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 first hour, the cherry begins to retreat, making way for a smooth, luminous 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.