Serge Lutens Vetiver Oriental

So the BF and I got up early today and drove to the nearest polling station to vote. I love the convenience of being able to cast my vote before the actual day of the election. The BF had already voted, but he went along with me to provide company and sparkling repartee, and to keep me from getting lost in traffic on the way there, which is a far more common occurrence than one would think reasonable.

A long line of people were already waiting by the time we got there, but the staff was large and in charge, with quite a number of voting machines stuffed into a deceptively small room, so we barely cooled our heels for fifteen minutes before we were at the door and I was handing them my voter registration card.

They didn't ask me for any photo ID, which I found strange and actually a little disturbing, because I could have been just anyone waltzing in that door clutching a registration card, and with the stories of voter registration fraud all across the news, you'd think they would bother to make sure I was who my voter card said I was. Right? You'd think?

But nevertheless, I did my civic duty and now it's on to the less complicated (and more enjoyable) world of sniffing at bottles of perfume -- and speaking of bottles of perfume, what should arrive in the mail today but a bottle of Serge Lutens Vetiver Oriental to call my own.

I've had a difficult time on this blog with the House of Serge Lutens, not being particularly charmed by what I've stumbled across so far (save for Ambre Sultan, but you'll notice I've made no mention of actually purchasing Ambre Sultan). But I ran across several descriptions of Vetiver Oriental that made me realize this was one I could easily live with, and I ordered it unsniffed/untested -- not my usual mode of operation, yet my confidence level was pretty high.

So is it holding up to my expectations? Yes, and let me count the ways:

1. Vetiver can be a difficult scent to love if it's not done properly. It has a chill, metallic quality mixed with gravelly dirt and the sharp green of grass that's been freshly yanked from the ground. In the wrong hands, it can be a mess of burning tires and shrapnel, but in the right hands, it's pure art (and here it's been paired with an icy iris root that enhances the Freon effect). I've found only two other fragrances so far that I believe have addressed vetiver with expert aplomb: Lalique Encre Noir and Clive Christian X for Men.

There are other vetivers that are acceptable, but I don't look for merely acceptable when it comes to vetiver, I look for "Wow, you smell like a Henry Moore bronze that's just been unloaded from a refrigerated delivery truck!" -- yes, I know, I'm difficult to please, but difficult doesn't mean impossible, and now I can add Vetiver Oriental to my short list of "Yes!"

2. I like gourmands, but not when they're too directly related to specific food items, such as cotton candy, cupcakes, caramel popcorn, licorice sticks, you get the picture. For example, I'm not against the addition of anise to a fragrance ingredient list, but when it predominates to the point of making me smell like a package of Red Vines, we have a problem.

Subtlety isn't just a word in the dictionary, people.

Vetiver Oriental is a gourmand, but not really a gourmand. It flirts with the gourmand genre rather than committing to it, and that's exactly my idea of what makes for a good gourmand fragrance. When I reviewed the Neil Morris October a few days back, it was pleasant but ended up smelling so strongly of pumpkin pie and spices that there is absolutely no way in h**l it would ever wind up as a purchased bottle on my shelf. Same with L'Artisan Bois Farine: "Who smells like a loaf of peanut butter nut-bread?" is not my idea of a compliment.

There's a sweetness to Vetiver Oriental that isn't brown sugar, it isn't honey -- I mean, yes, it is, but wrap a blanket of metallic sod around the sugar and any visions of hot, syrup-drenched pancakes just pop like balloons in a razor factory (needless to say, I find moments for gratitude in even the smallest achievements).

3. Cocoa. I mean, c'mon -- it's dark and bittersweet and dusty, and it should be so wrong sprinkled over iris flowers in the front lawn, but in Vetiver Oriental, it's just right. This smells like the same dusty, patchouli cocoa that makes Borneo 1834 such a strange delight, and I'm happy to find it nestled at the heart of Vetiver Oriental, as well.

Dirt, grass, gravel, honey, cocoa -- what's not to love? Okay, so it sounds like a plate of cookies someone dropped in a heap of compost at a 4-H Fair, but it's precisely this sense of the unexpected that I like so much about it, like the way Mandy Aftel mixed the fleshy scent of jasmine with chocolate and blood orange for her Aftelier Cacao. There are levels of salt, skin and musk that cut through the sweetness, playing down the sugar and warming up the cool earth in the mix.

Which brings me to number 4.

4. Subtle. The House of Lutens isn't necessarily known for restraint, and there are numerous occasions where his fragrances could have benefited from a less heavy hold on the shaker of odd (i.e. Miel de Bois, Cuir Mauresque), but the volume level to V.O. is just about pitch-perfect as it melts into the skin like a breath of smoke and wood after its initial hour of more assertive, bittersweet radiance.

Excellent piece of work. I'm glad I have a bottle. From what I understand (though I could be wrong), Vetiver Oriental is a limited release export item, and once Lutens distributors in the U.S. have sold out of their stock, you'll only be able to purchase it from the Lutens boutique in Paris. I ordered mine from the Lucky Scent website, though it's also available online from Neiman Marcus.

Photos of the bottle and box below:

UPDATE:

Several hours after posting the original entry, I walked into the BF's office and was stopped dead in my tracks by the most stunning scent of sweet, smoky, woodsy glory.

"What is that smell?!" I cried.

The BF barely looked up from his computer screen. "What smell?" he said.

I clutched at my chest, drama queen to the core. "That . . . that . . . GORE-JUSS sweet, smoky smell! Don't you smell it? C'mere, c'mere!" I motioned to him to come stand where I was standing.

He sighed, got up from his chair, walked over to where I was standing and sniffed at the air, then he sniffed at me. Then he rolled his eyes.

"It's your perfume," he said, and returned to his desk.

He loves me. He really really does.