Paul Smith Men (Paul Smith), The Most Interesting Fragrance I've Smelled in the Last Five Years

Let’s talk about this.

Back in 2000, Nathalie Lorson and Alain Astori dropped Paul Smith Men, the British designer’s signature masculine fragrance in an EDT concentration. The bottle? Square, green-tinted glass, and about as unremarkable as they come. The name isn’t even on the front; it’s slapped on the side, which feels oddly self-effacing. The atomizer’s Kelly green, paired with a clear plastic screw-on cap. But the juice inside? A green explosion. Grassy, bitter, fresh, and laced with a violet note that hums with a faint, petrol-like edge alongside a peppery violet leaf. The Fragcomm often draws parallels between this and Fahrenheit, though just as many dismiss the connection outright.

Years ago, on Basenotes, someone posed the eternal question: “Is there anything like Creed’s Green Valley?” Cue the collective shrug: “Green Valley is one of a kind; nothing else comes close.” I might’ve been one of those folks. But then, a rogue comment surfaced: “I think Paul Smith Men (green bottle) is the closest thing.” Others threw in DUA’s Vert Instinct, which I’ve yet to try, as mixed reviews on DUA’s creations have left me unmotivated. But Paul Smith Men? That discount-bin relic I used to see at Burlington for twenty bucks, dinged box and all? That compares to Green Valley? Really?

Cue the deep dive. On Reddit, someone mentions “synergies with Fahrenheit/Paul Smith Men (original green bottle),” again tying them together. But here’s the thing: Green Valley doesn’t smell like Fahrenheit. Sure, there’s a shared violet note that nods in Fahrenheit’s direction, but the connection feels tenuous at best. It’s like comparing a helium party balloon to a hot air balloon. Yeah, they both float, but only one’s getting you off the ground. The same goes for these two scents: Green Valley is lush and verdant, where Fahrenheit is unapologetically petrol-floral.

And yet. And yet. There’s something there. The way violet and violet leaf are handled in Green Valley whispers Fahrenheit, but it’s a different story, a greener, fresher tale. Loaded with bitter mastic resin and a ginger snap of vibrancy, Green Valley conjures rippling grass fields kissed by a morning breeze. It’s extraordinary, leagues ahead of anything the big dogs like Chanel, Guerlain, or Dior have ever attempted. Which brings us to the million-dollar question: How on earth did multiple comments across two decades compare it to an obscure, drugstore-tier cheapie like Paul Smith Men?

I had to know. So, I caved. Snagged a 50 ml bottle, slapped down the cash, and waited. When it arrived, I wore it a few times. Final verdict? Paul Smith Men doesn’t smell like Green Valley. But does it come closer than anything else I’ve sniffed on my olfactory travels? Absolutely.

Here’s the breakdown: Paul Smith Men opens with a bracing blast of basil and tomato leaf, underpinned by ginger and sharp leaf alcohols. It’s unapologetically green, nature in a bottle, albeit with budget ingredients. Was this a deliberate attempt to mimic Green Valley? The Creed doesn't have basil or tomato leaf, but Paul Smith only has them for a few minutes, and once they burn off, I'm left with a gauzy green aura that feels cool, vegetal, and very fresh. At this stage, it smells a lot like it's trying to imitate Green Valley on the down-low. Maybe the folks at Paul Smith gave Lorson and Astori a mission: “We want a Green Valley knockoff, but keep it discreet.”

Then a mastic-like accord emerges—buzzy, minty, gingery—but flatter than Green Valley’s bittersweet brilliance. By the thirty-minute mark, it’s grassy and crisp, and the basil has morphed into a distinct violet note peeking through. That’s where things get interesting: the violet rasps, echoing the petrol-laced leafiness in the heart of Green Valley. By hour one, it’s unmistakably reminiscent. But where Paul Smith Men diverges is in the far dry-down. After four hours, the sharp violet gets a little louder, leaning more into Fahrenheit.

