FvSpee

Produced in Taiwan in 1971, the film "A Touch of Zen" can also be recommended to those who (like me) aren't martial arts fans by any stretch of the imagination. "A Touch of Zen" has nothing to do with the scent of Shiseido and only a little more than a touch to do with Ch'an (Zen) Buddhism. It is, however, a timeless classic that was rightly the first martial arts flick to be nominated for a Palme d'Or at Cannes; and it really deserved to get one.

The plot and characters are nuanced and complex, the film's attitude is rather pacifist - and the martial arts scenes are incredibly aesthetically choreographed. In that the main heroine Yang (embodied by the beautiful Hsu Feng, who was only 19 when filming began) is the much stronger character compared to the male protagonist, the goofy Ku (Shi Yu), the work also exhibits what I think was a considerable feminist tendency for the time. A film that in some ways echoes the now 50-year-old film is the 2000 modern classic "Tiger and Dragon" (starring Michelle Yeoh, then exactly twice as old but just as beautiful, in the female lead).

Likewise, Franck Olivier's 2014 fragrance "A Touch of Oud" (oudTouch) definitely deserves attention - even from those fragrance aficionados who (like me) are not thoroughly tested oudists.

Who Franck Olivier is, has remained a mystery to me, I think times, it is not the eponymous Belgian-Canadian, now probably also quite stale, crooner. Maybe the name just sounded good (like Häagen-Dasz) and there is no such person at all. I'm not familiar with any other fragrances in F.O.'s "Touch" line, or even any other Olivier fragrance. I merely bought a bottling of this one product, inspired by the enthusiastic review of the esteemed Carlitos - and I have not regretted it.

As our Portuguese friend has already pointed out, the ingredient list of this powerful, complex and extremely characterful fragrance contains neither oud nor any other wood. Whether it's a fun omission or the unnamed perfuming genius behind OudTouch has masterfully recreated the wood through other ingredients, OudTouch smells quite massively woody. It's a massive, solid, dry hardwood that forms the heart, soul and center of this piece. The scent is fairly linear and, despite its complexity, highly homogeneous, in the sense that no note is allowed to stray too far or independently from the hardwood buck at the center of OudTouch.

Despite the listed notes of "toffee" and "vanilla", I do not find OudTouch to be gourmand or sweet by any means, nor do I find it to be 'oriental' despite the incense, patchouli and jasmine. Raspberry is mentioned, but the thought of a banal Tuscan Leather imitation does not arise for a second.

If the solid, compact, dry woodiness is loosened up by a hint of delicacy, softness, possibly earthy rootiness, that may be due to the violets, though, and if a hint of opulent richness and (albeit dark, almost bitter) sweetness does make itself felt, that may be a very atypical citation of rose.

What imposes itself on me in contrast, is the olfactory image of a strong, black, sharply roasted Robusta coffee (coffee, however, is as little listed as wood). To guess (but again not listed) seem to me also dry, strong and warm, at times almost hot spices such as clove or nutmeg.

OudTouch is a stroke of genius and a mystery to me. I like to pick up the bottling every now and then. It lasts a long time because the scent, without being killer, is a performer in both radiance and endurance. Undoubtedly, OudTouch would move into my collection, if not the direction of the kraftstrotzenden woody fragrances would lie generally rather far from me and with the taste of Mrs. von Spee even explicitly crossed.

100 ml of this premium fuel are currently available at Notino for 17.55 euros. For me, another example of the fact that there is no regular correlation between price and quality in fragrances. OudTouch could easily find buyers for 175.50 euros (which is not a plea for a price increase).

As for the accidentia, a.k.a. the trappings to Trumpers 'Eucris', its James Bond references have been mentioned several times: Appropriately, it appears in a film as a Bond scent; in turn, in a novel, Bond finds Eucris in a villain's bathroom. The recipe's age of over 100 years and the unusual opaque black bottle with its unusual spout - a kind of hollow steel needle - have also been topics of discussion.

So today, before I get to the fragrance itself, I'd like to delve a little into its mysterious name. What, by jingo, is 'Eucris' supposed to mean?

Somewhere in the depths of the web, there is a theory that it is supposed to be a corruption of the word 'Eucharist'. 'Eucharist' literally means 'thanksgiving' in ancient Greek, and even today you can thank your trusted Greek for his Poseidon record with a confidently belted "Evcharisto!". When one says 'Eucharist', however, one actually usually means, especially among Catholics, the celebration of the Lord's Supper.

I think this theory is absurd. Firstly, the English (and 'Eucris' is very English) are so un-Catholic that even today, by law, no Prime Minister there can be a Papist; secondly, 'Eucris' does not smell of incense; and thirdly, you have to have a lot of hosts in your mouth or Mass wine to pronounce 'Eucharist' as 'Eucris'.

