M. Micallef
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The bergamot arrives already tarnished by pink pepper's prickling warmth, the citrus reading more like bergamot tea left too long in the pot than any sunny Italian hillside. Cypress muscle through almost immediately, its sharp, resinous greenness turning the opening astringent and medicinal, whilst smoke begins curling at the edges like paper held too close to flame.
The leather emerges properly now, not supple but rather desiccated and woody, interacting with cypress to create something that smells like the interior of an antique apothecary cabinet. Patchouli adds its earthy, slightly musty weight, grounding the composition so thoroughly that the initial freshness feels like a distant memory, whilst pink pepper continues its quiet insistence in the background.
What remains is a tight knit of musk and patchouli, the former providing animal warmth whilst the latter offers dark, loamy depth. The woody elements have fused into something abstract and enveloping, smoky without obvious incense, with occasional phantom whiffs of leather surfacing like déjà vu made olfactory.
Royal Vintage opens with a deceptive brightness—bergamot's citric oils meet pink pepper's resinous bite in a collision that's more incense burner than cologne bottle. This is woody perfumery that refuses to play safe, Geoffrey Nejman constructing something that smells simultaneously ancient and contemporary. The cypress arrives swiftly, its turpentinic sharpness cutting through the spice like gin through tonic, before leather begins its slow unfurl. But this isn't the savoury suede of contemporary leather accords; it carries a smoky, almost tarry quality that suggests aged hide stretched over wooden frames in some forgotten atelier. The patchouli underneath isn't the sweetened head-shop variety but something closer to damp forest floor, whilst the musk provides an animalic warmth that makes the whole composition feel like it's breathing.
There's an odd formality to Royal Vintage, a buttoned-up quality that paradoxically makes it feel more louche than overtly seductive fragrances. It's what you'd wear to a private members' club where everyone knows each other's secrets, or perhaps what lingers in the wardrobe of someone who collects first editions and decants their whisky. The fresh accord score seems almost perverse given how the fragrance actually wears—this freshness is more like cold air in a wood-panelled room than any oceanic brightness. It demands a certain confidence, perhaps even a slight disregard for being immediately liked. This is perfume for those who've moved beyond trying to smell 'nice'.
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3.9/5 (142)