What Paul Smith Men does is crack open a window into Green Valley’s DNA. It’s like a shadow version, a budget homage cobbled together with duct tape and good intentions. It gets you about 55% of the way there—maybe less if you’re not in the know. The fragrance world was already swimming in green-themed scents in the late ’90s, with stuff like Green Jeans, Greenergy, Royal Green, Green Generation, and Green Tea. Green Valley didn’t stand out enough to survive, despite Creed’s luxury price tag. By 2008, production had ceased, with only sporadic “vault” releases since.

Would I recommend Paul Smith Men as a Green Valley alternative? Yes and no. It’s the closest attempt, which says a lot since nobody else even tried. But it’s a compromise, and the gap between the two is wide enough to make you nostalgic for Creed’s masterpiece. Still, for twenty bucks, it’s a fun little fragrance with surprising depth.

As for DUA’s Vert Instinct? I’m still hesitant. It’s pricey, small, and polarizing. If it were that good, everyone would be raving. Meanwhile, I’m clinging to the hope that Kering reissues Green Valley. If they want to make it a limited-edition cash grab at $800 a bottle, so be it. I’ll fucking pay it.

Amber Oud Carbon Edition (Al Haramain)

YouTube fragrance reviewers drive me up the wall. They're the reason I’ll never start my own channel. Why bother joining the parade of mediocrity? With rare exceptions—Derek’s Varanis Ridari comes to mind—they’re lazy shills who couldn’t crack a walnut if you handed them a sledgehammer. They just parrot each other for clicks.

Take their reviews of Amber Oud Carbon Edition. Across the board, YouTube geniuses call it a Creed Green Irish Tweed clone. Sure, a few mention it’s like Cool Water, but they miss the mark entirely. It’s far closer to Coty’s Aspen (1989) or Cool Water Coral Reef Edition (2014). Coral Reef is Aspen in HD, and Carbon Edition is Coral Reef on steroids—almost luxury-grade, but not quite. The Internet swears Al Haramain copied Cool Water. Spoiler: they didn’t. Carbon Edition is one part Cool Water to three parts Aspen, which, frankly, isn’t a ratio I love. And those yokels on Fragrantica calling it a “banger” that “girls love”? Please. Do women secretly go nuts for Aspen? Doubtful. If ever there were a “hype beast” fragrance, this is it. I'm annoyed by that.

Let’s set the record straight: Amber Oud Carbon Edition is not a GIT clone. It nails a solid lemon verbena top note—that’s all. Sure, if you smell the drydown on paper a few days later, there’s a faint resemblance, but on skin? Forget it. If anything, it’s closer to the opening of Chez Bond, which veers Aspen-adjacent before landing in a creamy tea base (unlike Carbon). Speaking of Chez B, I need to snag another bottle. Anyway, Carbon copies Aspen more than anything else. And why clone Aspen, a dirt-cheap scent, and slap a premium price on it? Who thought the world needed that?

To be fair, Carbon Edition uses better materials and packs a punch with its high concentration. It’s louder and lasts maybe ten minutes longer than Aspen. But I wanted a Cool Water clone, damn it, and this isn’t it. As an alternative to Coral Reef or Aspen, it’s… fine. Just not groundbreaking. The best part? The flashy, steel-plated bottle and the clamshell box it comes in. I’m lukewarm on this one.

Eros Parfum (Versace)

Versace's Eros EDT (2012) always struck me as a disappointment—cheap, crass, weak, overly sweet, and cynical. Some hailed it as "groundbreaking" upon its release, but I wasn’t convinced. It felt like an interesting fougère concept hampered by poor execution and a budget that fell short of its ambitions. Whatever Aurelien Guichard intended to achieve was lost in the lackluster production. I couldn’t help but wonder what the future held for the Eros DNA. Nearly a decade later, the future has arrived, with a suprise.

