#9 A perfume called Auteur

Coucou mes amis,

I made a perfume yesterday.

Cally and I did a perfume class in Paris ten years ago where the parfumeur started off looking very attractive and by the end, well, not so attractive. But we laughed our way through it. I discarded the perfume afterwards.

Glorious walk to the class. I can‘t tell you how much I love waking here, throwing open those high heavy windows and feeling the cold air rush in, with the little birdie in Renoir‘s garden trilling me a song. I've always wanted to do a perfume class with hundreds of bottles properly labelled (rather basic requirement) with time and space—because sniffing is a serious business.

The Galimard people know what they‘re doing—they‘ve been parfumeurs since 1747and their Paris atelier is only half an hour's walk from Montmartre.

On the way, tra-la-laing in the glorious brisk spring air, I was a sobered by the sight of a homeless woman lying stretched out on the footpath with very little covering. She sat up and lashed out angrily at a passerby who brought her noodles. Poor woman.

She had lost sight of her life, and I was off to make perfume.

The classes are run in a room with rows of desks and neatly tiered bottles, all labelled with a clever little system for showing base notes (white line at the bottom of the pyramid), middle notes (white line in the middle) and top notes (white at very top of the pyramid). Each with intriguing names like musc blanc and gingembre. There was also a small sign politely explaining that if I destroyed the pad I would have to sell my house to pay for it. Fair enough.

At the sight of the measuring cylinder and a beaker for pouring, suddenly I was a chemist about to sit an exam I should have revised for. One wrong move and the whole experiment might blow up. That‘s their ipad on which my ingredients were recorded.

My fellow parfumeurs were a gorgeous mother and daughter from upstate New York, and a Greek couple from near Corfu. Our sommeliers du parfum were Yusil and Emma. Thankfully they spoke English.

Now to the méthode.

Base notes stay on your skin and decide how long perfume lasts—they take up 50%. Middle notes are the middle child—hello, me—with no real reason for existing—30%. Top notes hit you first, sing their little song, and disappear—20%. Of course I immediately wanted to argue with the percentages, but I kept myself under control.

Before I arrived I had written down in French what I like: light, fresh, luminous scents—green and clean, with citrus notes (bergamote, citron, pamplemousse), maybe a touch of light fresh flowers, nothing heavy or heady. A little herbaceous, not too sweet. Something that lasts well on the skin. I mentioned Bergamote 22 by Le Labo and Afternoon Swim by Louis Vuitton.

Yusil fed the two names into an app called Sommelier du Parfum (it’s free to download and rather fun). It analysed the notes of those two perfumes.

When I remarked to Emma that I‘d need a week to do this properly—add something, come back next day, etc. She said it takes at least two weeks. More. Sometimes a year.

I had to choose six of each. First the base notes—dozens. After about ten I lost the will to live and started inhaling coffee beans. At one point I went outside and stood on the pavement for a minute just to remember what normal air smelled like.

But when I smelled something I knew instantly whether I wanted it or not. Some were so-so. But mostly it was a firm yes or an immediate violent no.

So I sniffed, nodded, shook my head, measured, poured into the beaker, poured back into the measurer, and voilà, a perfume appeared.

I learned one thing. The perfumes I like don‘t last well because I don‘t like the heavy base notes.

I named my perfume Auteur. Author. That‘s me!

I may add parfumeur to my CV—forget the student bit—I have a certificate!

Now the little author must sit quietly in its pouch for a couple of weeks before it fully reveals itself. A very French instruction. I left slightly intoxicated and smelling like a perfume counter. And of course I sprayed myself the moment I stepped outside. Je l‘adore!

On a cloud of parfum, with road workers swooning left and right, I walked to Canopé—a bistronomic restaurant with a score of 4.9, somewhere near Printemps Haussmann, because I walked there straight after.

I chose beef carpaccio (wonderfully spicy sauce), then omg tender very lightly crumbed veal and dark red carrots and mash (why did I not turn the plate for the photo?) and finished with a little sponge cake. Food: amazing. Atmosphere: friendly. Service: spotless. I didn’t even realise I’d dropped my napkin until a fresh one quietly appeared beside me. My table was swept without fuss between courses. The waiters were attentive but not invasive. The diners were all locals. In case you‘re worried I may blow up, I‘m only having one meal a day.

That was in Printemps Haussman.

I window shopped a bit and caught the métro home from St Lazare. Puh. Except my navigo card wouldn‘t work although it still had two trips left on it.

The service assistant was efficient, no-nonsense, and helpful, explaining that it was a fault with the machine.

I nodded and said, ‘Ce billet a mal à la tête.’ This ticket has a headache.

She burst out laughing and handed me another.

More soon. Tomorrow looks full and on Sunday I‘m en voyage to Nantes.

Toujours je t’attends.