We'll Never Get These Back: Eleven Discontinued Fragrances That Are Gone Forever . . .

Fragrances are discontinued all the time, and it means nothing. When I hear that something is discontinued, my first thought is, okay, what is it exactly that was slashed? Are we talking about just another prosaic designer? Some obscure discount brand like Zirh finally let go of Corduroy? An old Italian house from the fifties finally buried one of its unremarkable citrus colognes? It is likely true that the discontinued product, whatever it was, is replaceable. Nothing to lose sleep over.  

But there are some discontinued fragrances that bum me and millions like me out. Invariably they were stylistically unique, undeniably well made (sometimes surprisingly so), and things I wish I could always own, price be damned. Back in 2013, I wrote an article (link) about the "Blog-Driven" resurrection of "Zombie Perfumes," i.e., fragrances that had lived on in people's hearts and on the review boards, despite their having been discontinued for some time. My point was that the power of popular demand, largely expressed by the best and the brightest fragrance writers at that time, had brought left-for-dead perfumes back to life via endless praise on Fragrantica and Basenotes.  

One example is Azzaro Acteur. This one was discontinued in the early nineties despite its 1989 release, as it was not an impressive draw for customers and lacked a convincing marketing campaign, probably due to its being out of step with the dihydromyrcenol and Calone 1951 times. It managed to lurk in the aftermarket for over a decade, and eventually the development of sites like Fragrantica allowed nostalgic Azzaro fans to wax enough poetics that they briefly reissued the darned thing. Ditto for Geoffrey Beene's 1986 aromatic-woody Bowling Green, which EA made a point to reissue for well over a year, making it possible for me to procure a bottle from Amazon for dirt-cheap. It wouldn't have been reissued if it weren't for all the singing about it on the internet, and ultimately it was discontinued again for selling just as poorly as it did the first time around. 

If Acteur and Bowling Green were granted commercial immortality, I and thousands of guys my age would be eternally grateful. Unfortunately their sales stats are on their tombstones, and it's understandably unlikely that they'll ever see the light of day again. Given that they managed to escape hell once, it's hard to say that we'll never see them again, but I'm not holding my breath. However, there are some fragrances that are special in ways that make their disappearances feel criminal. They are fragrances that had no easy comparatives, no peers in the canon of perfumes gone by, and things I would trade my left testicle to have again (for sane prices). Here are eleven discontinued fragrances that are truly gone forever, in no particular order . . . 

Ocean Rain (Mario Valentino, 1990)

Ocean Rain is Edmond Roudnitska's last commercial creation before his death at age 91 in 1996. Understand, that means he worked on Ocean Rain for Mario Valentino, obscure Italian peddler of luxury leather goods, when he was in his eighties. You'd be forgiven for expecting it to smell stodgy, given that the man who made it was likely running on sailboat fumes by that late stage of his artistic élan, but you'd be wrong. Ocean Rain is absolutely timeless and sublime, a dusky chypre that I personally interpret as an "oriental aquatic" of sorts, simply because its heart offers the sandiest amber accord I've ever had the pleasure of smelling. Ocean Rain is likely a splice-up of Roudnitska's "greatest hits," with bits and bobs of Diorella and Le Parfum de Thérèse thrown in, but it's easy to over-generalize Roudnitska's style after such a consistent and accomplished career. Ever the pioneer of new and exciting synthetics, the perfumer handed Valentino a fragrance that smells like the beach after a summer shower, a wet/dry petrichor only emitted by pulverized grains of quartz and silicon dioxide. Running parallel is an impression of a woman reclining on that beach, replete with whiffs of her fruity perfume and the weirdly universal sweetness of her kiss (healthy mean interpret the saliva of healthy women as tasting vaguely of Coca-Cola). Ocean Rain is probably the only perfume in my collection that seems eerily alive, as if the headspace of a sex-on-the-beach encounter was bottled by some dark magic. Long gone, this one will eventually vanish from eBay, and when it does, that's it. 

