Getting Ready for Berkeley

I recently took a big step and signed up for a natural perfumery course with Mandy Aftel, author of several important books about perfumery and scent.

She has a classic Maybeck Berkeley home right next to Chez Panisse. When I asked her excitedly if there were time to have lunch at the iconic restaurant, she said that everyone has lunch in her garden instead. It is easy to forget about the beautiful weather, even in October, on the west coast. Will she serve lunch? If so, I wonder what we’ll have? I have this fantasy of a big ripe tomato; it’s late in the season, but maybe.

The class is a big stretch for my checkbook, but after all… The big scary is that the money is not refundable under any circumstances. My first thought was what if I get a cold?

It seems the class uses no synthetics, only naturals. I wonder if that includes animal products. It’s doubtful that Mandy is going to pull out the deer musk for all of us to use. I’m going to bring along a little ambergris in case anyone needs it. From what I read on her website, Mandy has a museum of interesting perfume related things including some old ambergris I’m dying to sniff. This will finally resolve my question whether ambergris should be tinctured in the light, as I do, or in the dark.

My deepest fear is that I have no nose. What if I can’t smell or recognize anything?

Mandy puts a lot of emphasis on practicing note and substance recognition using her introductory workbook. I haven’t worked through the book, but Mandy gave me permission when I told her how long I’ve been doing this stuff. These leaves me wondering if I’m qualified at all.

So, it’s with great trepidation, that I set off, this Thursday, from Brooklyn to Berkeley where I’m going to visit friends and relatives, eat and drink well, and put my nose through the paces.

Osmanthus

Until a few years ago, I had never seen this lovely flower, much less smelled it. Long ignored by perfumers, there’s now a trend toward its subtle and intricate beauty. Since my first encounter, I’ve daydreamed about making a perfume out of these irresistible blooms.

At first sniff, osmanthus absolute smells sweet like peaches—almost cloyingly so--but after a small fraction of a second the fruitiness becomes infused with leather, shaded slightly with saffron. The aromas play off each other and exalt each other without either being loud or too overtly floral.

Working on the peach complex, I started out with the oldest compound first, aldehyde C-14. C-14 isn’t really an aldehyde, but rather, a lactone. Lactones are typically soft and creamy. To round out this aroma, I’ve been experimenting with seven recently released compounds—Nectaryl, Nectarate, Fructalate, Frutonile, Fructone, Apritone, and Aprifloren--each with its own shading, to give complexity and, if so desired, greater realism to the peach component.

To address the leather, I’ve started with hexanol, but it doesn’t last long and it’s harsh. I’ve included suederal, which, true to its name, accentuates the leather aspects. Oud is indispensable here. It contributes its leather notes and also lends a vibrancy to the whole perfume. It’s so strong that it’s more economical than one might imagine. I’ve included other ingredients such as labienoxime which has a leather component of its own, and dihydro ionone beta which links woody elements (Koavone, Okoumal) with the heart of the perfume. Tomato leaf absolute reinforces the leather. Burley tobacco rounds the whole thing off.

Now I have to make it last—it needs fixation—and round out the rough edges. I want to experiment with a little frankincense resinoid and some musks.

Synthetic Woods

Despite the attempts of the most talented perfumers, say nothing of the trial-and-error fumbling of lesser folk such as myself, the smells of sandalwood and other natural woods are very hard if not impossible to duplicate. As you can see here, a considerable number of synthetics and naturals have been brought to bear on this problem. I’ve put the first mention of each synthetic in bold to make them easier to spot and recognize.

The best-recognized synthetics for woody aromas have been around for years. Vetiveryl acetate has a clean vetiver-like intensity and ties together with other older synthetics such as cedryl acetate, cedrol, and vetiverol.

In the last 40 years, however, a wide variety of woody synthetics has cropped up. While many of them are “captives” (only available to major perfume houses), I’ve still been able to track down a large number, each with its own nuances.

Arcadi Boix Camps, in his book Perfumery: Techniques in Evolution, describes many of them. Palisandin, he says as has an odor of cedar and musk, with undertones of ambrette seed. In any case, this aroma chemical is delicate and slow to become perceptible. I hate to admit it, but he perceives more than I do.

Andrane, has a precious wood dimension that’s similar to patchouli. It is interesting when combined with patchouli or when it’s used in place of patchouli.

One of the most important innovations of recent years was the discovery of methyl cedryl ketone, or vertofix Coeur. It has a delightful smell of cedar that makes itself present without taking over. It goes well with methyl ionones, irones, ionones (especially allyl ionone). It sometimes seems a bit weak, but cedramber goes a long way to strengthen it.

