The Alchemy of Aromas
“Smell is a word; perfume is literature.” —Jean-Claude Ellena
Prior to wine, my obsession du jour was fragrance and perfume. Like Burton “Gus” Guster from Psych whose nose is often referred to as the “super sniffer”, I have always been sensitive to smells, a trait I inherited from both parents. Since childhood, I’ve had a fascination with aromas and fragrances, long before I knew what they were — my days graced by Tide laundry detergent, tree-shaped car air fresheners in Summer Linen, my dad’s Christian Dior Fahrenheit cologne, my grandma’s Tiger Balm, ginger-scallion aromatics of Cantonese cooking, and our neighbor’s garlic-laden Sunday sauce.
These collected scent memories are stitched into my security blanket of childhood nostalgia — one whiff to instantly become my younger self, whether in the car with my parents, at the family dining table, in my neighbor’s kitchen, or in the room I shared with my grandmother (婆婆). This phenomenon is well delineated1 in Swann’s Way, one of seven volumes from Marcel Proust’s renowned novel In Search of Lost Time:
“But, when nothing subsists of an old past, after the death of people, after the destruction of things, alone, frailer but more enduring, more immaterial, more persistent, more faithful, smell and taste still remain for a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, on the ruin of all the rest, bearing without giving way, on their almost impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory.”
When I was old enough to wear perfume, I found myself marking milestones with them, akin to my present day storytelling in wine. High school was defined by the millennial zeitgeist of Liz Claiborne Curve, Clinique Happy, and Beyond Paradise by Estée Lauder. College had fun upgrades to Lacoste Touch of Pink, Marc Jacobs Daisy, The Beat by Burberry, and Fresh Sugar Lychee. Like wine in a glass versus on the palate, I admired how a fragrance could smell distinctly different in the air than it would on your skin. Any spritz from this personal archive would take me back to moments of teenage angst, first loves, off-campus parties, and burgeoning confidence.
Perfume is my go-to accessory. I do enjoy a well-design handbag and a cute pair of shoes, but I also love how perfume adds a sensory component that transcends the visual. I wear perfume like I’d wear a hat or scarf, letting my mood prescribe which accord (think: floral, citrus, fruit, musk, wood, etc.) should be emphasized from my greatest hits in fragrance, featuring various creations by Jo Malone, EDP Fréderic Malle, Byredo, and Maya.
Despite the abundance of fragrance choices, there had been an identity crisis afoot — one much rooted in self-esteem and my lack thereof. Ten years ago, I had a harrowing breakup with someone who had been my best friend since middle school. French for ‘wake’ (like the wake of a ship in the water), sillage refers to the degree to which a perfume’s fragrance remains in the air when worn — more technically, the scent trail that a perfume leaves behind as it evaporates. This friend had her own sillage: a vibrant personality lighting up every room she’d entered with her signature scent lingering heavily behind, often leaving me in her wake as a mere afterthought, my extroversion notwithstanding.
I had these feelings chalked up to my struggle with self worth until I realized I’d been dealing with an unassuming narcissist all along. I dreamed of one day finally being able to muster sillage of my own, especially as I had still harbored the void of faded friendship, even when letting her go was the right thing to do.
In 2013, shortly before the friendship went kaput, I had started The Perfect Scent, writer Chandler Burr’s account of a year inside the perfume industry in Paris and New York. The book shares details on numerous fragrances, their descriptions alluring enough to compel a trip to the perfume counter, in the same way tech sheets and tasting notes have influenced my wine purchases. I didn’t have a chance to finish the book until one fateful evening four years later, when I’d randomly stumbled into a West Village perfume boutique.
Perfumer Frédéric Malle enlisted architect Steven Holl to design his second New York City store, requesting it be built “like a drawer” — with an exterior and interior of the same style and material, appearing as if it had been slotted into the brownstone. The final space used aluminum foam in contrast with fragmented, futuristic semi-circles of walnut wood. Upon entering, the shop appeared speakeasy-esque with an “IYKYK” understanding. I felt at home right away, the space giving me the proverbial hug I desperately needed.
