Patchouli Patch by L'Artisan Parfumeur

I bought this for Christmas because it’s a patchouli where the fruity notes shine without being cheesy. At first, it smells of plum or brandy, with just the right touch of iris that reminds you of the fruit’s skin. The alcoholic moisture and the ethylene of the patchouli evoke fermentation—no sugary sweetness, but rather that soapy facet of an old-fashioned bath, though with a certain dryness. It’s vintage but not entirely; dark without being wild, heavy yet soft. The balance is excellent.

Hey, this Patchouli Patch is very good. At first, as happens with L’Artisan, it’s not the loud perfume advertised, and I believe the current version has been reformulated and diluted; if you’re interested, look for old bottles and prepare to dodge the bandits of Sierra Morena. But I really liked it. I don’t intend to wear it myself, but it has great quality and composition. Of the patchoulis I’ve tried, this is the one that comes closest to my beloved Gentleman: clay-like and earthy. Most, especially in lesser-known lines, smell of burnt grass, with hints of acidic onion or oak moss, and the truth is, I can’t stand it. I like it for smelling on others, but not for myself. The patchouli I’m looking for is that of Gentleman, Aromatics Elixir, or Cabochard: cold, earthy, and with a clay aftertaste. The first time I smelled it, a tear sprang to my eye; it was impossible not to remember Givenchy. Then it takes its own path without losing that memory of Paul Leger. The aniseed note isn’t literal, but its aura of spiciness, and above all it’s very woody with tender floral or fruity tones—not the pulp or flesh, nor sweetness, but the velvety skin of apricot or peach, nothing of that pungent olive. The blend of patchouli, cedar, sandalwood, and osmanthus is wonderful, along with fresh, spicy caraway. The olive mixes with the woods and sometimes smells of soft suede or an old grandfather’s silk handkerchief. Earthy and well-behaved patchouli dominates, zero hippie, zero Woodstock, zero gothic; it evokes nature, open spaces, and a civilised garden, with the sparkle of osmanthus making it pleasant. My gripe is that the aniseed is excessive; although not strong, it’s very noticeable. I’ve tried many patchoulis and almost none surprise: either the full-on hippie, the cold of the classics, or the sweet fruity clones of Coco Mademoiselle. This one amused me because, being somewhat known, it makes you think it’s pleasant and easy to wear. It’s very familiar, making me think of a cultured, nice person reading on the sofa. A very European patchouli. PS: The quality of the notes is spot-on, natural and well-orchestrated, without plastic chords. I’ve tasted an old formula, as the current ones say they’re as common as bread and water. Update: after trying it, I think it’s of excellent quality, something rare in artificial fragrances. I looked up Luca Turin’s guide and the review is four out of five. Turin may or may not like it, but he reviews vintage perfumes with passion and hates the rubbish. He says: ‘This wonderful and deceptive fragrance opens with piercing-style patchouli, but when trying to say ‘idiot’, it turns ninety degrees towards a seductive helichrysum note, a rare flower with fennel nuances, as hard to interpret as a giraffe under the sheets. It already appeared in Sables by Annick Goutal and Eau Noire by Dior, but it’s pleasant to see it again. Then, in the dry-down, with reminiscences of Timbuktu, it has a woody accord that disperses the toasted notes like a night breeze. A beautiful perfume of which some prefer the third movement by itself.’