Eros Parfum, launched in 2021 with an unnamed perfumer, feels like the polished realization of the original. With a better budget and a higher concentration, it refines Eros's core idea and upgrades it for a mature man. The opening is familiar but elevated: crisp apple, zesty lemon, cooling peppermint, and aromatic geranium, recalibrated with less mint, more citrus, and a gentler dose of green apple, while a synthetic lavender note adds a silvery sheen. The result is still brash but far more balanced, as the sunny aromatics seamlessly change to a heart dominated by woody tonka and freshly-trimmed sage that lingers for hours and projects maybe four or five feet from my body. 

This all rapidly dries down to what Eros Parfum remains for the duration of its twelve hour lifespan, an apple-infused rosy amber. Its slightly floral quality is attractive. At this stage, it’s hard to deny—Eros Parfum smells fantastic. Is it $150 fantastic? No, and full disclosure, my 3.4 oz bottle from Sephora was free. This should cost Versace customers $90, but inflation. The amber/apple accord offers vague whiffs of something that came in a similar shade of blue-green and was composed by Pierre Bourdon. But perhaps an even more apt comparison would be to Sophie Labbé's Joop! Jump (2005 vintage), which frankly is nearly identical to this stuff for an eighth of the cost, and sadly for Versace, might even smell a little better. I still have 4 ounces left out of a semi-vintage 6.7 ounce bottle of Jump, and it has aged into something positively gorgeous.

Despite that, I like Eros Parfum. It's expensive, and dare I say, a little sexy. But what kind of fragrance is it, really? Is it casual? Office-friendly? Night-out material? The playful prominence of apple and greens suggests a casual, carefree scent, yet the smooth, silky woodiness in the drydown hints at something more refined—business chic, even. It’s a fragrance for men born around 1980, those who grew up on Drakkar Noir, Cool Water, and Allure Homme, and now want something familiar yet forward-looking. For them, Eros Parfum fits the bill perfectly, if they don't already have a vintage bottle of Joop! Jump sitting around, that is. I may comment further on that in the year ahead.

Oud Minérale 2023 (Tom Ford)

I've never smelled the 2017 formula of this one, so forgive me for not doing a comparison. I'll keep it short and sweet here, because what I smell of Oud Minérale has me thinking yet again that anything containing a clear note of oud, or "oud," is not for me.

Oud Minérale opens with synthetic oud, i.e., "black" oud, a lab mix that approximates the real thing without achieving its animalic potency. It's Iso E Super for oud. I've owned it in its raw state; perfumers informally refer to it as "black" for reasons I never bothered to delve into. The perfumer who gave it to me said that it's in nearly every designer oud frag on the market. It's basically an unpleasant woody amber that reads more piercing and medicinal than ambery. It smells exactly like whatever is in Oud Minérale. It eventually gets drowned out by an intensely salty marine accord that smells at once ashy and wet, and I find it unsettling. This marine-like clarity only endures for a few minutes, until the fake oud vies for attention again, at which point the whole thing smells like burnt hair that has been unwisely doused with seawater, and it persists for no less than ten hours.

I'm all for salty aquatics, and I'm open to the idea of throwing oud in the mix, but this just doesn't work for me, and I find it intensely unpleasant. Word has it this is a rehash of Ford's earlier and now discontinued M7 Fresh, but that scent was full of citrus and herbs, whereas this one lacks any fruity, floral, or green embellishments, and simply smells salty and chemical in a nasty way. A pass, no thanks, next please. 

You or Someone Like You (Etat Libre d’Orange)

Chandler Burr was the creative director for this fragrance, and he told us to piss off if we want to know the note pyramid, saying, "The work is the work." He sounded defensive about it, as if he felt the fragrance was lacking and wanted to get ahead of the press. If I were him, I would've said, "It's very green, and I'll let you decide what's in there." But who am I, anyway? Certainly not a fancy-pants creative director for any perfumes, so I shouldn't deign to ask what's in the perfumes he puts out. There's supposed to be some element of artistic mystery here, and I guess that's what the brand was aiming for when they printed Burr's comment. Cloak it in mystery! Sell more bottles!