I find cedramber to be sweet and balsamic and a bit like patchouli. ABC describes it as being between amber and patchouli and says it goes well with undecylenic aldehyde (C-11), cyclamen aldehyde, lyral, lillial and others. One of cedramber’s attributes is its ability to pull back the sweetness of a perfume that might otherwise be cloying. ABC describes an accord of ciste-labdanum (the absolute and the oil), nutmeg essential oil, pachouli, Vertofix, musk ketone, castoreum absolute, isobutyl quinoline, isoeugenol, glycolierral, benzyl salicylate, centifoyl and vanillin. I haven’t tried it yet.

Isolongifolanone has a lovely bright woody quality. ABC describes it has “having immense olfactory value” and says that it plays a role in both the top note and base notes of a composition. It definitely adds radiance.

Timberol, also called norlimbanol, is one of the most important woody chemicals we have today. It enters into a huge number of fragrances and, according to ABC, “…brings and gives character, elegance and harmonizes well with everything…” It goes well with musk chemicals.

Perhaps most revolutionary is iso e super. It has a woody character, but it goes well with ionones and methyl ionones and just about anything. It occurs frequently in both feminine and masculine fragrances. It makes up part of the Grossman accord. ABC says it goes well with quinolines, amber and castoreum.

Sandela is a sandalwood aroma chemical that enters into almost all sandalwood accords as a fixative. Its aroma is delicate and difficult for me to tease out. ABC insists that it be used in any sandalwood accord as a fixative.

Santalol (of which there are two isomers), is the main component that gives sandalwood its aroma. Unfortunately, it is almost as expensive as an excellent quality of sandalwood. I use it rather abundantly in Green Iris.

Sandalore, according to ABC, “…has a sweet, warm, strong, woody, santalaceous odor which is immediately perceived on the blotter and has a top note power about 50% greater than the essential oil of sandalwood although it doesn’t last as long.” It is effective in even trace quantities. It can be combined with allyl ionone, isobutylquinoline, gamma-undecalactone, miraldile acetate, fixolide, vanillin and ethyl vanillin.

Two important sandalwood chemicals, bacdanol and brahmanol, are sometimes used to replace santalol in a sandalwood formula. They “are olfactively related to the naturally occurring cis-B-santalol, but they are more powerful and more musky, lacking the outstanding floral character of the natural chemical.”

Polywood is used to “…enhance the macrocyclic musk and radiant products without imparting a specific character, but give volume and quality.”

Oxyoctaline formate is delicate, but has a particular floral radiance that makes it useful in any number of fine fragrances.

Okoumal is not as powerful as other woody chemicals, but it is soft and makes an excellent fixative.

Tobacarol is another of ABC’s favorites. He describes it as “…warm, woody and spicy, with notes of clove, mace and nutmeg, ambery, tobacco and others.” It works extremely well with citrus notes, in particular, lime. He describes its usefulness as a fixative and to provide body to a fragrance. He suggests a couple of accords, but most of what he calls for is unobtainable by ordinary mortals. Tobacoral can be used in fragrances up to 10%.

Hydroxyambran “…works extremely well with the limbanols, okoumal, and tobacarol. It provides body and fixation…”

Spirambrene resembles bois ambreine forte, orlimbanol, cedroxyde and cedramber. According to ABC, it imparts velvety nuances to woods.

Ebanol has a strong, distinctly sandalwood aroma that seems to enter into every sandalwood formula. ABC warns that it must be fresh or it develops off aromas.

ABC describes polysantol as one of the best sandalwood chemicals available. It apparently has a fruity nuance (hard for me to detect) that’s missing in sandalwood. He extols blends with firsantol because firsantol doesn’t have the fruity note and blocks it in the polysantol. He suggests an accord with ebanol, bacdanol, brahmanol, blue chamomile and sandela. He always includes sandela in his sandalwood accords because it is such a great fixative.

Firsantol is related to polysantol, but it’s dryer and doesn’t have the fruity note. ABC says it’s one of the best sandalwood chemicals around.

Koavone is less a sandalwood chemical than a floral-woody compound. It smells to me like methyl ionone and woods. ABC says it provides lift to top notes when methyl ionones or iso e super are used. I use it to provide a link between woods and florals.

Dihydro ionone beta has been around a long time and has just recently been widely rediscovered. It reminds me a bit of orris and ionones. It has a woody and floral character that adds sophistication, elegance and beauty to blends.

