle arom
atic cinnamon and spicy carnation provide a bridge to Knize Ten’s smoky-leathery drydown. A touch of vanilla, amber, and a menthol note (is this the resiny, mentholated facet from cedarwood?) intervenes occasionally, but throughout, from top to bottom, a tough, tarry, smoky, rubbery leather is ever-present and my favorite part of this gorgeous leather classic. The reformulation is less dry and leathery.
Top notes: Bergamot, lemon, orange, petit grain, rosemary
Heart notes: Geranium, cedarwood, rose, orris, carnation, cinnamon, sandalwood
Base notes: Leather, musk, moss, amber, castoreum, vanilla
My Sin by Lanvin (1924)
This 1960s ad captures the 1924 perfume’s animal magnetism.
Perfumer: possibly Madame Zed
With the narcotic sweetness of neroli, ylang-ylang, and jasmine, initially pushed in a green, fresh direction by its sharp top notes, My Sin quickly drops it like it’s hot in the base notes, with a lascivious and warm civet-led balsamic drydown.
My Sin’s notes have converged to create a sexual flower, one that is at its most fragrant, from a meadow in full bloom on the hottest spring day, visited by the horniest, healthiest bees at the height of health. It smells lush, overripe, and decadent. This is one of those readily available vintage perfumes that might convince you that the difference between modern and vintage perfumery is akin to the difference between polyester and velvet, a two-dimensional photograph and a 3-D hologram, or digital and analog. Luscious.
Top notes: Aldehydes, lemon, bergamot, clary sage
Heart notes: Neroli, jasmine, clove, rose, muguet (lily of the valley), jonquil, ylang-ylang, lilac
Base notes: Vetiver, vanilla, musk, woods, tolu, styrax, civet
Toujours Moi by Corday (1924)
Masks are a haunting signature icon in Corday’s beautifully surreal ads. This one for Toujours Moi is from the 1940s.
The love child of Tabu and Habanita, Toujours Moi (“Forever Me”) is a must-have for lovers of perfume in the Oriental category. It has the vanillic sensuality of Shalimar, a hint of Tabu’s eroticism, and a comforting whisper of Habanita’s smoky tobacco.
There have been several Toujours Moi formulas, and I’ve had the pleasure of smelling two versions—one from the 1950s and one from the 1960s. (The ’60s box features line drawings of maidens and unicorns, a result of Max Factor buying Corday and moving production to New York.) A reader sent me the ’50s version, which I would describe as rounder, more powdery and amber-vanillic warm than the later version, which leaves a stronger tobacco/incense impression in the drydown. Its woody, balsamic finish hours into the drydown is my favorite part.
Notes: Orange blossom, lavender, jasmine, lilac, vetiver, musk, incense
Crêpe de Chine by F. Millot (1925)
Crêpe de Chine’s floral bouquet is blended so well that only the brightest and sharpest notes—ylang-ylang, lilac, and jasmine—poke their petals out, looking for attention. Its floral come-on is followed by reserve and elegance—it is a chypre, after all—telling you that in spite of its outward friendliness, you should not get too familiar with it. This floral chypre has a nice balance of sweetness and spice, sparkle and depth, friendliness and reserve.
Top notes: Bergamot, lemon, orange, neroli, fruit note
Heart notes: Carnation, rose, jasmine, ylang-ylang, lilac
Base notes: Oakmoss, vetiver, labdanum, benzoin, patchouli, musk
A 1937 ad for F. Millot’s Crepe de Chine
Le Dandy by D’Orsay (1925)
Because of its boozy, leathery scent and its gender trouble-causing name, which refers to the nineteenth-century male fashion plate, Le Dandy has often been mistaken as a men’s fragrance. This 1944 ad makes clear that it was made for women to turn heads.
A precursor to both Lanvin’s Rumeur and Rochas’s Femme, Le Dandy by D’Orsay causes some gender trouble for the researcher even now, nearly ninety years after its creation, begging the question: Why worry about gender at all in perfume?
First, the name refers to that foppish, musk-wearing nineteenth-century clotheshorse whose goal was to turn his life into a work of art. You know—a guy in fancy clothes, a walking stick, and a top hat, throwing out barbs like Oscar Wilde. Then there’s the scent: a fruity, boozy tobacco/leather that could be mistaken (especially with a name like that) for a men’s scent, with accords that are now conventionally masculine.
But when you look at the ads of the time, they often feature men watching a beautiful woman whose intrigue comes, in part, from Le Dandy’s sillage, the trail of scent left by perfume. “Someone lovely has just passed by,” reads one 1937 ad for Le Dandy, “and her loveliness was exquisitely accented by the rare fragrance—Le Dandy.”
