I don't say this kind of thing often, but the boys at Creed could use a tutorial from Annick Goutal on how to use pear in perfume. Petite Chérie is a successful composition that perfectly illustrates the unique youthfulness of peach and pear. As Tania Sanchez pointed out in The Guide, Goutal's only problem here is that the aroma chemicals for the fragrance of pear are unstable and difficult for some to perceive properly. She also suggests they have a short shelf-life. Supposedly these chemicals go "off" pretty quickly. I'm not so sure - for years my ex-girlfriend left a forgotten bottle of Petite Chérie within reach of direct sunlight, and it smelled just fine. I think Sanchez herself has difficulty perceiving pear (therefore others must have the same issue), and someone - gee, who could that be - told her that its constituent parts are weak, a declaration that might require a second opinion. But I digress; this is one of those fragrances that feels innocent and chaste, very pink-frilly, and therefore is something Clint Eastwood types should consider.
Petite Chérie is fairly straightforward: pear, a touch of peach, and some green florals of the synthetic rose-and-freesia variety. Don't be surprised if pictures of Sunday-dressed six year-old girls on flower-petaled swings in verdant, sun-goldened fields flit through your head every time this juice hits your skin. Frankly, I'm not sure how anything else could come to mind. It's that charming and sweet. Actually, it's the very definition of a "delicate smell." As such, I'm of the opinion that Petite Chérie is redundant on good girls and nannies. In the interest of keeping the culture of fine fragrance alive, I encourage tough guys to go against their grain and give this a try. Despite its girlishness, it's a fragrance that projects itself simply as shower soap, the kind Garnier Fructis puts out, and it would no doubt intrigue the ladies in your lives to smell it off you. Sometimes unpredictability comes in pretty little bottles with ribbons.