Kohinool is another of ABC’s favorites. He says it forms a “dream accord” with iso e super. Kohinool is both woody and floral so it’s less a sandalwood chemical than a compound occurring in any number of fragrances. Combinations ABC suggests include iso e super, kohinool, cedroxyde, norlimbanol, boisanol (which I don’t have), trimofix and amber ketal.

I recently acquired a small bottle of mysoral, which has been captive for years. Of all my sandalwood chemicals, this one smells the most of sandalwood. ABC describes it as being resinous and likes to combine it with frankincense from Oman or Somalia. He describes a couple of complicated accords containing frankincense, helvetolide, coranol, cashmeran, pink pepper, cetalox, tuberose absolute, osmanthus, ebanol, alpha-damascone, gamma decalactone, ethylene brassylate, ethyl vanillin. He mentions that javanol and mysoral are especially synergistic.

If I had only one chemical to use as a substitute for sandalwood (other than beta santalol), it would be javanol. It has the most realistic note of sandalwood. I like simply to combine it with sandalwood, to bring up the sandalwood’s aroma. ABC’s only complaint seems to be that it lacks a natural top note. He likes to combine it with mysoral.

Dartanol is the laevo isomer of bacdanol. ABC says it’s better than bacdanol. He says it’s similar, but more beautiful, more radiant, and possessing a more natural sandalwood character. I concur; dartanol is smoother than bacdanol.

Polysantol, while woody, has a distinct fruity top note. ABC suggests an accord with bacdanol, ebanol, brahmanol, blue chamomile, and sandela. He also likes its accords with firsantol, in part because it obscures the fruity note in the polysantol.

Hindinol definitely has a top note. It hits you over the head, in fact, with a boozy lead-in that ends in a smooth, woody background. ABC loves it

The Training of the Nose: A Wine Primer

When I was a toddler, things smelled very strong. Vegetables were revolting--cauliflower smelled like vomit, Brussel sprouts like something long dead.

Romanée Conti

It wasn’t until my twenties, that I began to use this sensitivity for more pleasurable effect. In the 1970s, when I was learning to cook, I was also learning about wines.

One afternoon, I ran into a friend who invited me along to a wine tasting. I was introduced to a dozen very serious wine professionals. Intimidated as I was, I still remember that first tasting—1966 Classified Growth Bordeaux. We each pitched in about 15 bucks—a little more for the First Growth Bordeaux and the Champagne tastings—which now, for a tasting of such wines, is laughable. Each week would be something new—1971 Mosels, Vintage Champagnes, Burgundies from the thirties and forties, Sauternes from the 20s. Our standard wines to bring to dinner with friends were La Tâche, Romanée Conti, or Échezeaux, if on a budget. I remember a 1953 Chateau Margaux that was like walking into a tropical garden filled with fruits and flowers that never existed. And there was the Le Montrachet that was so rich it smelled like a red. The oldest thing we tasted was an 1834 Malmsey Madeira.

All of this may sound like I have a fantastic nose, but Kate reacts to something three feet away that I need to smell straight off the blotter. Of course, one needs to smell, but olfactory memory and the ability to make distinctions, are far more important.

And, as in any art form, there must be a vision. I want to recreate the style of perfumes from the 1950s that my mother would wear for a party—perfumes that were rich, opulent, and scented with natural musk. I want to make a perfume as complex and beguiling as a ‘47 Lafite.

Paracresols

Paracresols smell like the creosote painted on pier supports. While this sounds weird, cresols are essential for some flower scents, especially narcissus and lily. I sometimes use paracresols along with another funky compound, indole, which in many flower fragrances provides the needed dark notes.

Para cresol and its derivatives

Don’t be too perplexed by the use of both “cresol” and “cresyl.” There is a difference—it seems that cresyls are derived from cresols—but I’m not certain how important it is; I just smell them on their own merits.

While there are many cresol derivatives, I only use four. Paracresol, the starting point for the others, smells like a medicinal cross of creosote, phenol, camphor, and coal tar. When diluted 100 or more times, it smells floral.

Paracresyl acetate—while clearly related to paracresol—has an almost fruity aspect and a bit of licorice, along with the dissonant tar quality. If you hold the top of the bottle far enough away from your nose, you can imagine it as part of a flower. The traditionally recognized aroma is of horse urine, which I don’t get, probably because I don’t hang around stables. It’s more powerful than paracresol.

Paracresol methyl ether has an almost peppermint aspect, but is pungent and powerful. Again, it gives nuances to florals such as jasmine and lilac.

