Cabochard Parfum by Grès

Excellent reviews; if not everything, almost everything has been said, yet we could speak of so many wonders about this delight… I met it when I was older and it became the love of my life. I bought it blindly based on the notes and it turned out to be an absolute crush. I still remember our first time; I was surprised because I knew nothing comparable, I closed my eyes for a couple of minutes enjoying it while it filled him and stole my heart. Since then, other perfumes are merely fleeting lovers of a wild, ephemeral night, second fiddles, mere caprices; Cabochard is not. He is the faithful, firm, unconditional, definitive lover; he is the one you always return to, who waits with open arms, without reproaches, embracing and caressing you softly; then treacherously he leaps upon you! Pure passion! Clinging to your skin as if there were no tomorrow, accompanying you intensely without giving you a break for hours and hours. Cabochard Vintage is not a simple whim but has become a necessity. Just as one drowns their sorrows in alcohol, I drown mine in Cabochard, and my joys with even more reason, to celebrate and enjoy them. Sometimes simply Cabochard, a glass of wine, a book, and a cigarette offer me great pleasure; no other fragrance comforts me as this one does. Yes, it is carnal, very carnal, dirty, erotic, hard, dry, strange, even moody; yet it has managed to conquer me to the point of identifying with it. This is how I want to smell and no other way; I cannot even imagine myself without him. I confess that I hoard it with greed and avarice out of fear of loss and because, sadly, it is becoming increasingly difficult to find and the price has skyrocketed; apparently, it is liked more than we thought. Sometimes I think I met it at the most opportune moment in my life. Perhaps, had I been younger with different tastes and a less trained nose, I would not have known how to appreciate it? Or maybe I would? I do not believe so; I always think that part of its charm lies in appearing at the exact moment, with the right maturity on my part, because it is a perfume to be taken very seriously and worn with care. We coincide in that it is not for everyone, but when it conquers, it sweeps all before it, devastating hearts and leaving no one indifferent; some may even hate it. By the way, in a comprehensive review to which all say ‘Amen!’, Casablanca77 comments that Cabochard is a cousin of Sikkiem by Lancôme. Unfortunately, I have not had the luck to meet such a fantastic chypre; but as compensation for those fortuitous things of the universe, I was recently gifted a perfume that was a complete unknown to me, Kashmir by Milton Lloyd; they say it came out as a clone of Sikkiem, and indeed, Kashmir is a cousin of Cabochard Vintage. A rich chypre of the old school, about which I dare not comment due to the excellent review we have on the corresponding page, a gift from Sidonie, to whom I am grateful for this great discovery; if you like Cabochard, you will probably like Sikkiem, and by extension, Kashmir.

After reading illuminating reviews while holding a tissue, barely dabbed with a drop of Cabochard, I still struggle to comprehend this strange, dark, moody creature. I cannot say I like it; I wouldn’t dare wear it. Yet, little by little, I try to appreciate it (thanks to Grès for the vigorous lesson in olfactory education). I don’t think I smell the leather; I merely imagine it, assume it. What I clearly detect is the dry, powdery, astringent base of moss. The late-night darkness of tobacco, a heavy Ylang, alongside an overripe, almost withered, fainting jasmine. I believe this is how Madame Edwda must have smelled on that drunken, fatal night that dragged her occasional lover through Paris’s seedy brothels (that night that never ends) into a grey, desolate dawn. She, who is Evil because she is God, possessing life-and-death power, smells exactly like this, definitively. It is the fragrance of erotic anguish, if you will, not sensuality. It makes no promises it won’t keep. It is not an evanescent desire. It is pure flesh; tough, without doubt, and slightly bitter.