Editions de Parfums Frédéric Malle is based on a unique model, functioning2 like a publishing house with Malle himself as the editor and the perfumers as the authors. Like wine importers and wine shops with producers, Malle finds the best perfumers and untold scent stories waiting to be “published”. He takes it a step further with framed black-and-white portraits3 of participating perfumers hanging over the chilled cabinets containing parfum bottles, alongside three adjacent smelling pods allowing visitors to experience the scents in all their purity.
My friends in high school had staked claims on their respective perfumes — Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue, Ralph by Ralph Lauren, and Narciso Rodriguez for Her by Narciso Rodriguez, to name a few. I thought again of my ex-friend and her larger than life persona — her presence announced by a generous cloud of Un Jardin sur le Nil by Hermès, with me hanging behind in her shadow. Having had fallen victim to “snoozing and losing”, I overcompensated by not definitively picking one for myself, instead casually keeping a few in rotation, mostly because none really felt like me.
A helpful sales associate introduced me to the “library” of fragrance EDP Frédéric Malle had for olfactory perusal. Perhaps this would be my opportunity to find my signature scent — the one that had evaded me all this time. Based on my pitch for something fresh, preferably with citrus notes, she brought me over to the smelling pods to try Eau de Magnolia by Carlos Benaïm, Lys Méditerranée by Édouard Fléchier, and Bigarade Concentrée by Jean-Claude Ellena.
On the nose, Bigarade Concentrée made an immediate impression. Its essence of bitter orange, with pink peppercorn and cardamom in the wings, conjured up a Negroni: the bitterness of Campari, the botanicals of gin, the sweetness of vermouth, and the citrus aromas of an orange twist. After spending the better part of a year infatuated with Negroni cocktails, this connection and subsequent purchase were not a surprise. Once I saw Bigarade Concentrée was a Jean-Claude Ellena creation, I thought back to The Perfect Scent, which had covered the creation of Un Jardin sur le Nil, Ellena’s first composition as the inaugural in-house perfumer of Maison Hermès.
This unexpected visit to EDP Frédéric Malle was a sign I should finally finish the book. During the next night, after a four-year hiatus, I reopened The Perfect Scent to where I had left off — the chapter happening to mention Bigarade Concentrée, the very fragrance I had just purchased the evening prior. Here was this beautiful story focusing on my former friend’s signature scent, one that had taken up entire rooms (and half the book in this case), which gave way to my epiphany from this serendipitous page. I hadn’t remembered reading about Malle before, but I couldn’t have thought of a better way to fall back into the story, fresh from experiencing some in the scent pods at the shop.
I had connected with the way Jean-Claude Ellena framed his essais (French for ‘olfactory sketches’), as they were rooted much in writing and storytelling. In Ellena’s own words4, the most difficult sentence to write of any novel is the first. I feel similarly with every Substack post I’ve drafted thus far — the ideas come to me in fragments, with me honing the perfect introduction to set the tone for the rest of the content and segues.
“Perfume is a story in odor, sometimes poetry in memory.” —Jean-Claude Ellena
Bottled stories are found in wine as well as in fragrance. When Ellena’s children were young, they didn’t ask him for fairytales — he told5 them about scents instead. Ecris-nous une histoire en odeurs, they would say, write us a story in smells. He didn’t pull rabbits out of hats — he pulled perfumes out of his children’s imagination. They listened to his stories in perfume, including but not limited to the smell of madeleine cookies, of clothing, of whatever came to mind. Once, they ordered up the smell of winter, of the snow, because they lived in the south of France where it rarely snowed.
