L'Enfant Terrible Jovoy 2011

L'Enfant Terrible (Bad Child) opens with a slightly waxy glaze under an all-out peppery cumin dirty spice barrage. As the fragrance enters its early heart phase the cumin remains in all its glory sans wax, now joined by a slightly sweet sugary supporting accord with a noticeable cedarwood undertone. During the late dry-down the slightly sweetened dirty spice finally vacates as relatively dry sandalwood-laced musk from the base finishes things off. Projection is below average and longevity is dead center average at 8 hours on skin.

L'Enfant Terrible is definitely not my kind of release. As soon as one applies it on skin the peppery cumin comes out in full force and resembles undesirable body odor to the extreme. It appears this is what the nose Jacques Flori was intentionally going for, but I confess I see no reason to want to smell like I haven't showered in a week (or maybe that should be a month with this one). To make things even worse, there is this sweet sugary undertone to the cumin in the heart that makes it even less desirable (if that's possible). This has got to be the date note listed in the official fragrance note list (as I remember dates being quite sweet) but whatever it is I don't like it when combined with the cumin. Finally, the relatively dry sandalwood and slightly animalic musk late dry-down is easily the most desirable part of the overall development and at least finishes things on slightly positive footing, but even this is just a bit off-kilter and off-putting. The bottom line is L'Enfant Terrible aims to shock the wearer and it succeeds in ways one can't possibly imagine. Unfortunately, I was shocked in all the wrong ways and find it quite easy to recommend skipping right past this "poor" 1.5 star out of 5 rated offering from Jovoy at its $180 a 100ml bottle price tag (or any other price tag for that matter). Well, at least they got part of the fragrance *name* right... Terrible!

Okay, Jovoy does "Feminité du bois" with a more emphasis on cumin and nutmeg in the headnotes. Since I love "Feminité du bois", I also enjoy this foresty, earthy fragrance with cedar and sandalwood. "L'Enfant terrible" uses stronger concentrations of spices (as I said: strong on cumin) and cedarwood than the reformulated "Feminité du bois" - the spices are used to soften the sombreness of the wood and to add warmth and earthiness. Not a very imaginative formula, of course, since too closely related to "Feminite´du bois", but nevertheless a gorgeous, award-winning perfume I'd love to add to my collection. (Those who can't stand cumin will not be amused...).

This smells like someone who lives in a rustic home with a big backyard. That is where they grow the majority of their food and this person just got back from picking herbs in garden. They start to crush spices in their pedestal and zesting some orange for the lunch they are making. This is a fragrance that opens with generic herbal notes and spice, making it fresh and warm. The date and orange tree wood add subtle sweetness and citrus to the scent. Its dry down is clean like soap. This is nice fragrance but forgettable.

This fragrance doesn't have much lift. Sometimes I would get a whiff of it off my skin but it was rare. For the most part, its a skins scent. For me, this fragrance lasted 5 hours on my skin. There are two sizes available starting at 5ml for $29 and 100ml for $200.

Hey John,

Thanks for your letter, I was very happy to receive it.

Sorry for replying only now, but things aren’t going so well here. To be honest, they’re pretty terrible. No, it’s not the job: it has been wearing me down for so long that I don’t even feel it anymore, so nothing special. It’s more like I don’t feel myself anymore, you know? My lungs sound like a rusty accordion, my skin is peeling like a weathered house paint, and my old pants are flapping around like half-empty shopping bags.

The last hospital stay was 6 months ago, and right after that, I felt better than I do now. At least I didn’t have to work then. But they only leave you alone when you’re dying. Now I’ve been back at work for half a year, and the job is killing me.

I don’t really know what to write to you, but I wanted to send you a few lines. If I think too long about what to write, I always get the suspicion that I’m cheating. Like moving a chess piece somewhere else because I don’t like the position: artificial, insincere, somehow not real.