Yohji Homme (Yohji Yamamoto, 1999)

Of the fragrances on this list, this one is my least favorite. Still, I recognized it as a one-off freak of nature beauty when I reviewed it over a decade ago, and my opinion holds: The original unedited formula of Yohji Homme deserves a permanent resurrection. This was one of those nineties fragrances that captured the zeitgeist better than most, an era of profound optimism and ebullience that expressed itself with heady-sweet concoctions that eschewed foodiness in favor of freshness. Where most post-Cool Water fougères went with floral-aquatic accords, Yohji Homme adopted a far riskier coffee/lavender trick, with a heavy twist of licorice root and a silvery base of whiskey and woods. In the last ten years, we've witnessed the depressing rise of what the kids think is "fresh" these days: tons of ethyl-maltol and ooey-gooey sugary ambery crapola, a bad date for any nose. Rewind to the end of the Clinton administration, and youngsters were surprisingly sophisticated, wearing bonafide masterpieces like Tommy Girl and Le Male like they were nothing, which allowed something like this to be born. Why Yohji Homme's original formula was discontinued is anyone's guess -- I almost never believe the reasons given by the people involved in making the fragrance. Their input is interesting, but when something is dc'd and then reissued, it makes me wonder what's up. Now the reissue is also dc'd, making the whole thing moot. I think Yohji Homme was arguably a little thin and weak, but it was also a finely-tooled piece of sleek machinery, a summery lavender ensconced in herbal-sweet aromatics that belied the foibles of the year "American Pie" was a blockbuster. 

Aqua Quorum (Antonio Puig, 1994)

Let's face it: the original Quorum from 1982 should be sent to pasture. I'm not saying it shouldn't be worn, or that people who enjoy it are fuddy-duddies; I'm just pointing out that its era of overwrought brown-study powerhouses, full of burnt grasses and woods and fermented tobaccos and musks and screaming "I'M A MAN," has officially passed us by, and is now a distant speck in our rearview mirror. That doesn't mean we should abandon Aqua Quorum, however. When I bought my bottle a decade ago, I expected it to be a cheap and forgettable "blue" fragrance that hankered after Cool Water and Polo Sport, but I was mistaken. It's actually a riff on Lauder's New West (1988), but in my opinion it's better. Much better. Calone 1951 is the driver in the engine room that accidentally fell asleep on the throttle and pushed the ride up to eleven. It's a mysterious synthetic in that unlike typical perfumery chems that we perceive as growing ever weaker in proportion to increased exposure, Calone gets stronger instead. If on Monday you spray one or two puffs of Aqua Quorum and it smells like a light bay breeze, by Friday you will experience an hallucinogenic freshness that literally seizes your brain via your nose and sends jolts of pink lightning through it. They overdosed this molecule in the formula, and usually that would read as a big mistake, but not here. Shimmery aldehydes, briny driftwood, and crisp pine notes all lend crucial balance to what would otherwise be a catastrophic mess of a freshie, and by getting this equilibrium on the money, Aqua Quorum is instead a masterpiece of nineties freshness. This perfume is kinetic, like smelling a moving piece of nature, and is to date the only "cheapie" that has ever rivaled a vintage Creed. It's still available for pennies on Fragrancenet, but they only have a few bottles left. 

Fendi "Donna" (Fendi, 1985)

