Maître Parfumeur et Gantier's Route du Vétiver is the first vetiver fragrance that I truly hate. I find it appalling, full stop. It opens with a garrulous vetiver root accord that reeks of overripe onions atop a weirdly mineralic twang, meant to be blackcurrant. The onion effect blazes on (drawing real tears), and stinks of unwashed armpits for fully twelve hours. Unhelpfully, the perfumer added a peripheral aura of something sweet, akin to a wet kiss with expensive lipstick. It does nothing to stop me from wanting to ralph each time a little waft of air lifts this crap from my collar to my nose. Everything here smells acrid, sour, synthetic. MPG's vetiver makes me feel like I haven't bathed in months, and I suspect whoever smells it on me feels the same. There's niche, and then there's pretentious garbage, and this is the latter by a long shot.
My patience for "man's man" vetivers is paper thin to begin with, and this one torches those last few shreds of goodwill. I shouldn't leave the house feeling embarrassed by my SOTD. I shouldn't feel self conscious and worried that I might have to explain why I smell like I've just done time. Rank body odor is by definition gross, and telling people it's really my cologne that stinks sounds like a laughable excuse for poor hygiene. Even granola-eating hippies in the seventies had the good sense to wear patchouli, of which even the most basic oils are infinitely more enjoyable than Route du Vétiver. If you want "earthy" vetiver, and aren't interested in repelling the public, wear Guerlain's L'Homme Ideal Cologne, and save money and heartache. Thumbs decidedly down.