My favorite is paracresyl phenyl acetate. When I stick my nose into the jar of pure powder, I get a relatively mild, funky, almost natural musk quality, and a general animal smell. I like combining a trace of paracresyl phenyl acetate with artificial musk. This brings out a natural funk that reminds me of real deer musk.

Sandalwood IV

When I was a boy, I played with a fan my grandmother got in India in the 1920s. It was made of sandalwood and had an entrancing smell, woody and very dry. When I first smelled sandalwood essential oil, I was surprised it didn’t smell like the fan; it smelled even better.

Odor Effects Diagram for Brooklyn Perfume Company’s Sandalwood

In our first edition of Sandalwood, I wanted to use the best Mysore sandalwood from East India. So, I set about ordering sandalwood from suppliers all over the world, all who claimed to be selling the authentic stuff. When I had 20 different samples, I selected the best example for my perfume. Because it was so outstanding, I assumed it was the real stuff. Now, I don’t think it was.

As I’ve smelled a lot of different sandalwood, I’ve become more discerning. One of my samples, especially, has a dimension the others don’t have. It’s a little medicinal with a reverberating center, wild, but enigmatic and difficult to define. It is extremely complex, green, and lactonic at the same time.

Pure sandalwood’s smell is understated and best appreciated up close. Synthetic imitations, while some are very convincing, never replicate the beautiful shimmering magic of the authentic oil.

My Sandalwood contains a ruinous amount of sandalwood, sandalwood I now think is from Indonesia. While it isn’t Mysore, it’s made from the same species and is very beautiful; it’s just a bit more direct than Mysore. To reinforce the impression of sandalwood—especially the greenness—Sandalwood contains a good amount of fragrant Indian vetiver. The vetiver, as well as a gorgeous balsamic frankincense, reinforces the sandalwood associations and underlines the woody aspects. There are also spices—fenugreek is especially good—and musk.

Because sandalwood has so many effects, I’ve represented it more than once on the last of our Paul Jellinek-inspired Odor Effects Diagram.

The Sexuality of Perfume

In the 1970s, when it was still manageable for someone with a minuscule income to drink the world’s greatest wines, I was invited into a group of professional wine connoisseurs who met every week to drink rare and otherworldly vintages.

At the time (and presumably now) wines were often referred to as being either feminine or masculine. This is also true of perfumes, but usually in the sense of who more typically wears them, woman or man.

Kate, my assistant, who’s an ardent feminist, and I, discussed this the other day.

I argued that these are relative terms and are in no way evaluative, but in the interest of taking social politics out of the equation, it seemed wise to fall back on two other terms—“hard” and “soft”—that carry the same meaning without the sexual connotations. A hard (or masculine) wine is less welcoming, more impenetrable, and less generous at the beginning; this is also a characteristic of younger wines. Softer wines, which are often more mature, are more opened, more delicate, and typically less tannic. In general, at least to the less experienced, softer wines have a more immediate appeal.

To apply these (relative) terms to perfumes, I would equate “hard” aromas that are sharper, perhaps more acidic (tangy), and, at least at the beginning, more monolithic and harder to deconstruct. An example of a hard ingredient might be violet leaf; it’s dry, acidic, and very green. “Soft” perfumes, may be balsamic (although not necessarily so), sweeter, and creamier. Ingredients that come to mind are the balsams, anything with –lactone at the end, and sweet flowers. Coumarin is also a good example.

Flowers have their own range. Immortelle absolute is soft. It is gentle, sweet, and less domineering, while narcissus, which is more reserved and less sweet, strikes me as harder.

Of course, these are debatable assertions and, whether “real” or not, offer us another paradigm for examining and remembering aromatic ingredients and perfumes.

Oud and Frankincense

My oud source has again run out—there seems to be no more aku akira—so I’ve had to reformulate using new ouds. I ordered 14 different oud samples and tested them all for balance and longevity. I’m now using Malaysian oud, a Hindi, and another one of uncertain origin.

If nothing else, this whole process is teaching me about oud. Hindis seem to be the funky ones and I consider funkiness an essential element. (Roquefort cheese, not just any banal blue cheese, is an often-recognized component.) I also want there to be that ethereal thing that seems to float on top. This set of aromas is transcendental, meaning, in my own parlance, that it takes me somewhere else and evokes images and memories, some of which are completely inexplicable. In wine, I call this terroir.

But I’ve been getting frustrated. When I smelled my original oud (the first edition), I noticed a balsamic sweetness. I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. It wasn’t vanilla or balsam or benzoin, but something unidentifiable. Then, all of a sudden, I realized what was going on. The first edition includes a miraculous kind of frankincense.

