I went to Barney’s with the intent to purchase a bottle of Dans tes Bras — really, I did! I realized the other week that I had a Frederic Malle shaped hole in my life (not to mention my perfume cupboard), so when I went back over the Malles that I’d previously given a whirl, Dans tes Bras stood out as being the one most likely to succeed at satisfying the bone-crushing Malle vacuum at the center of my soul.
I grabbed my keys, trekked down Pine Street to Barney’s, walked through the door, immediately veered off course for a nicely discounted Lanvin tote for my sister, made a second detour for a navy shirt dress for Julie (What? We’re heading to New York in two weeks — she needs a navy shirt dress!), got distracted by the Cle de Peau Beaute counter (more Julie!), and then breathlessly, raggedly, crawled the rest of the distance to the Frederic Malle display, weighed down with shopping bags, none of which were for me.
I hate that.
I sprayed a dose of Dans tes Bras on a paper card (half the spray winding up on my hand — I hate that, too), and ten minutes later marched happily out of the store with my very own bottle of Bois D’Orage.
Wait, wha? Huh?
I can just hear you all wailing at your computer screens: “But you distinctly said you were there to purchase a bottle of Dans tes Bras!” Well, thank you for listening so carefully, but stop interrupting me or we’ll never get through this blog post. Now, where was I? Oh, right — Bois D’Orage (or, as it’s known in the rest of the world: French Lover).
The story goes that Mr. Malle got a little nervous about springing a fragrance on the U.S. market with the name French Lover, so opted for the safer Bois D’Orage moniker, instead. It was both a good and a bad decision: good in that it resolved any concerns about potential negative associations with the French (Freedom Fries, anyone?), but bad in that it completely anonymized the fragrance itself, making it so easy to overlook that it didn’t even register in my brain when I took my first pass over the Frederic Malle display — just another “bois” something or other (there are so many).
But the sales assistant caught me sniffing at my Dans tes Bras test strip with an unsatisfied frown on my face. “What’s that you’re smelling? Dans tes Bras? Here, try this!” and she sprayed some of the “bois” something or other on a test card and handed it to me. I inhaled. I exhaled. I closed my eyes and inhaled again. “What’s this called?” I asked, in my best Trying Not To Sound Like A Giddy Little Girl voice.
“Bois D’Orage,” she said, and smiled. “It’s called French Lover in Europe. It’s nice, isn’t it?”
Understatement was obviously her forte.
There’s something almost bizarrely comic in that moment when a new scent collides with your lack of expectations and you both crash headlong into love. My eyes narrowed because I could feel my pupils widening and I just wasn’t about to give in so easily. This French Lover was going to have to earn it.
“Hmmm,” I murmured. “Do you have anything else that’s like this? Anything else that’s . . . “ — I was about to say, “Anything else that’s suave, earthy and handsome” but then I would have given the ending of the game away when I was still more than determined to play.
I set the Dans tes Bras smell strip off to the side. I could always go back to it . . . should hell freeze over.
“There’s Musc Ravageur,” she suggested, doubtfully. I remembered my Twitter exchange just that morning with The Non-Blonde when we came to the conclusion that what she loved about Musc Ravageur is precisely what I didn’t: too much like an old style Guerlain, with a drydown that’s a smothering cloud of pillowy vanilla.
I shuddered.
She managed to spray several more of the Malles on paper strips, but nothing doing. My heart obviously belonged to Frenchy, and fight it though I may, Bois D’Orage was whispering a whole host of Gallic nothings into my ear — the ear that was, of course, directly connected to my wallet at the time.
Hmph. Just like a Frenchman.
It’s difficult to describe Bois D’Orage, and I wonder if this is why the name French Lover was originally chosen — because, really, how does one describe a lover? In this case, how does one describe an entire cultural system of love?
Easy — choose the descriptive “French” and the notion of old-world Parisian romance is instantly evoked, where all the lank-haired, sharp-jawed men need a shave, all the women are permanently stylish and perpetually windblown, cigarette smoke hangs in the air, décolletage hangs in full view, and there are empty wine bottles littering every available surface.
In other words, intimately casual — and that sums up Bois D’Orage neatly. Well, if a rumpled suit and an overturned glass of Beaujolais can be considered “neat”.
Listed scent notes for Bois D’Orage (French Lover) are: angelica, pimento, galbanum, iris, bay rum, clove, cardamom, juniper, cedar, oakmoss, frankincense, patchouli and vetiver. The scent itself could be descr
ibed as fairly linear — it is what it is, without much in the way of twists, turns or surprises. What starts as somewhat spicy, dusky and galbanum green finishes with a wooded, mossy flourish with just a dash of smoke and sweetness.
It’s also incredibly easy to wear. I was having a conversation with my friend Julie last Friday, after dinner and drinks, about when wearing a perfume is too much and/or not enough, and I told her I was wearing a full ten sprays of Bois D’Orage. “Really?” she said. I walked up to her and asked, “Does it smell like I’m wearing too much?” She sniffed the air around me and shook her head, somewhat surprised. “No, not at all, it’s just nice, like nicely scented skin — but you had to come close for me to tell. And we’ve been hanging out with each other all evening!”
I’ve been wearing Bois D’Orage with abandon over the course of the last two weeks, and have never felt like it was too heavy or too much, whether in open air or a crowded space. The BF complained only once, but that was when he walked into the bathroom just as I was setting the bottle back down on the counter, with a haze of Bois D’Orage still hanging in the air. So yes, it’s going to seem like it’s strong when you first put it on, but ten to fifteen minutes later and you’re ready to walk out the door and warmly French embrace the day.
I somehow managed to walk out of Barney’s with a bottle of Iris Poudre for Louise in my bag, as well. It’s so not my style, but it oozes class and cool, feminine sophistication, so I knew it was perfect for her. She sniffed at the nozzle of the bottle after she opened the box and exclaimed excitedly, “Oh! It’s beautiful! How did you know I would like it?!”
Well, silly, because it smells just like something Chanel would have (should have?) made, that’s why. And yes, she is that predictable — wave anything remotely Chanel in her general vicinity and you’ve got your own set of Pavlovian test results, guaranteed.
There are worse fates.
***Note: Bois D’Orage / French Lover was created by perfumer Pierre Bourdon, and was originally intended as an intense version of Frederic Malle’s Angéliques Sous La Pluie. From Perfume Smellin’ Things: “Apparently, Malle’s ‘original idea was to create a fuller-bodied version of the scent Angéliques sous la Pluie. But the creator and the perfumer soon went beyond that concept to come up with a sophisticated men’s scent, ‘super-sensual, but not trashy’” . . . I’d say that “super-sensual but not trashy” is a great way to describe Bois D’Orage.