So what then? The Greek prefix 'eu' means 'good' or 'beautiful'. It is familiar from foreign words such as eurhythmy ('beautiful movement'; the youth hobby of Annie Lennox), euthanasia ('beautiful dying', no longer innocuous in Germany for obvious reasons) and eudaemonia (roughly: 'good living'). Or also from names like 'Eugen' ('of good origin') or 'Eulalia' ('the beautifully speaking one', also a Spanish scent mark). 'Beautiful' is, after all, in advertising terms, also a suitable word element for a cosmetic product.

But who is Cris? The current leading candidate of the FDP is undoubtedly convinced that 'handsome Chris' can only mean himself, but both he and Chris Howland, Chris de Burgh, Kris Kristoffersen and the (incidentally strong rather than beautiful) Cris Cyborg were not cutting edge in 1912 and therefore could not have been envisaged by Geo F. Trumper when he chose his name.

So the intriguing question remains open tonight. Perhaps later reviewers will be able to build on these modest, tentative preliminaries.

Eucris is a very beautiful scent and an equally distinctive one. It's so dry it's dusty, and so tart, that every now and then you catch yourself in the unmanly weakness of wanting to put a spoonful of sugar in it. Yet Eucris, though black as night, is not sinister. It is a friendly black, almost one full of: euphoria ('good mood'). Eucris is an extremely vegetal, almost vegan scent, as little animalic as a herbarium. I perceive dominantly dry cloves (are in the pyramid) and equally dry juniper berries (are not listed). Of course, there are blackcurrants in it. Their astringent bitterness can be felt (but it's softened by the floral notes that it doesn't hurt), their fruity juiciness cannot. Eucris is currant dust: it behaves to currant juice like powdered milk to whole milk.

Others describe 'Eucris' as durable, Mrs. von Spee and I represent in rare olfactory harmony the opposite party. After one to two hours, the fragrance is perdu with me, despite splashing. I used Eucris less often than the beauty of its aromas would suggest, but then I found the egg of (Cris!) Columbus: I now use Eucris as an aftershave. It can be perfectly poured into the hand through the steel spout, gives the day a masculine-tart and at the same time optimistic basis and at the latest after lunch there is room for the right scent of the day.

In the Crellekiez, Schöneberg is like Kreuzberg 61, quite alternative, but meanwhile also bourgeois and rather beautiful than flashy. And in its main street, Crellestraße, the Cafe bitter-sweet opened its doors from 2014 to 2018, one of the most lovable and familiar cafes I knew in Berlin. Very small, and the furniture (beautiful, but tending to be jumbled together from bulky waste) as unconventional as the offerings: I remember home-baked Scottish-style oat bread for breakfast, excellent English scones with clotted cream for coffee (there are very few addresses even in Berlin where you can get that), curious coffee specialties (bitter) and chocolate specialties (sweet) from all over the world.

The owner (with Kurdish roots) had put her multicultural life story at the time confession-joyful in the Internet: there was talk of a social worker activity in Great Britain, of long wanderings through South America with a kind of awakening experience under a cocoa bean bush and a sudden return to the Berlin home. I found it touching how the boss once entertained a sad and poor-looking old woman in a caring way at an early hour - I assume it was her mother. The bitter-sweet was on her way to some sort of regular cafe of ours when she disappeared as suddenly as she appeared. May the proprietor and the old woman be happy today.

Bitter sweet is also going on in our Colognist Cafe today. 4711 has now built up a whole empire of the most diverse Colognes in several series, and much of it I like very much! There are the classics (besides the Echt Kölnisch Wasser also e.g. the rather orangy 'Portugal' and the somewhat weird 'Ice'), then the Aqua-Colonia series, the series with the landscape impressions ('Scandinavian Woods' & Co) and here the Remix series with exactly one new release every year. Whether these editions are really limited seems unclear to me. I recently bought a bottle of this water in a regular store, and the bottom of the label says "Limited Edition", but no longer "2018", as it does in the Parfumo picture. This looks like they want to break away from a specific year.

This edition is one of the orangier productions from the house of 4711, but unlike 'Portugal' or even unlike the 'Anniversary Remix', it's pretty far from the classic Farina cologne and is guaranteed 100% herb and green stuff free. Notably, the classic lavender and rosemary ingredients are completely absent and not replaced with anything similar. Almost everything here is in the "bittersweet, orangy citric" realm. Accordingly, the citrus is almost entirely devoid of acidity (even the lemon comes across as rather candied), and the green notes are, at best, a citrusy green (like the peels of limes or still-green bitter orange). Spices (as in Mandarin Cardamom from the Aqua Colonia series) are also absent.

Despite what is essentially a very limited range of notes, in terms of main scents, Remix 2018 is quite complex for a cologne. And while it's (bitterly) sweet and soft, it never tips over into the cheesy or sticky. The floral notes (gentian) and the synthetic additions (cashmeran and musk, which seem to be used with the utmost restraint here and by no means lead to the fluff puff) only round out the citric, giving it depth and originality without bringing any real weight of their own.

Overall, though, I don't think the remix is a stroke of genius like the Anniversary remix. Nevertheless, Nicolas Beaulieu, who after numerous rather inexpensive designer fragrances now also has an Armani Prive in his portfolio to show, has succeeded here a more than decent, a beautiful, pleasing, round bittersweet orange fragrance, which all friends of this direction should definitely once nasal taste.

