05/08/2018
Valrahmeh
19 Reviews
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Valrahmeh
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The wrong man in the teacup
Calice Becker has put together many scents that give off a delicate tea aroma. I once read in an interview that Calice Becker comes from Russian parents and grew up "next to a samovar". And now I wanted to smell the tea of all the teas from the tea specialist.
So off to Tanagra in Nice. I had probably underestimated that even where wealthy Russian women throw their money on the counter, they don't sell a Kilian every day. The consultation was correspondingly engaging. After at least 30 minutes I went home with my head buzzing, a cloud of "Liaisons dangereuses" behind me and a bottle of Imperial Tea in my pocket.
No, I wouldn't buy Imperial Tea, the stuff smelled like a swollen tea bag that had been stretched too long and into which a lunatic had fired tons of jasmine blossoms.
Sprayed on again at home - and already I was of a different opinion.
Hmm, tea. Tea. Tea.
It's kind of elegant. Fancy, kind of classy. In my mind's eye, a few foot-mutilised, tripping servants appeared, handing the "Lord of the 10,000 Years" in the Forbidden City a wafer-thin porcelain bowl. With tea in it that smells the same. I wanted to smell like that, too. Rarely, but somehow every now and then. The fateful have-wanted reflex had set in.
And now I felt like the kind of woman who always gets the wrong man. Reason speaks, but you don't follow it, although you know exactly: It's not great, it takes me out, it's completely superfluous, I don't even really like it, I don't need it at all.
I still want him.
What can I say? I bought it. Since I had no desire to deliver myself again to the tirades of the saleswoman and to accept her embarrassing expressions of gratitude ("Ah, Madame, you have an exquisite taste" and to add in spirit: "No, I have not, I have rather a sock shot to buy for 200 euros this swamp broth") I ordered Imperial Tea over the Internet. Horrible... I know.
I have transported the stupid little box, which is lined inside with red polyester silk with the cheap key, all Talmi made in China, into the barrel.
The bottle, on the other hand, is ingenious, beautiful. So's the perfume. At least once in a while. It doesn't last long, smells like a swampy tea bag, doesn't change - and is completely superfluous. But I do think it's good that it decorates my collection. And it's easier to care for than the wrong guy.
So off to Tanagra in Nice. I had probably underestimated that even where wealthy Russian women throw their money on the counter, they don't sell a Kilian every day. The consultation was correspondingly engaging. After at least 30 minutes I went home with my head buzzing, a cloud of "Liaisons dangereuses" behind me and a bottle of Imperial Tea in my pocket.
No, I wouldn't buy Imperial Tea, the stuff smelled like a swollen tea bag that had been stretched too long and into which a lunatic had fired tons of jasmine blossoms.
Sprayed on again at home - and already I was of a different opinion.
Hmm, tea. Tea. Tea.
It's kind of elegant. Fancy, kind of classy. In my mind's eye, a few foot-mutilised, tripping servants appeared, handing the "Lord of the 10,000 Years" in the Forbidden City a wafer-thin porcelain bowl. With tea in it that smells the same. I wanted to smell like that, too. Rarely, but somehow every now and then. The fateful have-wanted reflex had set in.
And now I felt like the kind of woman who always gets the wrong man. Reason speaks, but you don't follow it, although you know exactly: It's not great, it takes me out, it's completely superfluous, I don't even really like it, I don't need it at all.
I still want him.
What can I say? I bought it. Since I had no desire to deliver myself again to the tirades of the saleswoman and to accept her embarrassing expressions of gratitude ("Ah, Madame, you have an exquisite taste" and to add in spirit: "No, I have not, I have rather a sock shot to buy for 200 euros this swamp broth") I ordered Imperial Tea over the Internet. Horrible... I know.
I have transported the stupid little box, which is lined inside with red polyester silk with the cheap key, all Talmi made in China, into the barrel.
The bottle, on the other hand, is ingenious, beautiful. So's the perfume. At least once in a while. It doesn't last long, smells like a swampy tea bag, doesn't change - and is completely superfluous. But I do think it's good that it decorates my collection. And it's easier to care for than the wrong guy.
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