Prada
Prada
32.0k votes
Best for
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The caramel hits with the intensity of burnt sugar, but it's immediately wrapped in a clean, almost laundry-like musk that prevents any sticky sweetness. There's something skin-like about this marriage, as though the sweetness is emerging from within rather than sitting on top, and the effect is both edible and oddly animalic.
The benzoin begins to assert itself, bringing a resinous, balsamic depth that anchors the caramel and introduces an almost spiritual quality—think amber-lit churches rather than patisseries. The powdery notes bloom fully here, creating a soft-focus effect that's distinctly retro, like vintage face powder or the inside of a leather handbag, whilst the sweetness recedes just enough to let these supporting players breathe.
What remains is a musky vanilla so well-blended it's difficult to distinguish where one note ends and another begins—it simply reads as warm, powdered skin with the ghost of caramel haunting the periphery. The balsamic undertone from the benzoin persists, keeping the drydown from turning saccharine, and the whole thing settles into something intimate and surprisingly quiet for such an initially bold statement.
Prada Candy is Daniela Andrier's clever subversion of the gourmand genre—a fragrance that smells less like a confection and more like a powdered skin musk wearing caramel as a second skin. The opening is immediate and unapologetic: burnt sugar and clean musk collide in a way that feels both edible and animalic, bypassing freshness entirely to deliver something warm and oddly intimate from the first spray. What makes this distinctive is how the benzoin and powder temper the sweetness, preventing it from tipping into cloying territory. The resin adds a balsamic, almost church-like solemnity that sits beneath the caramel like incense under dessert, whilst the powdery facets—think proper face powder, chalky and soft—create a retro, almost vintage quality that recalls old Hollywood vanities. The vanilla in the base isn't shrill or cupcake-sweet; it's rounded and woody, blended so thoroughly with the musk that it reads as skin-scent rather than flavouring. This is the fragrance of someone who wears cashmere jumpers with red lipstick, who understands that sweetness doesn't preclude sophistication. It's for cold evenings when you want to smell like warmth itself, and for those who find most gourmands either too juvenile or too literal. The longevity and sillage ensure you'll leave a trail, but it's soft enough to feel personal rather than performative—a scent that draws people closer rather than announcing your arrival.
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4.0/5 (14.2k)