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Meggi
1018 Reviews
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Meggi
Top Review
27
On the Wrong Track
One of the cutest Hägar comics for me is the one where Dr. Zook holds a test tube in his hand and decides to name the freshly developed brew after the first person he encounters outside - and that is a guy named…Martini.
And that brings us to the topic: Engaging with this extraordinarily quirky rose fragrance has left me with quite a few question marks and one or two surprises. The wine-like note of the opening reminds me within seconds of - of course - Martini. That’s why I thought of it. Soon, however, it takes on more of a Marsala sauce vibe with fig-like nuances. It’s a strange rose scent. Time to do some reading.
The manufacturer speaks of Rosa alba instead of Centifolia. Aha. Now, my specimen, a “Rosa alba suaveolens,” has of course long since bloomed for this year. The name addition at the end means “sweet-scented.” Well, “sweet” is relative when it comes to roses - but it certainly doesn’t smell like Marsala, says my olfactory memory. I will check this again next year. My Damask rose, occasionally sorted among the Portland roses as “Rose de Resht,” does bloom now and then, even into the fall, but it doesn’t smell like Italian sweet wine either. I’m afraid this matter must remain unresolved for the moment.
Additionally, there’s a mystery surrounding a possibly wood-like note. The supplier explicitly mentions “Patagonian Rose.” However, this apparently refers to a specific type of rosewood. I haven’t found much about it, but there seems to be no flower called “Patagonian Rose.” A thought of wood fits the behavior of the scent or at least can be inferred from it. Aha, have I, in my confusion, landed on the wrong track, so to speak?
My favorite colleague also diagnosed tea. I can’t quite follow that scent-wise, but to further speculate, I’ll throw the so-called tea roses into the mix, regarding which various explanations for the origin of the name are circulating. One of them is that the flowers supposedly smell like tea. I don’t have a tea rose in my collection, so I can’t say for sure.
Anyway, it smells rather ambiguously of rose. For hours, into the afternoon, I find the scent - to put it precisely - even more creamy-fruity-sweet than floral. Almost a borderline gourmand on the threshold of liqueur. It should be clarified that this may be found quite successful in its consistently reduced, unwavering manner; it’s just not floral.
Only in the evening does the weight shift more towards what is generally considered rose scent. A dark, lush, and voluminous variant. Nevertheless, a wine-like undertone remains. And with it, my perplexity.
I thank the Robin for the sample.
And that brings us to the topic: Engaging with this extraordinarily quirky rose fragrance has left me with quite a few question marks and one or two surprises. The wine-like note of the opening reminds me within seconds of - of course - Martini. That’s why I thought of it. Soon, however, it takes on more of a Marsala sauce vibe with fig-like nuances. It’s a strange rose scent. Time to do some reading.
The manufacturer speaks of Rosa alba instead of Centifolia. Aha. Now, my specimen, a “Rosa alba suaveolens,” has of course long since bloomed for this year. The name addition at the end means “sweet-scented.” Well, “sweet” is relative when it comes to roses - but it certainly doesn’t smell like Marsala, says my olfactory memory. I will check this again next year. My Damask rose, occasionally sorted among the Portland roses as “Rose de Resht,” does bloom now and then, even into the fall, but it doesn’t smell like Italian sweet wine either. I’m afraid this matter must remain unresolved for the moment.
Additionally, there’s a mystery surrounding a possibly wood-like note. The supplier explicitly mentions “Patagonian Rose.” However, this apparently refers to a specific type of rosewood. I haven’t found much about it, but there seems to be no flower called “Patagonian Rose.” A thought of wood fits the behavior of the scent or at least can be inferred from it. Aha, have I, in my confusion, landed on the wrong track, so to speak?
My favorite colleague also diagnosed tea. I can’t quite follow that scent-wise, but to further speculate, I’ll throw the so-called tea roses into the mix, regarding which various explanations for the origin of the name are circulating. One of them is that the flowers supposedly smell like tea. I don’t have a tea rose in my collection, so I can’t say for sure.
Anyway, it smells rather ambiguously of rose. For hours, into the afternoon, I find the scent - to put it precisely - even more creamy-fruity-sweet than floral. Almost a borderline gourmand on the threshold of liqueur. It should be clarified that this may be found quite successful in its consistently reduced, unwavering manner; it’s just not floral.
Only in the evening does the weight shift more towards what is generally considered rose scent. A dark, lush, and voluminous variant. Nevertheless, a wine-like undertone remains. And with it, my perplexity.
I thank the Robin for the sample.
Updated on 10/26/2018
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