This was my mom's signature fragrance, right up until the day stores took it off shelves and it vanished forever. It has since been bottled unicorn tears on eBay, fetching prices in excess of $300. I'll be honest and say that if it were just my mom's old standard, I probably wouldn't care (sorry mom). But here's the thing about the original Fendi for women: there is nothing else like this stuff. Like everything else on this list, it is one of a kind. I once got her a bottle of K de Krizia as a substitute, hoping its similar overall aldehydic chypre aesthetic would hit the spot, but no. Not even close. And why did I ever think it would be? Fendi was peculiarly masculine for an eighties feminine, a trait no other big-boned hybrid of its era possessed. The world was awash in mink-and-pearls stuff like Chanel's Coco and Calvin Klein's Obsession, bawdy orientals that lavished customers with overdoses of syrupy florals and spiced ambers. One whiff of those and I immediately picture every woman I met as a child except my mom, who somehow, despite being a perfectly normal feminine woman, managed to pull off this illicit exercise in oakmoss and dry leather. This fragrance wasn't a spice bomb or a dowdy floral, nor was it a rosy thing like Lauder's Beautiful. Fendi was an austere leather, bone dry, with no obvious spice or floral notes, save for a gorgeous coriander and sage accord mated to something green and bitter and smoky, and just wonderful. There's no point in even directing you to remaining bottles; for everyone but the filthy rich, this fragrance is officially gone, and has been for no less than thirty years. I've hunted the world over for something, anything like it, to no avail.  

Ungaro Pour L'Homme II (Emanuel Ungaro, 1992)

There were three Ungaros for men, and the first one has eluded me, although only because I don't care to go out of my way to find it. I have the other two, and surprisingly found that I prefer III over II, if only because I'm a sucker for masculines with overt rose notes. II is a lavender fragrance, fashioned after Guerlain's original Jicky (1889), and for this reason is a holotype in the record perfumus obscurus; to date there are no other "clones" of Jicky that have ever surfaced. There are fragrances that owe a debt to Jicky (Guerlain's own Mouchoir de Monsieur), and there are those that are inspired by it, but II would not exist were it not for Jicky, plain and simple. I find the fragrance is introverted and anodyne compared to the muskier fougèrientals of the eighties and nineties, but its civet and fetid wood notes lend it a burlier countenance than it might otherwise have. One thing is for certain: If I ever stumble across I, my nose is going into comparison overdrive to see how and why Ungaro (technically Chanel) opted to veer into this rarest of rare parking spots. There were plenty of others that were closer to the door, yet they went with something that nobody would try again, and now my bottle is worth well over $100. 

Relax (Davidoff, 1990)

Davidoff fragrances are generally replaceable, and if they discontinued Zino, or Hot Water, or The Game, few would miss them. (By the way, for those of you who insist on yelling that Zino is discontinued, I direct you to eBay, where a 4.2 oz. bottle is two dollars cheaper than the same size of The Game. Can we just admit that the stuff is still being made, or do we have to keep pretending?) Even a discontinuation of Cool Water would suck more for Davidoff and Coty than it would for the buying public, which has largely moved on from the dihydromyrcenol-fueled nineties to all manner of awful oud and praline things. There are two fragrances that Davidoff discontinued that simply can't be replaced: Good Life and Relax. I can't comment on Good Life, except to say that I've never smelled it, but if and when I do, I'll probably include it in this list as well. Currently Good Life sets the records for most expensive vintage Davidoff; Relax is not far behind. And Relax is one helluva good fragrance, I can promise you. It boggles the mind as to why a company would put out something as true to its name, only to can it a couple years later, but that's exactly what Lancaster did, probably when Coty took over. Rumor has it Relax was available at Davidoff tobacco boutiques until the mid-2000s, but I recall searching for it in 2010 and finding nothing, with high-priced bottles on eBay even then. How does it smell? Simply beautiful, an ambery fougère with oriental underpinnings of velvety woods and sweet florals, with just a hint of cushy vanilla, this fragrance opens bright and fruity-fresh, then rapidly segues into what can only be described as a formal reimagining of Brut. Its unique blend of mint, citrus, lavender, jasmine, woods, and musks has never been replicated. I could hunt for decades for a replacement and come up empty, so I've stopped trying.  