What isn't a mystery is that You or Someone Like You is loaded to the gills with mint, mostly spearmint, followed by a hint of lemon verbena and a deeper herbal element, which smoothly transitions to a subtle green cassis and rose accord that hums along in linear fashion for the duration of a work day, and even a bit beyond that -- for a fresh scent, it has amazing longevity. There is a bit of cooling Hedione/fake jasmine in the mix, which adds even more lift. None of the notes smell natural, yet all of them smell harmonious and light, a pleasant arrangement of gentle, translucent greens that avoids imparting shampoo or bar soap, while never quite shedding their slightly synthetic edge. I should dislike that part, but it doesn't bother me because the fragrance feels balanced, simple, and well done in an unpretentious way. In short, it smells really good. 

I should mention that I'm biased in favor of anything green, and since this fragrance is abundantly green, it's kind of a no-brainer win for me. However, I can see the criticism that it feels a bit more chemical than it should at its price-point, and recognize that this is likely why Burr was so cagey about notes (again, he could have said a million other things and I would've believed him). If you're interested in a pleasant spring or summer spritz for a pick-me-up, You or Someone Like You is for you. Given the current designer alternatives, this is perfectly constructed for that level of quality, and since most designers are over a hundred bucks now anyway, the ELDO isn't really a rip-off. Heck, I'd buy it.  

Hawas (Rasasi)

Metamodernism offers a more compelling alternative to the bleakness of the Postmodernist period. While Postmodernism focused on deconstructing overarching societal norms and Enlightenment values, Metamodernism seeks to bridge the gap between cynically fractured, self-referential truths and the idealism and sincerity of Modernism. It does so by reclaiming meaning, truth, and hope.

While this is positive news to me, I find myself scrambling at times to keep up with the trends of this new era, and I have yet to adjust fully to the "Bubblegum Amber" fragrances that have flooded the market since Paco Rabanne's 1 Million was released in 2008. Why is this type of treacly, overly-sugared masculine a metamodern trait? What is it that imbues it with a post-postmodernist air? Put simply, it's the same sweet amber found in at least two dozen fragrances since 1 Million, and the fact that it's sweet appeals to everyone's lizard brain. Feel free to forget "my truth" when every perfume brand is celebrating a universal truth: people enjoy wearing stuff that reminds them of food. 

This standard-issue bubblegum characteristic is present and accounted for in the heart of Rasasi's Hawas for Him (does anyone even wear the feminine?), which makes it part of the metamodern sensibility, but luckily for the cynics, it still manages to reference its native culture. This fragrance is made in Dubai, and as with most Middle Eastern perfumes, it is very loud, and very "fresh." It seems people are divided as to which version of Invictus is cloned by Hawas, the original or Aqua (oddly Hawas came out a full year before Invictus Aqua, so Rabanne may have copied Rasasi there). Trying it was a major gamble because I happen to hate Invictus, and the overall consensus is that it's a straight-up twin. I took the risk on a blind-buy because I had a hunch about Rasasi's interpretation, and it paid off.

Paco Rabanne's 2013 scent was a blockbuster when it first hit stores, and I recall thinking it smelled presentable enough, but synthetic, a bit scratchy, blobby, overly sweet, and altogether juvenile. It had that sickeningly beige brand of inedible sweetness that had somehow carried over from the worst of the nineties and morphed into an olfactory monster with infinite longevity and projection. While it was a total ralph-fest for me, I recall thinking something about Hawas when I first saw it advertised in 2015: "Well, they've taken Invictus and done it up Arabian style. Can't be any worse!" Turns out, it's actually a whole lot better. Where Invictus was clunky and aggressive, Rasasi's take it far more dimensionally nuanced and textured. This is Invictus with imagination.

