Pierre Guillaume
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The first fifteen minutes are an assault of hot cinnamon bark and star anise, the sort of dry, almost medicinal spice that makes your nose tingle before the milky sweetness of chai spices rushes in to soften the blow. It's aggressively warm, bordering on aggressive full stop, with that particular prickle of fresh ginger cutting through the sugar.
As the gourmand elements settle, gingerbread's treacly darkness emerges in full force, all blackstrap molasses and burnt sugar edges, whilst the osmanthus weaves through with its peculiar apricot-suede character. The spices haven't disappeared—they're still there, integrated now rather than screaming—creating a texture that's simultaneously plush and slightly animalic where the osmanthus leather facets catch the light.
Hours later, you're left with a skin-close veil of sandalwood cream and vanilla that's been thoroughly stained by spice, like a wooden spoon that's spent years stirring curry. The mat note introduces an almost dusty, vegetal quality—somewhere between dried tobacco leaf and worn paper—that prevents the sweetness from going sickly, leaving something surprisingly wearable despite the bombastic opening.
Un Crime Exotique announces itself with the sort of unapologetic spice assault that stops conversations mid-sentence. Pierre Guillaume has orchestrated a masterclass in restraint-free gourmandise, where cinnamon and star anise collide with the milky, cardamom-laced warmth of masala chai in an opening that borders on olfactory aggression—yet somehow avoids caricature. This is the fragrance equivalent of a Bombay spice market colliding with a Parisian pâtisserie, where gingerbread's molasses-dark sweetness gets hijacked by osmanthus with its apricot-leather duality. That osmanthus is crucial; it prevents the composition from becoming merely edible, introducing a bruised-fruit complexity that keeps you questioning whether this is wearable or simply delicious.
The base is where Guillaume's technical prowess shows: Australian sandalwood provides a creamy, almost buttery foundation that the vanilla can melt into without becoming shrill. Mat—that peculiar vegetal earthiness—grounds the sweetness with something almost tobacco-like, a dusty quality that suggests incense without actually being incense. This fragrance wears like amber-coloured velvet: heavy, enveloping, completely unsubtle. It's for those who view perfume as a statement rather than a whisper, who understand that smelling like a spiced dessert can be an act of sophisticated subversion. Wear this in the depths of winter when central heating and wool coats demand something equally substantial, when you want to trail warmth and hunger in your wake. Not remotely office-appropriate unless your office happens to be a patisserie or a particularly louche speakeasy.
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4.4/5 (286)