Femme, 1989 (Rochas)

Femme has a long and storied history as Edmond Roudnitska's breakthrough chypre. According to legend, it was created in a dusty old warehouse that doubled as a lab in war-torn Paris, 1943. One imagines perfumer's alcohol being stored in used bottles of Vichy water, but I digress—one spray, and my first thought was, Mitsouko!

Except it's Mitsouko with warmth and carnality. Instead of Guerlain's laser-focused bergamot, I get cumin, fistfuls of cumin. There are conflicting accounts of how the cumin accord came to pass. Some sources claim that Olivier Cresp of Quest International singlehandedly added the cumin when Femme was reformulated and reissued in 1989, which led to Roudnitska crying, "They stole my Femme!" Other accounts suggest that Cresp worked closely with Roudnitska on the '89 formula, and that the Master Perfumer asked him to utilize a cumin accord similar to what Roudnitska had formulated decades earlier for Eau d'Hermès. I tend to think that this story makes more sense. Roudnitska was still working in the late '80s, and there's no reason why Cresp wouldn't have deferred to him. The cumin is both skanky and fresh; the citrus, bergamot and mandarin, smells rich and perfectly rounded, offsetting the sweaty spice just enough to keep the top of Femme smelling subversively French. Think freshly washed vagina in perfume form. 

Armchair historians also claim the cumin was never in the original formula of Femme, but I'm not entirely sure that's accurate, either. There is no definitive description of the formula for Roudnitska's Femme, and given that he explored cumin as a "fresh" note, I wouldn't be surprised if 1940s bottles contained some. Perspectives on vintage Femme are somewhat indirect and inconclusive, and anything is possible. Once the superlatively spicy top begins to evaporate and melt into the aldehydes c-14, c-18, and the Prunol base, Femme gets very vintage Guerlain in vibe, and a familiar (and rudimentary) chypre accord emerges and dominates. Yet, where Mitsouko feels cold and aloof, Femme feels warm and personable. Mitsouko is a marble mausoleum in the misty woods of a forgotten cemetery; Femme is a hunter's blind at midnight in the same woods, with a roaring campfire illuminating a russet chiaroscuro of reds and browns and burnt greens. The chypre forest of Guerlain is haunted and silent, save for a subdued peach light from deep in the gloaming; the woods of Femme glow creamy and sweet, and are redolent of a post-summer harvest. 

I own two bottles of Femme, both nearly identical to the version pictured above, with the only major differences being that mine have black caps, and their liquid is much darker. More of a reddish-brown than a golden amber. There is no oakmoss in either bottle, and I detect that a patchouli accord was used to compensate for its absence. My bottles are the 1989 formula, and the cumin is dirty, but good dirty, evocative of how women smell on an intimate level. Were Cresp and Roudnitska attempting to replicate the natural perfume of a young woman's loins? Seems like a "yes" to me. Having had my fair share of sensual encounters, I recognize, with some amusement, that the first 30 minutes of Femme nails her deep musk. Then Prunol steps forward, and the fruitiness of the composition explodes on skin, a veritable basket of plum, prune, peach, and apricot, with the zest of mandarin still whispering in the wings. The edibles are joined by flowers: of chief importance are Bulgarian rose, jasmine, ylang, and immortelle. The immortelle lends the heart a curried sweetness, not unlike raw honey. And, of course, there's labdanum. 

In lieu of oakmossy powder, the base instead hews into cedarwood and birchwood, with a faint smoky angle from the birch, a brightness from the cedar, and that dollop of patchouli to smudge everything together. Benzoin and a dash of vanilla further cement the chypre structure, and Femme endures as a woody-sweet glow for well over 20 hours. This is a classic of French perfumery, ideal for cool autumn days and evenings. It's so good that if, like me, you are loath to replace your bottle of Mitsouko when it's finished, there is no cause for worry, for Femme is the sexier, friendlier, and more complex chypre.