It opens with a barrage of citrus rendered as indistinct notes, perhaps a splash of pink grapefruit conjoined with the sweetness of apple esters and "plum," which smells like purple grapes to me. There's also a distinct orange blossom with hints of orange zest in the periphery, which lends a striking balance to the duskier fruits, a ray of sunshine through the leaves. Aldehydes and something in the vein of Silver Mountain Water's metallic note lend shimmer and fizz to the first ten minutes, until the grapey stage takes hold. Of interest to me is how these notes manage to blend, yet the orange blossom dances apart from them in little snatches, and picking it out takes me back to my earliest days in this hobby. 

The heart stage unfurls the grand banner of bubblegum, but again, it's more interesting than it sounds. There are salty marine notes sparkling behind the sugars, and this kaleidoscope of contrasts persists for no less than ten hours, with the marine element gradually intensifying as the sweetness slowly fades out. Ambroxan is used in abundance, but instead of simply relying on Ambroxan to serve as its own note, the perfumer(s) tailored it into something akin to a true ambergris note, with a mineralic saltiness that feels "spikey" and salty to a degree that goes beyond the typical rendition. The sheer potency of this stuff is something to behold; I applied it at eight in the morning and it was still pounding at three in the afternoon. Hawas leaves an oil slick on skin when sprayed, so be cautious when applying to clothing, as it will surely stain. Perfume extrait strength, people. 

This is a cold, crisp, fresh fragrance, but it's also a bit of a paradox. The packaging says "The next sentence is true," and the fragrance says "The previous sentence is false." The sweet clubber image of "House" (English translation from Arabic) is belied by the unorthodox marine quality that pervades the composition. While aquatics are popular, they tend to not make the cut with the night-crawlers, probably because salty notes and alcohol consumption don't mix. Ambergris and intoxication is a recipe for disaster, in which case Hawas is an anomaly in tackling the customer who moonlights as a clubber. 

For me, it smells like a very youthful and metamodern composition, splicing a bunch of known quantities together to form one big smell that fills the room and attracts everyone born after 1998. Is it a good fragrance? With reluctance, I say yes. 

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone. See you in 2025. 

Dark Cherry & Amber (Banana Republic): A Claude Dir Mod for Creed's Carmina?

When I was in high school, one of my so-called friends regularly invited me and a few others for rides in his 1980 Cadillac de Ville. He wasn't so much a friend as he was an experience: he wore the original Aramis, chain-smoked Marlboro Reds, chewed Wrigley’s Winterfresh gum, and when he wasn’t drinking cheap beer, he clung to Cherry Coke like it was an endangered elixir. Occasionally, he’d offer me a can. I almost always declined. Cherry Coke, for all its cultish charm, never resonated with me—its cherry flavor felt like a rumor, faint and unconvincing. It wasn’t just the soda. Cherries, whether eaten, scented, or artificially flavored, have always felt elusive to me, like an ephemeral note in a song I couldn’t quite catch. Even into adulthood, cherries remain little more than a passing suggestion, an essence that flits and fades before it takes root. This curious shortfall in my sensory lexicon is particularly relevant when it comes to Dark Cherry & Amber.

Cherry, as a perfumery note, has long been one I approach with caution. Tom Ford’s indulgent maraschino cherry fragrance, which I reviewed in January, was an exception, registering with clarity and punch. Joop! Homme, for all its brash artificiality, blares its cherry note with unapologetic gusto. Beyond those two, my encounters with cherry scents have been sparse. Enter Dark Cherry & Amber, a fragrance whispered about in perfumery circles as a hidden gem, praised for its quality at a modest price. For years, I’d spotted it at Burlington Coat Factory, an unassuming presence on the discount shelves. But then came Creed’s Carmina in 2023, and Dark Cherry & Amber seemed to vanish overnight, its elusive reputation only growing. The buzz around Carmina suggested it was an upscale reimagining of Claude Dir’s 2019 composition for Banana Republic. That theory gained traction when Derek (aka Varanis Ridari) likened the two with the assertiveness of a Brooklyn chess hustler. After I read his theory, finding a bottle of Dark Cherry & Amber became an obsession. Fifteen months later, my search finally bore fruit today, at a Burlington in Orange, Connecticut.