To be frank (no pun intended), I’ve never really liked frankincense since it reminds me of lemon furniture polish.

When I first started my adventures in perfumery, I ordered 19 different frankincense oils from all over the world, including very expensive wild harvested, green Oman, and every exotic and expensive thing I could find. The all disappointed me except one. I had ordered it from Singapore and it was divine, unlike anything I’d ever smelled. I used it in my original oud.

A year ago, the frankincense from the same supplier came in with the balsamic thing and the lemon polish thing in about equal parts. It’s still the best frankincense out there.

I’ve since ordered more, and it’s pure furniture polish. I’ve asked them about the original and they said they have a little from several years ago. Their minimum order is 5 kilos. That’s an enormous amount for me, but I would do it without hesitation if it’s the old stuff.

This all makes me wonder if the frankincense described in the bible and in other sources that go on about it, isn’t the balsamic oud. The furniture polish thing is perhaps something new?

The new Oud contains little frankincense and is a little bit harder and more austere than the first and second editions. It also contains new exotic woods to round it out and provide a woody top note. This being said, I believe it to be the best expression of oud of all three editions.

What Got Me Started on Ambergris

Ten years ago, I didn’t know what ambergris was.

It all started with a book from the fifteenth century, entitled De Honesta Voluptate translated into English as On Right Pleasure and Good Health, published in Latin with an English translation on the facing page. In it, Platina describes scenting rooms with burning ambergris.

I sent away for some, to New Zealand.

It arrived looking like a cross between a truffle and a rock.

First, I put it in cold water to make sure it floated; if I doesn’t float, it’s fake. Next, I took a pin, heated it red-hot on the stove, and jabbed it into the lump. It slid in easily and left behind a waft of resinous smoke. The smoke made me think of the rosin they use during soldering. I could well imagine a room smelling so good, but at what cost?

Sperm whales, the only source of this treasured substance, vomit (or do the other, no one’s sure) a black vile-smelling substance that floats on the sea for no-one-knows how long, becoming pale and aromatic in the salty sea. Maybe, because there were many more sperm whales in those days, ambergris wasn’t so rare.

Ready to move on to the next phase, I put my 10-gram lump in a large test tube and poured over 90 grams (about 115 ml.) of ethyl alcohol for a 10% tincture. I considered heating the test tube to dissolve the lump, but I noticed it began to dissolve almost immediately (this was easy to see by the thin, translucent threads that formed in the alcohol).

By the next morning, the lump was gone and a thick murk had formed in the bottom of the test tube. I set the test tube in a rack in the sunlight and let it sit. (Many people tincture in the dark, but I get more aroma when I leave it in the light.)

After a month, nothing had happened.

After four months, nothing had happened.

After six months, a peculiar aroma developed. The bottom of the test tube cork smelled like isopropanol. How lovely, I had recreated the scent of rubbing alcohol.

Would more waiting help?

What is Ambergris?

While doing some food research and reading De honesta voluptate et valetudine (On Right Pleasure and Good Health), written by Platina in the mid-fifteenth century, I happened upon a reference to ambergris.

Ambergris is thrown up by sperm whales although there’s conjecture about what end it comes out of. Because It’s a fatty substance, it floats on the ocean, probably for many years before it lands on a beach. Despite looking like a rock, ambergris gets found by lucky beachcombers, sometimes with their chums, ambergris poodles, trained to smell it out.

When a small chunk arrived from New Zealand, I thought it was a joke. I would have tossed it back in the ocean (or never have picked it up in the first place), except for one thing: it was strangely light. Then, I stuck a red-hot pin through it and a whiff of burning  frankincense rose up, like the hot rosin my father used for soldering.

Coco Chanel said ambergris was expensive and odorless, but women wouldn’t buy perfumes without it. It’s almost certain that pheromones—compounds that mimic sexually stimulating aromatic triggers—are at play. In addition to its supposed irresistibility, ambergris is a fixative, one of a group of substances that makes perfumes last longer. While it hasn’t been used for decades, except by a small number of indie perfumers who shall remain unnamed, it adds a je ne sais quoi, a subtle, vaguely animal and sexual depth.

Raw ambergris has a vaguely marine and sometimes fecal smell, nothing strong, but nothing very exiting either. It must be tinctured—dissolved in alcohol—and allowed to mature. At the beginning, the tincture is virtually odorless, but after six months or so, it develops a strange almost medicinal aroma, some say reminds them of isopropyl alcohol, when in fact I had used drinking-grade ethyl alcohol. The article about ambergris in Wikipedia mentions this effect. lt usually takes two years for a tincture to fully mature.