Monsieur Rochas Concentrée (Rochas)

The above poster appears to be for the original Monsieur Rochas aftershave, which was probably the most popular iteration of this particular fragrance, given that it was released in 1969, at the tail end of the age of "manly" Mad Men. It's by the celebrated Guy Robert, whose influence on Rochas’s masculine offerings is strongest here. Monsieur is a crisp, lavender-forward fougère with a pleasantly grassy chamomile and coumarin heart, somewhat reminiscent of Moustache but softer and less synthetic. It’s a well-balanced, appealing fragrance that’s worth seeking out for lovers of vintage fragrances.

Unlike Moustache, Monsieur Rochas feels timeless, thanks to its lucidly naturalistic pyramid of earthy notes. A pert, crystal-clear opening of bergamot, galbanum, and lavender segues into patchouli and vetiver, which hold for about fifteen minutes before yielding to a central chamomile note. From there, it’s essentially chamomile, coumarin, herbal rosemary and sage, a semisweet amber with just the mildest hint of vanilla, and a thin musk. Chamomile’s flat, semisweet aroma shines here, lending the fougère structure a unique dimensionality beyond the hay-like warmth of coumarin.

As a vintage scent, it suffers mildly from age, with fleeting top notes and faint heart notes that give way quickly to the base. The citrus lasts mere seconds before lavender and powdery galbanum emerge, while traces of carnation, cinnamon, vetiver, oakmoss, tree moss, and cardamom appear briefly before chamomile and the base notes dominate. Despite this, it remains brutally frank, elegantly masculine, and memorable for its chamomile signature. Fans of Pino Silvestre, Moustache, and Agua Brava will likely find it a worthy addition to their collection. I tend to keep my eyes peeled for a bottle of this, although prices can be prohibitive for me! 

Moustache (Rochas)

Lavender. Coumarin. Oakmoss. Musk. They're the basic elements of a fougère, all easily recognizable in a composition. We take them for granted nowadays, but a century ago they were a novel construct. Sixty years ago, however, not so much - fougères had hit their stride, and geniuses like Edmond Roudnitska and his wife Thérèse were hard at work creating incredible variations on the theme. Moustache is one example, and the version pictured above (which precedes the more recent re-release) is fascinating to pick apart.

It's a beautiful fragrance, one masquerading as a citrus chypre, with the most elegantly fizzy bergamot-lime accord sweeping its herbal and mossy aspects through the nose on a golden breeze. There's something redolent of overripe stone fruit lurking in that opening, due I suspect to the use of aldehydes (C14? C18?) and a subtle interplay with softly aromatic lavender. The grade of lavender used is similar to the one in Caron Pour un Homme, with a doughy tint that trends closer to warmth than minty coolness, but when blended with natural citrus oils, discreet lemon verbena, and old-fashioned aldehydes, one could miss it. Try not to though, because it's right there with the lime as being the most vibrant rendition of its kind.

Ten minutes on skin brings a pretty basil / jasmine / geranium heart accord, very cool, a little peppery, completely terrestrial. Gradually the musky mossiness of the base asserts itself, with coumarin sweetness holding these two stages together. It's a very soft, hay-like coumarin note, the sort of thing you encounter in more recent aromatics like Kouros and Drakkar Noir, but while those fragrances buttress it with powerful notes, Moustache aims to soothe, letting all the elements cascade together in a comfortable manner. The far drydown is a ghost of lime, still brisk and woody, coupled with hay and oakmoss. Amazing.

Is this the perfect fougère? Perhaps it is Edmond's perfection of the form, with the rare chance to smell some of his wife's elusive talent in there. I think of Moustache the way I think of Pino Silvestre, as a fern that advertises a specific natural element first, and puts its classical form second. But Pino had no pine in it, and the blatant essay on lime in Moustache is built on the best rendition of lime in twentieth century perfumery. If you love citrus fragrances, especially citrus chypres like Eau Sauvage, and haven't tried Moustache, now is the time, before the older version becomes an endangered species. Right now it can still be had from mall stores for under forty dollars. This is one of the greatest citrus-forward fougères ever made, so don't wait.