Of course, I have a problem: I’ve never smelled Carmina, so I can’t confirm the comparison. Still, there are clues. A user on Fragrantica, “ayshee_x,” described Carmina shortly after its release: 

“Smells kind of nostalgic, like cherry lip gloss and plastic but also floral and musky. There are better cherry perfumes out there that are cheaper. Banana Republic Dark Cherry & Amber is a great alternative and a fraction of the cost.” 

At twenty dollars, Dark Cherry & Amber certainly wins on price. But what about the scent? It opens with a juicy, lifelike cherry note that eschews the romanticized maraschino of Tom Ford for something startlingly natural. It’s as if someone bit into a ripe Bing cherry and waved it under my nose—your everyday table cherry, unvarnished and unadorned. While this might sound uninspired, Dir leans into its simplicity, rendering it strikingly authentic for the first hour. There’s a dusky, sweet-tart fruitiness to the note, accompanied by a faintly soapy “off” quality that mirrors the idiosyncrasies of an actual cherry. It’s an impressive feat for a fragrance at this price point, the Tea Rose of cherry perfumes.

After that start, the cherry begins to retreat, making way for a smooth, luminous vanilla amber. On paper, the amber reads as floral—cherry blossom, perhaps—while on skin it veers toward a warmth reminiscent of praline, though it never fully commits to gourmand territory. Beneath this lies a subtle woodiness, like a watercolor wash of sweet blossoms and watery cedar. The effect is delicate, almost ethereal, and I can’t help but wonder how many high-end niche houses passed on this gem before Banana Republic picked it up. At its core, Dark Cherry & Amber doesn’t pretend to be lavish. It doesn’t aim for the baroque richness of ultra-luxury niche brands. Instead, it offers something far more elusive: clarity. A lucidity that reminds me of my old Cherry Coke dilemma. Just as I struggled to taste the fruit in the soda, I find the cherry here to be restrained, a gentle presence rather than a cloying shout. I sense its tartness, its juiciness, but it often lingers at the edge of perception, never overwhelming. 

And that’s precisely why it works. Had the cherry screamed for attention, it might have felt cheap, like a budget air freshener cherry. Instead, it whispers, and in that quiet confidence lies its charm.

Luna Rossa Ocean Le Parfum (Prada)

The Luna Rossa Ocean line is intriguing, particularly because the concepts behind these fragrances are often misunderstood—sometimes wildly so. To put it simply, people expect these to be bog-standard aquatics because "Ocean" is in their name. There's also a forest-for-the-trees element, where folks mistakenly think that the artistry of perfume rests solely in note pyramids, while altogether missing that disparate notes like saffron and oak can be tied together to create a pastiche of something cool and salty, like the sea. While I won’t delve into those broader misconceptions here, Ocean Le Parfum serves as a prime example of how a fragrance can reveal people's “olfactory conditioning.” This so-called “Red Moon” fragrance is an aquatic—a profoundly good one—but much of the general public overlooks this because it doesn’t conform to aquatic tropes.

Many perceive it as a spicy-woody amber scent, full of cinnamon, saffron, and modern oriental flourishes. And yes, those elements are present, especially saffron, which is prominent. But the real magic is not in each note, but in how they all coalesce: they merge into a sparkly synthetic ambergris. The mystery perfumer combined materials like Amber XTreme (IFF) and Safranal (Givaudan), forming a silvery mineralic amber accord that creates its own little glittering in the nose, so to speak. The result captures the essence of summer beach air, cushioned with a warm freshness that’s far removed from the lavender and fruity notes typical of designer aquatics. This isn’t the romanticized scent of seawater or “blue” accords dominated by Calone and Melonal. Instead, it’s the sensory experience of being in and around the ocean. There's hot pepper for animalism, and a woody-amber sand. The concept is “Ocean,” but the execution captures how your body feels and responds to it, rather than directly mimicking marine notes, and that is what you pay for here. This fragrance is from the Ocean Rain school of aquatics, not Acqua di Giò.