Unbound for Men (Halston, 2002)

Roy Halston Fenwick is known for Z-14 and 1-12 because those fragrances are great. But Unbound for Men was released almost thirty years later to very little fanfare, as by that point the Halston brand had already faded into bargain-basement obscurity, due in no small part to how Roy had sold his name to all the wrong people over the course of five decades. My generation doesn't know how important Halston was to American fashion; he went global after he designed Jackie Kennedy's famous inaugural "pillbox" hat. Hats were his bag, until he branched out into the wider world of high fashion during the sixties and on into the Nixon years, when he eventually made the leap to perfume. EA Fragrances eventually acquired the perfume rights, and for reasons unknown they issued Unbound fully twelve years after the designer's death. Overlooked as a wonky Acqua di Giò clone, it's actually better than its template, and quite unlike anything I've ever smelled before or since. Imagine Acqua di Giò, but with a ton of tomato leaf in the top notes, followed by salty watermelon and cucumber, then dust it all with some coriander and let everything settle on synthetic ambergris and basil. Now imagine the ingredient quality is three notches above what it should be for a $25 fragrance, and you have Unbound for Men. Yeah, it seemed like another pedestrian "freshie" at first glance, but by about a third of the way through my large bottle, I realized I had something very special on my hands. The bright and bitter greenness of its tomato leaf, its zesty coriander, the juiciness of its watermelon, and its sparkly-salty base accord was addictive and cheerful and helped me through a particularly drab time in my life. But it was also one-of-a-kind in how its herbal spices were balanced against crisply fresh fruits and aquatic musks. Now that it's gone, I wonder what kind of soul-selling it would take to convince EA to bring it back. Somehow I doubt they'd be interested after their Bowling Green fiasco. Yeah, it's gone for good. 

Nobile (Gucci, 1988)

My best friend had a bottle of this. It smelled like the eighties had stepped out of a Crocodile Dundee movie wearing Kouros and Antaeus and Zino, then took a long hot shower with the original Irish Spring bar soap, all sudsy and soapy-clean but with lingering echos of those older and darker powerhouses. Nobile wasn't a masterpiece, nor was it avant-garde, but it was the best at what it did, which was represent eighties male virility in a style that encapsulated the marriage of Italianate green-piney old-world cologne to Bausch + Lomb-wearing Wall Street modernity. Everything is on offer -- lavender, citruses, florals, a bucketload of irones and ionones, cis-3-Hexen-1-ol (grassiness), oakmoss, sandalwood, with whispers of labdanum and other lyre chypre tones played by Orpheus for Eurydice -- and I could get into the nitty-gritty of how all of Nobile's notes fit together to form a big, soapy, super-green masculine that is extremely potent without smelling obnoxious, but what's the point? You get the point. This was that fragrance, but it was better than the rest. It's hard to say how, but Nobile possessed a quality of freshness and vitality that transcended green fougères and strayed into mythical beauty, the sort of scent you could smell once and never forget. It's been dead and buried for several decades now, and while many green aromatics for men have since been born and killed off, none have ever come close to emulating how great Nobile smelled. 

Touch for Men (Fred Hayman, 1995)

I interviewed Jeffrey Dame, the creator of this fragrance, back in 2013 (please dig into my blog archives for that), and to sum up, Touch was his labor of love. I'm talking the original Touch by Parlux with the black cap, not the silver cap reformulation by Victory International that came out many years later. I'm told the silver version is a different fragrance altogether. My bottle is from 1995, and I find that to be odd. Nothing about it says "I'm a nineties frag." Its box and bottle look like the late seventies or early eighties in both name and aesthetic, but that speaks to just how variegated the styles of the nineties were. Gen Z (Zoomers) think of the decade as being their dad's era, and when I spritz on Touch, I see their point. Often compared to Brut, Touch does smell remarkably similar, a powdery floral fougère with a hint of citrus brightness on top and mossy musk below. There are also shades of Avon's Wild Country, due to Dame's reliance on powder to create a dry barbershop aura. But Touch is even more similar to Neutrogena's famous $20 shower gel called Rainbath. It's almost the exact same smell. So I suppose you could argue that this discontinued gem lives on for Rainbath users, except, well, not so fast . . . Touch has a few things Rainbath doesn't. For starters, its lavender note is far more complex, weaving in and out of warmth and coolness, and most of its bitter herbal background players flit just beyond the realm of perceptibility. Touch is also sweet, with an ambery and vanillic drydown that ensconses the wearer for hours in a cloud of happiness. Brut is soapier, simpler, greener, muskier, but Touch is a sweet lavender mist, and when the last few bottles vanish from eBay, I'm sure I'll never find anything quite like it again. 

