The copy on the box for Pacifica's French Lilac perfume reads, All of our perfumes are hand-poured in micro-batches using the best grain alcohol. Made in the USA with the best globally sourced ingredients. It's called a micro-batch, presumably because there are changeable aspects inherent to the production method for French Lilac, a fragrance that isn't mass-produced with cheap synthetics. At first glance, this might seem dubious, given its wide availability in Whole Foods grocery stores for twenty bucks a bottle.
But looking at things more closely, it makes sense. It's twenty bucks for one ounce of French Lilac, which is actually a bit pricy. Also, there appears to be a limited number of bottles per store (I counted six at mine), which at an ounce a pop equals two 3-ounce bottles, which is about $120 worth of fragrance. With these eensy-weensy bottles and their restricted distribution (who else sells these?), it's probably not such a stretch to suppose the Pacifica production method incorporates variable natural materials, albeit in limited quantities, all used in relatively small commercial batches. Maybe the brand values a certain degree of quality after all. The perfume speaks for itself in this regard.
French Lilac is the best lilac perfume I've encountered. It's a rich and heady lilac accord, and it's nuanced with green sap notes, fruits, and inedible vanilla. It is to lilac fragrances what Perfumer's Workshop Tea Rose is to rose perfumes: a cheaper alternative to the less-compelling and far more expensive niche variants on this kind of floral theme. What impresses me about French Lilac is its layers; the fragrance opens with a green wreath of magnolia and hyacinth, which settles against a lilac-centric spring floral bouquet. There's a hint of peach to lift the honeyed florals above their woody leaves and balance them against the sacchariferous warmth of heliotrope, which is in turn counterweighted by unsweetened vanilla. This isn't a soliflore. This is a pyramid.
An hour in, and the bouquet coalesces, its distinct floral tones merging with that sturdy vanilla foundation to form a lilac note. This lilac effect is full, rich, rounded. It escapes sliding into that slightly plasticky off-note that lilac reconstructions often fall victim to (I'm looking at you, Demeter), and thanks to the strength of the underlying peach and vanilla notes, never strays into air freshener territory. To be clear, room sprays tend to smell overly harsh and strident to fill large spaces. French Lilac maintains a few degrees of smoothness and subtlety to keep its usage within the scope of personal fragrance, at least to my nose, although any perfume can double as room spray.
Five hours after application, French Lilac's warmth cools and its lilac note thins a bit, becoming sweeter and fruitier, until I'm left with a simple peach base, which itself smells remarkably crisp and realistic, especially for something that's been simmering on skin all day. This far drydown tells me Pacifica's formula is something well thought out and executed, not corner-cut or trite. Unfortunately it has its share of internet detractors who annoyingly elevate Highland Lilac of Rochester's perfume over it at every opportunity, with some even claiming FL doesn't smell anything like lilac at all. I guess if you spray it on paper and give up on it after three minutes, you'd reach that opinion, as the other fruity floral notes smell like things other than lilac. But if you spend an hour with French Lilac and say it isn't a good lilac, your nose is broken.
Every guy who is into old-school lilac water aftershaves should try French Lilac. Shave, splash some Lilac Veg, or whatever lilac water is in your den, and then give French Lilac a spritz or two, and it will top off the retro experience. This is exactly the kind of robust nineteenth century floral scent that was in vogue among well groomed dandies. In 2021, women owned the lilac fragrance space. In 2022, it's time for men to reclaim it.