It's also an exceptionally thoughtful birthday gift from two members of my family, and I cherish it even more because of that. With designer lines now priced alongside niche competitors, acquiring 100 ml of Luna Rossa Ocean Le Parfum would’ve been out of reach without their generosity. For me, this fragrance still leans “aquatic” in spirit, despite what others may say. And to those who insist it’s merely a spicy oriental, the YouTubers who write it off as not meeting their expectations because it isn't a member of the blue-bottle brigade, I say, just enjoy it. This is a truly unique creation. If you’ve never traveled or experienced the ocean, this scent will transport you there. Don’t let the red packaging mislead you—this is a 21st century ambergris dream.

Face à Face pour Femme (Façonnable)

I've often wondered what a feminine counterpart to Geoffrey Beene's Grey Flannel might smell like. The closest match in my admittedly modest collection is Silences by Jacomo. Grey Flannel is a dry citrus chypre, with a bittersweet violet note at its core. This violet is surrounded by a hazy bouquet of indistinct florals, where only lilac and orris stand out clearly. Over time, these blossoms take on a greener, more powdery character, ultimately giving way to a base of oakmoss and woods that is as dry and bitter as everything that came before. Silences mirrors this structure but allows its florals to shine more distinctly through its orris haze, offering a subtly warmer, rosy undertone. Yet, even with this warmth, it remains strikingly cool and aloof compared to the approachable feminine fragrances of its era. Neither fragrance conveys lighthearted cheer. 

Designer brand Façonnable launched Face à Face pour Femme and Face à Face pour Homme in 1996. While never particularly expensive, they were a step above bargain-bin pricing at the time. Slightly pricier than offerings from Jacomo or Beene, some of the cost likely went toward packaging—Façonnable favored embossed tins over standard cardboard boxes. Setting aside the presentation, the fragrances themselves are solidly middle-tier: competent and occasionally engaging but neither groundbreaking nor especially memorable, with materials falling a notch or two below those of Chanel or Dior. Face à Face pour Femme bears a surprising resemblance to Grey Flannel, reimagined with subtle adjustments for a more feminine appeal. Unlike the Beene classic, it omits citrus entirely, opening instead with coriander, which lingers through the top and early heart notes. This gives way to a crisp yet dry-green medley of rose, muguet, and jasmine. The green notes are stemmy, grassy, bitter, and powdery, while the floral tones remain dry, faintly sweet, slightly bitter, and heavily powdery. There’s little warmth or cheer here—this is a fragrance with a reserved, almost austere demeanor.

The sweeter, slightly brighter floral tones in Face à Face pour Femme evoke comparisons to both Grey Flannel and Silences. This is undeniably a "fresh" fragrance, but it’s a 1990s kind of fresh, so if you’re under 35, consider this fair warning. Don’t expect airy peonies, aquatic accents, or the sugary burst of green apple and white musk typical of more modern compositions. Instead, Face à Face pour Femme tempers its floral character with a smooth greenness reminiscent of tea, much like vintage Grey Flannel. Around the three-hour mark, its vaguely floral, slightly dry, and chalky personality—likely due to inexpensive galbanum notes—settles into a powdery green accord. Here, grasses, oakmoss, and a recurring green tea nuance intertwine subtly. I enjoy this fragrance, but its particular style feels like a hall of mirrors, inviting nostalgia lovers to lose themselves in endless panels of Moss-in-Snow jade. It’s a 29-year-old scent that feels like fragrances twice its age. Still, it's a charming throwback, and good fun.

