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I hate perfume.

Around the corner from the Casa de Sarah (where I'm staying in Wburg), there is a place called I Hate Perfume. That approximately describes how I feel about the stuff, but I recently read an article about Christopher Brosius and his unique scents, so I swallowed my pride and visited the store.

It's remarkable.

A giant mastiff, Zephyr, lazily greets you at the door. For a few minutes he leans against you and follows you around. There are actual perfumes along one wall, about thirty or so, with names like Fires of Heaven, Wild Hunt and Winter 1972. They are evocative rather than intoxicating — it's hard to describe them without getting florid. And despite my prominent proboscis, they were a little too complex for me.

It was along the other wall I meandered. Here the 'notes' — the isolated constituents of the perfumes — were crowded onto shelves, arrayed by types like Wood, Fruit, Smoke, Food, Green, Chemical and so on.

I have to use the word exactly a few times now.

There is Hay. It smells exactly like a bale of hay. There is Russian Leather, which is sweet and pungent, like an old leatherbound book. There is Coriander, which is exactly crushed coriander dust. There's Dust.

I spent at least an hour, alone in the store with Zephyr on the couch, going up and down the notes.

There's Pipe Tobacco, which I considered and reconsidered and reconsidered. Torn Leaves. Ginger Ale, exactly like American ginger beer. Roast Beef! I inhaled without thinking and nearly gagged: it's a roast beef dinner. Made me think of ill-fated Violet Beauregarde and her three course gum (I didn't find Blueberry Pie, but I'm sure it was there somewhere). Brosius admits he hasn't yet found a purpose for that note.

Of course I bought one. I'm now just faintly giving the impression of having kicked my way through a pile of moldering autumn leaves in the rain.

Joseph | 30 Oct 2008