Lalique
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
Peppermint slaps you awake whilst fig leaf adds its particular green bitterness, a vegetal sharpness that smells of snapped stems and white sap. The bergamot tries to brighten proceedings but it's quickly enveloped by the first wisps of frankincense smoke, creating an oddly medicinal quality that's more Vicks VapoRub than vaporous oriental.
The tobacco and papyrus form a dry, almost dusty core—imagine aged paper and unsmoked cigarette leaves rather than anything remotely sweet. Cinnamon bark (not the cuddly baking kind) adds an astringent spice whilst the frankincense intensifies its ecclesiastical presence, filling the composition with proper resinous depth that borders on austere.
The myrrh and tonka finally make their presence felt, but they're lean and stretched thin over that uncompromising cedar base. The cognac note contributes a woody, barrel-aged tannicity rather than warmth—it's the inside of the oak cask, not the amber liquid. What remains is smoke-stained wood and the ghost of incense in an empty chapel.
Ombre Noire announces itself with an arresting blast of peppermint sharpened by fig leaf's green latex snap, a bracing introduction that Karine Dubreuil-Sereni uses to cleave through the sticky-sweet tropes of conventional amber scents. This isn't polite. The bergamot's citrus brightness lasts mere moments before frankincense smoke begins threading through that menthol coolness, creating an almost medicinal intensity—think cathedral incense meets apothecary rather than department store counter. The tobacco here is dry leaf rather than honeyed pipe smoke, its vegetal bitterness amplified by papyrus's dusty, paper-like quality and cinnamon's bark-not-bun spice. There's a cognac note that brings a tannic, woody oakiness rather than boozy sweetness, pulling the composition decidedly towards ascetic rather than hedonistic territory.
What emerges is a study in contrasts: resinous myrrh and tonka bean should theoretically soften the edges, yet they remain firmly in supporting roles, never allowing Ombre Noire to slip into conventional oriental cosiness. The cedar is bone-dry, almost austere, whilst the frankincense maintains its churchy solemnity throughout. This is for those who find most "dark" fragrances disappointingly tame, who want their smoke with actual bite, their spices unadorned by vanilla safety nets. It's the scent of a private library in an unheated Gothic manor, of vintage leather-bound volumes and guttering candles, worn by someone who treats fragrance as armour rather than accessory. Ombre Noire doesn't seduce—it challenges.
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3.9/5 (167)