Third visit to the Colognist Cafe.
Blog has been updated.

Eyüp Sabri Tuncer, which was founded in 1923, almost as long as modern Turkey, sells an enormous amount of Kolonyas in addition to various care products. The assortment is a bit confusing. At the core, two series can be identified: One with a somewhat playful, vintage flacon design and fragrance names that mostly refer to neighborhoods and landmarks in Istanbul. And this one with a more no-nonsense design and (mostly) equally simple names. (It's not quite that simple though, there's also all sorts of overlap and ambiguity, e.g. there seems to be a "White Tea" and "Tobacco" fragrance in both series).

The "plain series", to which this fragrance belongs, comes up with an unconvincing traditional lemon (Klasik Limon), reminiscent of refreshing wipes from the Vienna Woods, plus also a cool-water blend (Okyanus), a lavender variant (Lavanta), a white tea (Beyaz Cay, I've already commented) and several scents that are not typical of colognes, like cherry blossom or amber. My favorites from this range are Tütün, a direction apparently popular with Turkish Kolonyas (variation on Tabac Original), Bodrum Mandalinasi (a mandarin scent), and this scent here, Çeşme Limonu, the lemons from Çeşme.

What is special about the lemons from Çeşme, I don't know. In any case, Çeşme is a small town on the Turkish Aegean Sea near Izmir and probably a rather fashionable seaside resort. The term means "fountain", because the city is said to have had particularly many of them since time immemorial.

Also Çeşme Limonu is a very simple, unpretentious use Kolonya with correspondingly low durability and sillage, but its fragrance is incomparably more beautiful and also a little more complex than, for example, that of Klasik Limon. Here, the tart green, a little bitter notes of lemon are in the foreground: evoked is most likely the image of a grated green lime peel - but that sugared, because a strong shot of sweetness is also there.

Overall, a simple, quick, and inexpensive green-lime treat.

the review is a reprint of a four year old comment I wrote after consuming a sample, I've since gone through an entire bottle as well, though mostly just to sanitize my hands.

Second visit to the Colognist Cafe.
The list in the blog has been updated.

Sisley's 'Landwasser' is, for me, a significant standout fragrance that I think anyone interested in "exploring the fragrance universe" and anyone who likes green, fresh scents should have tried.

Eau de Campagne is an early work of the now highly famous perfumer Jean-Claude Ellena, a kind of olfactory Jeunehomme concert. In it, all the skill of the master is already apparent; indeed, I would say that I like this early style better than many later works. Thus it has been remarked, not without reason, that Country Water bears a certain kinship to, say, 'Un Jardin sur le Nil': But I find Eau de Campagne more rugged, bold, original and natural.

The brand, and indeed the fragrance as a product, used to be much more significant than it is today. You can guess how popular and commercially successful 'Eau de Campagne' once was by clicking through the pretty advertising images visible here on Parfumo. The fact that the perfume has become more of an insider tip today can be read very nicely in Serenissima's review. In any case, it's great that the fragrance hasn't been discontinued yet, even if it's no longer a real sales driver. One more reason to try the fragrance while it is still there!

In its striking, utterly distinctive, unique interpretation of the colour 'green', Eau de Campagne comes closest for me to Cacharel's Eden, released some 20 years later; that too a fascinating and utterly special fragrance (albeit more difficult). There are even certain similarities in fragrance character and note pyramid. There is a kindred spirit to these two "green brushed against the grain" waters! - Even if Eden is more like a suffocatingly sultry jungle full of poisonous plants and Eau de Campagne is more like a freshly mowed golf course framed by woods and vegetable fields after a long spring rain (well, I've never been to a golf course, but I'll take a chance on the picture).

Country Water is a mysterious, sophisticated, highly complex green scent with ever-surprising new nuances (and therefore, although it pretends to be so rustic-freshly simple, it's also infinitely far from a cologne). On the one hand, it has a dreamy, playful, almost escapist quality. On the other hand, it has a tart, subdued-matte, serious, almost sad side.

The green notes - probably primarily represented by galbanum, grasses and basil, as well as by the very special tomato leaf, which I'll get to in a moment - dominate the stage of this fragrance throughout, in which I perceive less a clear fragrance development than an ever-changing. A whole panopticon of floral, fruity, earthy and fresh notes creates but always new counterpoints, without even a moment to question the unity and straightness of the fragrance.

The fact that I really, really like the fragrance (and Mrs. von Spee as well) may also be due to the fact that it contains a good shot of lily of the valley (we both love that) and probably also a hefty dose of the (rather unpopular with many) tomato leaf. I like its characteristic note and must therefore sometimes think with this fragrance here also of Lacostes Essential, in my opinion a blatantly underrated fragrance, in which this note is strongly pronounced.

But even setting aside those two particular preferences: Sisley's Eau de Camapagne is a magnificently composed fragrance and truly a landmark!