Agua Lavanda Puig, Green Glass Bottle Version 

(Antonio Puig, 1940)

I know, I know, there are two Puig fragrances on this list, and how can that be? Well, if Aqua Quorum represents a discontinued gem that did amazingly original things with amazingly unoriginal materials, Agua Lavanda Puig (or Puig's Lavender Water) symbolizes the passing of Old World tradition into the sands of time. Technically this fragrance is still in production, and very easy to find in Spain and Portugal, among other stretches of Mediterranean Europe, but there were always two versions, the one in green glass and the one in plastic shampoo bottles. The glass version is no more, gone for at least fifteen years, and probably longer. Lavender is one of those universally recognized notes that I'd be hard-pressed to consider unique in any way, but the version in this stuff was simply glorious in its simplicity and beauty, yet also maddening in its longevity. I would get maybe twenty minutes out of a very generous splashing before it evaporated into thin air and took its gorgeous scent with it. It wasn't one-note lavender; ALP was lavender with a vibrant rosemary note, and both smelled of natural essential oils in generous concentration. Sprightly and bitter geranium, tonka, cedar, and some sort of midcentury white musk all drew around the central lavender note, which smelled unique in its own right. It was less like stereotypical lavender and more like some kind of watery "eau" that smelled way ahead of its time. No other lavender cologne/after shower splash has come anywhere close to replicating the polished chrome diopside languor of vintage Agua Lavanda Puig. Given that it's still being watered-down and sold year after year in those tired plastic monstrosities, I nurture the fantasy that the company will go back to respecting their bedrock fragrance again, but I'm not holding my breath. 

Green Valley (Creed, 1999)

I'm gonna just come right out and say it: Green Valley is the best fragrance I've ever smelled. Out of the roughly 800 perfumes that I've put my nose on, this one beats all of them, and it isn't even close. This hurts me deeply, because it's been discontinued for ten years with zero availability in the aftermarket, save for a few obscenely priced survivor bottles that are probably spoiled by now and not worth the glass that holds them. The version pictured here, with the green cap, was the original release from 1999, which within six years was replaced by a transparent cap, for reasons that defy explanation, other than it was Olivier Creed being needlessly OCD about one of his products again. But here's the real kicker with Green Valley: there is literally nothing else on the planet that smells like it. With nearly every fragrance in history, you can assemble a small coterie of similar things that either riff on or blatantly copy each other, but not so here. This fragrance, despite conveying what seems like (on paper) a pedestrian fruity-green "fresh" profile, manages to smell so radically unique and brilliantly executed that it defies the laws of physics. I can describe Green Valley -- green minty/grassy top accord, bitter and slightly floral, some mandarin orange sweetness, followed by ginger, blackcurrant, vetiver, more mint, more grassiness, with ghostly notes of watermelon, coumarin, green tea, hawthorne, violet leaf, resting on ambergris and sandalwood -- but that doesn't really describe Green Valley. You can't understand it until you actually smell it, and you need to spray liberally, meaning you need a full 2.5 oz bottle to get the full effect. This suggests that you have $1200 to spare on a "vaulted" Creed. You can drop that kind of cash on an eBay seller's old dusty bottle, but buyer beware, as it will likely smell off. I don't have much hope that Kering will bring Green Valley back, for a few reasons. First, they can't really do it. The formula for it was super expensive and had grafted together bits of Millesime Imperial, Silver Mountain Water, Tabarome Millesime, and Green Irish Tweed, but also had original accords of bitter wildflowers and an intense green grassiness woven in. Another issue is material quality; Kering is all about cutting corners on formula cost, and now that Olivier is no longer obsessing over the very best of the best ingredients, it's unlikely that any reissue would smell right. Green Valley was a fragrance in motion. It would drift and waft and shimmer through my nose, the exact smell of a dew-covered field of uncut grass and weeds on a cool morning, with a gentle gust of air rustling through it all. I could actually smell the fronds of green moving and glittering with moisture, a sea of emeralds rippling to the horizon. Green Valley was magical, mystical, on another plane of existence. The perfume world seems to understand this, because almost no one has attempted to clone or recreate Green Valley, a fact I find both amusing and annoying. It's a little funny because it tells me that despite all the bitching about Creed, people have to give them this one. They created something truly new, truly beautiful, and truly one-off. But now that we've smelled it, why hasn't anyone at least attempted a clone? Well, DUA Fragrances, that weird scammy brand that sells one ounce bottles for stupid money, is the only company with the balls to put out a Green Valley clone (Vert Instinct), so I might as well try it. But make no mistake, this fragrance, like all of the fragrances I've written about here, is gone forever. 

