Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, I hated vanilla in perfume. I'm not sure why, but it bored me. I associated vanilla with ice cream, girl's perfume, boring ambers and orientals worn by unadventurous academics who tortured English Lit majors with turgid third-period ramblings. Always nice, but never interesting, vanilla simply didn't factor into my chauvinistic and fougère-centric world.
Then I met Caron Pour un Homme, and everything changed. I hated vanilla? Where had it been all my life? Boxed cake mix? Cotton candy? Vanilla is stunning! Vanilla is masculine. Vanilla is elegant. Vanilla is in.
Shalimar, Guerlain's flagship oriental, is probably the most wearable treatment of vanilla on the current market. It's terrific, not because it smells expensive (that doesn't hurt), but because it smells at once luscious and inedible, like the whiff of a beautiful woman's bare skin on an October breeze. There's the dry, boozy sweetness, and a musty, almost-beige veneer of concentrated vanillin, brutally rich and modern, yet very familiar. Guerlain treats it well by framing it with citrus, opoponax, sandalwood, and musk.
Creed's attempt to do its own Shalimar-like oriental is Sublime Vanille, but with the "Frenchness" dialed back by a simplified form and amped-up atmosphere of starchy Britannia. If you compare the two, you'll find they don't smell anything alike, but share some basic structural elements and high-quality raw materials. Creed's citrus treatment is transparent, a little sharp, and very dry. It lacks Shalimar's ambery glow, and I think the Guerlain feels much warmer and more inviting. After that initial fruity burst, the "big vanilla" heart appears, and Sublime Vanille becomes a three-note tune: intense, grandiloquent vanilla, predictably mingling with tonka and musk. It's simple, it's loud, and it's very nice. But it's no Shalimar.
One day, Creed will find a reason for me to part with $640. Sublime Vanille ain't it.