I can’t detect the tobacco in Ambre Narguile, and Tabac Blond is to blame. In the varied and illustrious history of tobacco-based perfumes, this is the 900-pound gorilla. When the writer of One Thousand Scents wrote his own entry on Ambre Narguile, he emphasized the tobacco. I commented on his post that I didn’t notice tobacco in it much. In my own post on Ambre Narguile, I focussed on its foodier aspects, I didn’t mention the tobacco because, to me, it was so non-existent and fleeting.

That’s because Tabac Blond is a Virginia tobacco barn full of the lightest, sweetest, richest, Grade A tobacco leaf hanging to dry. No tarriness, just sweet, sweet, mellow, unburnt leaf. There’s maybe a bit of musk and definitely some orris, a touch of some white flower accord, but everything else is incidental to the point of the scent, which is tobacco, and nothing but. It’s so strong I expect to find nicotine stains on my fingertips every time I apply it. The blond in the name refers more to the shade of the tobacco, and only metaphorically to a Veronica Lake-style femme-fatale  …one who’s about to light a cigarette, raising one deadpan eyebrow at the leading man’s best pickup line, nullifying it.

… is actually a blurry spice trapped in the chewy center of a flower-flavored pastille. A plasticky eugenol note glows from it, evoking my grandmother’s lipstick or some other old cosmetic.

The trapped spice in question is mysterious: A peppercorn? Dried pepper leaf? Smoked tea? Tobacco? Sumac powder? Who knows. The flower-flavored pastille it’s trapped inside definitely has rose, but the clove-ish cosmetic element defies the definition of any other flower it might contain. As it wears, the powdery element of the clove pretty much takes over, leaving only the candyrose and a vague spiciness behind.

Though it evokes a very specific reminiscence of my grandmother, it’s still not emotionally engaging. It’s an unusual mixture of notes that work together well; the candysweetness says “young contemporary”, the rose & clove says “old-fashioned classic”, the spice even suggests “masculine”, yet… I’m still disappointed it wasn’t formulated better. It smells like a draft on the way to a much better perfume, one with a stronger spice element, more definable flowers, and only a touch of clove to hold it together. Instead we get this promising but unfinished sketch that’s somehow gained entry into the holdings of a world-class museum. I wonder, who’s its uncle?