Fan di Fendi Pour Homme

The remarkable thing about postmodern fresh aromatic fougères like Paco Rabanne, Azzaro Pour Homme, Drakkar Noir, Cool Water, and Polo Sport, is that their structures are "first drafts" of type, yet largely perfect. Paco Rabanne and Azzaro were at least close to perfect, with Kouros and Rive Gauche Pour Homme later showing us what needed work. Drakkar Noir, as far as I'm concerned, has never really been improved upon. 

It was one of the first aromatic fougères to incorporate noticeable traces of dihydromyrcenol, setting the stage for Cool Water, but contemporaries like Lomani Pour Homme and Taxi failed to add anything groundbreaking to its structure. The same uniqueness applies to Cool Water, with Polo Sport taking the idea to its only workable extreme. Fougères are unusual creatures in that they have a core structure of a handful of notes, around which hundreds of variations can be utilized, yet only a few dozen tweaks actually smell good. If you stretch lavender too far in one direction, or coumarin in the other, you wind up with caricature rather than coherent design. Yet these components demand to be caricatured. It's not unheard of in modern (note, not 'post modern') fougères to caricature everything into extreme poles as an exercise in seamless function and balance, the olfactory equivalent of a Mark Rothko painting. Fragrances like Pino Silvestre, Moustache, and Caron Pour un Homme show how it's done. 

Nowadays we inhabit a time and place where people have forgotten their ancestors, and make old mistakes new again. I've seen this happen to Hollywood in the last ten years, and it's been driving me crazy. Once upon a time, studios and directors devoted extra attention to screenwriting and special effects crews. Then Spielberg came along with Jurassic Park (the 3-D version of which I saw yesterday, btw - unnecessary but still great), and the word was out: Computer Generated Imagery is the only way to make anything fantastic seem "real." Never mind that Jurassic Park is visually stunning because it cleverly combines CGI with animatronic dinosaurs, making it twice as hard for us to discern what is and isn't real. It takes me back to the days when studios thought clay animation and puppets would enhance the look of unreal creatures like King-Kong, or the skeleton army in Jason and the Argonauts. The human eye can be fooled to a certain extent, but the optic nerve connecting it to the brain clamps down on anything even remotely implausible, alerting our cognition that movements are a touch jerky, textures are a hair too blurry, colors aren't comporting to the natural palette, and therefore, despite all efforts to the contrary, we're seeing something to be considered false.

This dynamic applies to our noses as well. The combination of natural and synthetic materials in a composition determines its balance and plausibility. Today I'm wearing Sung Homme, and although it is largely synthetic, the few trace naturals in its pyramid make the fragrance amenable to scrutiny. A few drops of real cinnamon and clove oil works wonders in a forest of lab-made flowers and woods. It's far from perfect, but it smells good. 

