Boozeless Barflies

You wouldn’t think that drinking is an allusive pleasure, would you?  It is, but in a strange manner. If we do go down to the well on any given night and drink our fill, it seems that we do like to sit around thinking about it later, and we even like to smell of it – unless that is, we hit a speed trap on I-95.

The subject of beery perfumes is one for another day, but for those who enjoy, say, vodka, there is always Ambre Russe by Parfums d’Empire.  The perfume has gathered a bunch of rave reviews over time but unfortunately doesn’t  with me because I am anosmic to a particular synthetic used in high end amber perfumes.

This one I can smell the champagne in, and the vodka, and something that smells to me like zakuski, and then I smell cigarette smoke and then the smell of my old oriental rug in the days when I cleaned it with the hose and shampoo (works like a charm, by the way).  It is slightly animalic and slightly dusty and it is not like natural ambers.

So, having heard that this was a massive lasting amber, in fact a fortress of testosterone with walls five feet thick of cyclopean masonry you can’t slip a razor blade between, what I got was the summer pavilion at Tsarskoe Selo with a drinks party going on.  In short, I was expecting Boris Godonov, and I got Medvedev.

Better in my experience if you want to drink olfactorially, is Le Dandy by d’Orsay perfume that in its dry down smells exactly like armagnac.  The first part of it is a conventional vetiver based men’s aftershave so hold on there don’t scrub it off yet and… see I told you: booze.  The armagnac note lasts pretty well, too, so you will be sitting with it far longer than the ghostly barbershop in Queens.

Lastly there is an old Jean Patou from 1987 called Ma Liberte, and this particular Ma, like say the vivandiere in Mother Courage or even Mme Defarge in A Tale of Two Cities takes no prisoners.  She is in your face lavender, and if that has not bent you to her will, you pusillanimous perfume wearer, you, she has got whiskey, and pepper, and cigar smoke to blow in your pie-hole, you Anglo-Saxon Pig-Dog!

It’s one of those perfumes which does bring to mind a personification and this one, to me , always has a corn-cob pipe clenched in her back teeth, somewhat ala Mammy Yokum.  But she is a boozy old floozy, so if you like to wear your ambitions on a night of pub crawling, this is a good choice, and by the way it would work equally well or better on a man.  You need, as they say, to down it to drown it.

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