Kismet

Kismet is Thomas Fontaine's masterclass in subverting expectations, opening with a deceivingly bright citrus triptych before plunging into something far more provocative. The petitgrain, bergamot, and lemon don't linger as fresh cologne tropes—they're swiftly enveloped by a patchouli that's earthy and slightly fermented, its darkness amplified by the honeyed, balsamic weight of opoponax. This isn't patchouli playing nice; it's assertive, almost medicinal, creating an intriguing friction against the Bulgarian rose and centifolia absolute that bloom through the resinous haze. The roses themselves feel bruised rather than dewy, their petals dusted with something faintly animalic and warm.

What makes Kismet so compelling is how the powdery accord—likely from the interplay between labdanum and vanilla—softens the composition's edges without neutering its intensity. The bourbon vanilla doesn't read as gourmand; instead, it's smoky and dry, more tobacco-tinged than custard-sweet. The spice that dominates the accord profile manifests as a peppery, almost clove-like undercurrent, probably emerging from the patchouli's facets rather than a listed note. This is a fragrance for those who find conventional amber florals too polite, too predictable. It's intimate without being cloying, vintage in spirit without feeling dated—the kind of scent that suits dimly lit conversation over something stronger than tea, worn by someone who appreciates beauty with a bit of grit beneath its surface.