Malle had once said a good fragrance becomes6 part of the wearer. Incidentally, L’Eau d’Hiver, one of Ellena’s scents for Malle’s EDP collection, is one such example. The diaphanous nature of a cloud inspired7 the composition, like sleeping in hay during the summer. French for ‘winter water’, L’Eau d’Hiver implied cold water, but Ellena built the opposite: hot water for a cold winter, embodying the scent of a cloud filled with the sun. Chandler Burr later described8 it as having an ability to melt into your skin and mix with your bloodstream — L’Eau d’Hiver could make it seem you weren’t wearing a scent at all. This was what I had wanted for myself: a perfume that would be intrinsically me with each wear, one that would silently declare, “Hello world — Stefie is here!”
Most high end perfumes and fragrances (e.g., Giorgio Armani, Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan) are not actually created by the designers. The fragrances of the world are made by perfumers, the army of professional ghosts hired by fashion houses, something9 they try hard not to admit. Instead, they spend their hard-won marketing dollars to create the illusion that the perfumes do come from the designers. With the global fragrance market valued approximately at $60 billion, it’s no shock the importance for this façade remain in place. In contrast, Malle’s unconventional approach with his fragrance collection proudly gives credit without compunction — the spotlight is kept on these sorcerer of scents, whose names appear prominently on the bottles.
“Smell transports us, beautifully, strongly, insistently.” —Chandler Burr
After spending some time with Bigarade Concentrée, the cardamom and pink peppercorn gave way to a cumin note that didn’t sit well on my nose or skin, returning to EDP Frédéric Malle days later to find a better fit. Knowing more about Ellena’s L’Eau d’Hiver and Une Fleur de Cassie by Dominique Ropion, I was excited to see them come to life from the pages to my nose. I was charmed by the hot-cold polarity of L’Eau d’Hiver, and Une Fleur de Cassie had a powdery sophistication I hoped to be brave enough to wear one day. Accepting floral fragrances as my jam, I landed on Carlos Benaïm’s Eau de Magnolia.
About that epiphany I had a few paragraphs ago — I had realized this was my moment to take back what my former friend had robbed me of: confidence, conviction, and composure. The fragrances of Frédéric Malle, the ones I had discovered without her, could serve as the sillage that had long escaped my grasp. Maybe there was no such thing as the perfect scent, but there exist scents perfect for me and my perceptive nose to love. I may never have the “be-all and end-all” sillage I had envisioned, but who said one couldn’t have more than one signature scent? Once I surrendered to this notion, I found myself and my nose ensconced in six inviting fragrances, free from the specter of toxic friendship and tangy green mango.
I pop into EDP whenever I need a pick-me-up — for perfume refills and inspiration. Going strong for more than two decades since 2000, Malle’s well-curated collection of fragrances still wows me every time I smell them. Whether through The Perfect Scent or from my many visits to the boutique, these scent memories have been powerful enough to take me to the moment I released myself from a consuming spell, headlined by the most self-deprecating thoughts. From these ashes rise a phoenix of new scent memories, for the many seasons of adulthood.
More recently, one of those seasons has been my journey in wine. The aromas in the glass and the flavors on the palate stick with me in a mental catalog, especially alongside notable food pairings and engaging company. Many of the tasting wineups I’ve compiled are driven by sensory experiences, undeniably informed by my preceding enthusiasm for perfume.
Like Malle with his fragrances, I look to highlight the best producers and their remarkable wines, letting the alchemy of aroma, craft, and artistry speak for themselves. No longer is self doubt in play. I have found in my Two Bottle Stef alter ego a sillage for the ages — an impression I hope lingers after each glass-filled encounter.
“How Frédéric Malle Makes a New Perfume” by Bee Shapiro from The New York Times
“Steven Holl Designs Frederic Malle’s Boutique in New York’s West Village” by Pei-Ru Keh from Wallpaper
Chapter 9 from The Perfect Scent (2008) by Chandler Burr
Chapter 3 from The Perfect Scent (2008) by Chandler Burr
Chapter 8 from The Perfect Scent (2008) by Chandler Burr
Chapter 5 from The Perfect Scent (2008) by Chandler Burr
See Footnote 6.
Beginnings (prologue) from The Perfect Scent (2008) by Chandler Burr