Chameleon (Zoologist)

This one is kind of neat. It opens with sweet, tropical fruity-floral notes that smell like some sort of cheap skin lotion, then a waxy coconut oil dribbles in and freshens it up in a strange but satisfying way. There's a bit of sea salt, a bouquet of white and yellow florals (sort of a Frankenjasmine hybrid with ylang and frangipani involved), and a massive dose of silky-smooth Cashmeran to cover it in clean fuzz. I also like the holographic rainbow trim on the bottle's label, and for once the concentration of a Zoologist is adequately proportioned to lend the wear experience a pleasant and balanced feel.

The perfume industry has a term for the pigeonholing of a scent as fine fragrance: "skin note," which everyone understands to mean the human element that smells compatible with natural human skin and pheromones, and in Chameleon there is an intentional skin note that smells a little oily and salty, like fresh sweat but on a soap-scrubbed epidermis. There's also a Safranal note that lends a spicy-metallic edge to the sweetness and prevents it from being too overbearing. It's almost like they were going for an exotic suntan lotion here, or a spa oil that a masseuse would rub into your muscles on an island getaway somewhere in the Pacific. Things get a touch drier and smokier in the base when the patchouli takes over, about five hours in, but it doesn't dramatically alter the bright trajectory of the scent. This stuff is all casual fun.

Oddly I don't get much mango from Chameleon, despite all the copy claiming it's in there, nor do I have any bearing on other clear fruits in Daniel Pescio's fragrance. But make no mistake -- this is a sweet 'n sour tropical vacation sort of scent, one of those oddball "fresh" frags from the middle of the 1990s that came in a segmented bottle with blue-green juice and weirdly-shaped cap, before the 2000s wave of new perfumery tech liberated the market from gummy and overly sweet zombie brand fare. I'm not sold on Zoologist fragrances, but Chameleon is interesting, wearable, and, well, smells good. 

Maritime Journey (Tommy Bahama)

The original Maritime from 2016 is Tommy Bahama’s answer to Abercrombie’s Fierce, while Journey (2019) serves as their take on Polo Ultra Blue. In fact, I suspect it may be an unused mod for the Ralph Lauren scent that Tommy Bahama repurposed to meet their brief. Had it been crafted on a Ralph Lauren budget, it might have achieved a closer likeness, but Tommy Bahama has always occupied the lower shelf in the fragrance aisle. As a result, Maritime Journey comes across as a bit rough around the edges, scratchier and cheaper (it makes me sneeze), yet serviceable at just ten dollars an ounce.

Unlike Ultra Blue, Maritime Journey features a prominent green apple note and lacks the herbal undertone. Otherwise, it’s a fruitier spin on the familiar sea salt and woods accord that has dominated aquatics since the early 1990s. Here, the Calone molecule is restrained, adding a faint blush of peachy warmth to a grey-blue profile. While it teeters close to the realm of shower gel freshness, it maintains just enough balance between sweetness and saltiness to feel adequately refined. It’s light, non-offensive, and versatile, a competent choice for men seeking value in their cologne. However, with so many similar options already on the market, Ultra Blue remains the superior pick for but a few more dollars. Maritime Journey’s only standout feature is its pronounced saltiness, which borders on excessive, even for an aquatic enthusiast like me, but otherwise, it’s not worth going out of your way for a bottle.

Interestingly, this stuff also evokes shades of the original Cool Water (1988). Its sharp Granny Smith apple note has the same tart, low-pH quality, and when paired with sea spray and faint floral-cedar nuances, it carries a hint of that late-80s vibe. The synthetic saltiness nudges it into the 21st century, but you’d be better off spending your $23 on Cool Water. For a softer, less saline alternative, Nautica Voyage would suffice. Fragrances like this are akin to grey-blue paint chips on a Benjamin Moore sample page: pleasant enough, but somewhat boring and ultimately forgettable.