This brings me to Fan di Fendi Pour Homme, a department store fragrance from the once-venerable house that brought us the great Fendi Donna. While it smells rather good in a conventional citrus, dessicated herbs, and dry woods manner, it doesn't have any overtly natural elements within its streamlined structure to recommend it. It's also strangely sweet, without the fresh-fruity ambiance of progenitors like Cool Water, and its nineties late-cousin, Allure Homme. It's as if the nose thinks coumarin's bittersweet, hay-like nature is fine, but its position and role in the aromatic structure is too fine, and in need of diffusion. Reader, I can tell you that FdF ph is an aspirational masculine that sets a low bar for itself, and doesn't even try to surpass it. I encourage you to set a higher bar for yourself, and simply wear any one of the fragrances listed above to better effect.

Fendi "Donna" (Fendi)

I don't make it a habit to review discontinued perfumes, because people can't buy them anymore, can't find them anywhere, and wind up shelling out hundreds of dollars for something that might only cost $60 if it's randomly reissued. It's the sort of hilariously un-funny thing that happened to Red for Men fans when Giorgio Beverly Hills (now licensed by some other entity) decided to crash the ebay party of hawking half-used bottles for $150 each. Suddenly, there's Red for Men sitting at Marshalls for $15 again, no more a hit this time around. So the following review is written not as a temptation to vintage seekers, or as a frustration to non vintage seekers, but rather as a eulogy for a fine fragrance that no longer sees the light of day, but should: Fendi's original feminine perfume, nicknamed Fendi "Donna." She is a masterpiece.

Fendi is an animalic-woody chypre, an extension of K de Krizia's peachy take on the classic fresh floral of four years earlier. This extension of the dry, brightly aldehydic structure of K brought a darker and denser pyramid, and the result is sultry leather, full of rosy snarl and spicy texture, with the brisk sweetness of cardamom and coriander shuffling through an incredibly dry cloud of patchouli. Where K leans on its aldehydes, Fendi embraces mossy woods, never succumbing to trite sweetness. The pairing of rose and rosewood in its heart is inspired, as the rose is smooth and burnt, while the wood is fresh and vibrant, magnifying all that surrounds it. If you imagine Fendi as a woman, she's none other than Sophia Loren, the swarthy Mediterranean siren of the big screen. Sexy, a little scary, but ultimately warm and friendly, this perfume inhabits its own realm, transcending forum discussions and genealogy charts.

My only objective thought about Fendi is that it is a landmark chypre in an eighties style, very big boned and broad-shouldered. Men could wear it with ease, and perhaps today they'd be better off wearing it than women, as it seems ethyl maltol is still all the rage with the ladies. Yesterday I heard a woman remark that she loved the smell of cotton candy, and I found myself wondering whether this was nearly as bad as it first seemed. I actually like that smell, too. Cotton candy has a pleasantly soft, cuddly aroma. It's a comfort smell, in a way, the sort of thing that accompanies the thrill of having your father treat you at a ball game. Integrated into perfume, it creates a fun, bouncy mood. And we all enjoy "edible smells", so it's understandable that a woman might find cotton candy appealing as a perfume scent.

But another voice inside me kept saying, "yeah, but still . . ." There's something about a challenging woman that appeals to me. It's not the idea that she would be intentionally "hard to get" or anything like that. It's the idea that her range of moods, behaviors, personal sentiments, and even fashion sense is variable, diverse, subject to instantaneous change. I enjoy women who wear their thoughts on their sleeve, and speak their minds, even when they're quiet. Women like that (I've known a few) should present something unconventional, something daring, even for a chypre. No one is sweet and fluffy all the time, but sometimes people are sweet one minute, dry and crackly the next, and then altogether charming just a few moments later. This is Fendi. The sweetness of its floral notes persistently hints at its good intentions, even as its uncompromising spicy-leathery heart rolls over everything. The far drydown, a golden glow of sultry moss and amber, reads as the final word on who wears this well - a good, solid woman. She's beautiful, she's bold, she's not afraid to tell you how she feels, and she rarely cries. She's my future wife, and I'll be a happy man when I meet her.