Fruity and boozy in its opening—like its contemporary, Rumeur, and the subsequent Femme (1944), but without their restraint—Le Dandy dries down to a decadent vanilla-warmed leather scent with hints of tobacco and musk. A true “huffer”—my term for a scent so good you want to huff it like paint fumes to get high.
Notes: Aldehydes, spicy woods, clove, musks, soapy patchouli, balsams, coumarin
(Notes from Yann Vasnier.)
A photorealistic eye covetously peers through a hole in the wall at Envie perfume on the other side in this surreal 1947 ad by J. Duplan.
Le Numéro Cinq (Le Parfum Connu) by Molyneux (1925)
Like Dana’s Tabu on a particularly drunk and amorous night, Le Numéro Cinq (“The Number Five”) smells like stewed fruit and rich flowers resting on a vanillic and ambery-spicy base kissed with orris. This is Chanel No. 5’s darker, more-complex cousin—the one who went to art school while Chanel No. 5 went to finishing school.
Le Numéro Cinq is often called “the other number 5.” Lore has it that Edward Molyneux (1891–1974), an English fashion designer who started the Molyneux couture house in Paris, made a pact with Coco Chanel in 1921 to make a “Number 5” perfume. As both perfumes launched, so the story goes, they would see which one became more successful. Nigel Groom, in The Perfume Handbook, says that Molyneux named his perfumes after his different addresses: 3, 14, and 5.
Whichever story is correct, we all know which perfume became successful, and which one had to change its name. Ironically enough, Le Numéro Cinq became Le Parfum Connu (“The Known Perfume”), and then languished in obscurity. It was discontinued in the late 1960s or early ’70s.
Notes not available.
Que Sais-Je? by Jean Patou (1925)
Perfumer: Henri Alméras
Although he is best known for Joy, the Depression-era perfume dubbed “the costliest perfume in the world,” Jean Patou also released Ma Collection, twelve perfumes originally launched between 1925 and 1964, and rereleased in 1984 using the original formulas by in-house perfumer Jean Kerléo (1967–97).
The first three perfumes in Ma Collection released in 1925 were inspired by the different stages of falling in love. Amour, Amour (“Love, Love”) is self-explanatory. Que Sais-Je? (“What Do I Know?”) represents the devil-may-care attitude of those who live by their hearts and not their heads. Adieu Sagesse (“Farewell, Wisdom”) means she’s in deep, and there’s no going back. Que Sais-Je? was marketed for brunettes; Amour, Amour for blondes; Adieu Sagesse for redheads.
So what does a perfume called Que Sais-Je? smell like? The first thing that hit me was an intense, honeyed, peachy-suede-leather accord that reminded me of Jacques Fath’s Iris Gris and Courrèges’s Empreinte, both complex peachy affairs. Unlike Iris Gris, which smells monumentally strange (like peach-scented pastry dough, according to some), and Empreinte, which is a more delicate and refined peach-melon leather chypre, Que Sais-Je? is a more straightforwardly fruity-spicy chypre.There is a marzipan-like richness to Que Sais-Je? that perhaps comes from either a hazelnut or almond accord.
Like Colony, another Ma Collection perfume and a strange pineapple-chypre combo, the strong chypre base creates an interesting dissonance with the syrupy sweetness of its beginning. Perhaps like the woman who has given in to love—to hell w
ith the consequences—Que Sais-Je? asks us to think of her as strong and daring as well as girlishly impetuous. The more I sit with Que Sais-Je?, the more I respect its translation into perfume notes of what plunging headlong into love is like, which apparently is a combination of syrupy sweetness and fiery passion.
And if such things sway you, consider this: Indie perfumer Andy Tauer lists Que Sais-Je? as one of the top ten perfumes you should try before you die.
Notes: Peach, honey, hazelnut
Shalimar by Guerlain (1925)
In this 1938 advertisement, Shalimar is this brunette’s type—or is it the other way around?
Perfumer: Jacques Guerlain
Like Picasso’s portrait of Dora Maar, with three colors masterfully representing not only different planes on the subject’s face, but also her exquisite emotions, Shalimar juxtaposes the bracing zest of bergamot, the warmth of sensual vanilla, and the naughty raunch of civet. These should clash, just as those three colors in Maar’s portrait shouldn’t be able to create such an expressive face, and yet they combine to form something both striking and comforting.
Shalimar telegraphs opulence, comfort, and decadence, with a hint of the disreputable from the civet. What is it about civet? It lurks, it jumps out unexpectedly, it emits a low growl, adding mystery to every perfume it’s in. If Shalimar were a gemstone, bergamot, vanilla, and civet would be the facets always hit by the light.
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