Fan di Fendi (Fendi)

When Fendi discontinued its eponymous fragrance for women several years ago, the news was met with despair by my family. Nicknamed Fendi "Donna" by its fans, the scent was my mother's signature from the year it was released until the last day of its production. My father loved it on her, and always replenished her stock, which included body washes and lotions. I loved it, too - the rich leathery chypre essence of Fendi embedded itself in her clothing, her bags, the very air around her. Perhaps it's the Italian in me, but I found it intoxicating, even when I was just nine and ten years of age. Nothing about it was "girly" or sweet. It simply smelled classical, adult, comforting, like the holy water of some Eighteenth Century philosopher's mistress. Fendi was enlightened sin, neatly captured in a bottle.

Fendi discontinued all its older scents, and only recently returned to the scene with the trumpeted release of Fan di Fendi, a new fruity-floral for the ladies of the Twenty-First Century. I must admit to being only partially enthused about this; my sense from the press and the packaging was that Fan would be a mainstream release, with nothing avant-garde in its profile, no lingering emotional impact to be had.

Sniffing it today, I'm reminded of all the pajama-wearing twenty-somethings in Uggs who pad around the grocery store with zippered hoodies that say PINK in gaudy silver lettering, smartphones in hand, sarcastic eye-rolls ever ready for whoever should glance their way a bit too long - or longingly. You know the types, those young American women who think their gender alone exempts them from actually having to wear regular clothing when venturing out in public on a Saturday. They're of my generation, they're proud of their PINK sweats and pajama bottoms and ugly-as-fuck Uggs, and they're accessorizing their hangovers more than their neon-pink vinyl clutch purses.

These lady-children come to mind because Fan di Fendi smells like the total opposite of something such women would wear. Actually, it's something they could never wear. It is light years away from the brown sugar blather of Bath and Body Works. And thank the good lord for that. Fan rides the air on a crest of lean animal sexuality, smoldering beneath a refined and well-poised femininity that only an Italian goddess could possess. The sweetness of its opening is sharpened into a blade of citrus, dripping with the juices of tangerine and blood orange. It's a distinctly Italianate feeling to smell such dense and sugary citrus fruits, and here they're rendered in a very plush way, but the sweetness brings their brilliance into a super sharp focus. Simply mesmerizing.

Gradually the fruits mellow into an indolic white floral arrangement, a blend of tuberose and jasmine that is so heady and dense that it somewhat resembles mimosa. Whiteness pervades the heart, filling every aspect of Fan di Fendi's evolution with a richness not often found in designer releases. Fruity sweetness remains entrenched in the proceedings, but after an hour it plays nice against the naughty of the flowers. As things dry down, the base yields a lovingly-crafted suede, with hints of animalic musk supporting the leather. The woman who wears this wears stilettos, when she wears anything at all. Her clothing is hand tailored, her phone never makes an appearance outside of the ladies' room, and she doesn't get a hangover because her drinks regularly average about 38,00 € per glass. When your vino is that expensive, even the alcohol has manners.

Fan di Fendi is arousing juice. Its sophistication is in its grandiloquent modernity, the flourishes of the familiar juxtaposed with the exotic, but its sensuousness rests with its reliance on feminine notes to convey a distinctly classical perfume. Maturity and sexuality are blended very well in this one, and any woman in her twenties, thirties, or forties could pull it off beautifully. She just has to dress - or undress - for the part.

Needless to say, I won't be recommending Fan di Fendi to dear mom. She seems very happy with K de Krizia, which has essentially replaced her lost signature. I'm saving Fendi's latest for a future girlfriend. I'm not sure who she'll be, but I do know that she's never touched a pair of Uggs in her life.