And yet you do that crap every day: rearranging pieces so that it fits, to have a better position. Fate doesn’t look, and suddenly I’m pushing a rook on c8. That goes on for a while. You even lie to yourself about memories until you find life bearable.

People say, “Life deals you the cards, but you have to play them yourself.” As if life were a damn poker game. But you can’t bluff life. We have no chance of hitting the jackpot. We’re playing chess with death. And every time he’s distracted, we cheat and move a piece so we can win another day, a week, maybe a year, sometimes even a bit more. Breathing is nothing more than keeping the ball in play. He doesn’t care; in the end, he’ll get us anyway. Then, when so few pieces are left that you can’t do anything anymore, not even cheat.

By the way, Anna sends her regards. You remember her: yes, she helps me out here from time to time. Recently, she bluntly said I stink. Now I bought this perfume, and she says I still stink. Although: No, she didn’t say “stink,” she said “smell.” So not stink anymore. At least: progress.

The stuff is really good; in weak moments, I could drink it.
However, this tincture hits you hard at first and gives you a good whack: An extremely herbal cumin makes you think you accidentally put on the unwashed shirt from the last boxing training. But it gets worse: Then coriander and nutmeg join in as a real thug duo and really put your nose through the wringer, as if a few nasty guys in the back room of a shady Indian restaurant want to beat your gambling debts out of you.

But just as you’ve taken the first sweat-inducing hooks, the scene suddenly changes, and the whole scent shifts into a completely different mood: Suddenly, you see yourself in an elegant suit and highly polished shoes at an exquisite dinner party, fiddling with a Lucky Strike from the case while casually sipping your martini. No idea how they pull that off; it must be the date and the orange, both sweet but not sticky, transforming the bitterness of Mr. Cumin and his gang into something dry.

It goes up and down: Like in a good old gangster movie that constantly switches between two parallel scenes, you’re sweating, trying to keep your guard up and dodging the jabs flying around you, while at the same time lighting a cigarette for the mysterious brunette in the little black dress next to you or getting a new drink, all while Chet Baker is whispering “My Funny Valentine” in the background.

And while you’re still pondering whether you might just be dreaming of the dinner party because a swing from one of the coriander guys has already sent you into the land of dreams, you realize that all the while, a woody cedar undertone has been protectively accompanying you like a kind angel watching over you and eventually wrapping you in a warm cloak of musk.

That really has style, man. A boxer in a tuxedo, a werewolf in pinstripes. This is the best thing I’ve come across in a long time. I read somewhere that they won an award for this: Chapeau, they deserve it.

I smell like a king and jokingly asked Anna when we’re getting married. “You still believe in Santa Claus, don’t you?” came the hissing reply with a viper-like friendliness. Okay, my mistake. You know the story: I should have asked her 20 years ago.

By the way, it’s true: I believe in Santa Claus. Of course, I believe in him. At some point as a child, we figured out that it’s the grandfather or the old man or some poor guy trying to supplement his pension. I felt incredibly grown-up and clever when I figured that out. But you know how it is: Cleverness doesn’t fill the heart. And after a few years, I started to miss him. And then I decided that Santa Claus is back.

With Santa Clauses, it’s like with God: We’ve erased the old man up there from heaven. But what do you do with an empty heaven? Yeah, okay, keep going as best as you can, sure. We can still put someone else up there, a you, a woman, or vice versa a guy. But they all start to look alike, the woman and I, me and you. We’ve also erased the women or they erased themselves. Emancipation. And now my wife is like me, and I’m slowly becoming like my wife. We’re disappearing. That’s the joke. And our beautiful heaven is empty again. You always have to be careful; emancipation is a tricky thing: At some point, you look around, and everything is empty.

I genuinely wish you success, honestly. You did everything right. And don’t say it’s not true.

Yeah, I know, I hear you saying again, “You could have had all that too.” But I’ve always been on the outside, never really belonged. This whole life, a house with a fireplace, a marriage with regular weekend sex, kids at university, and elevated conversation evenings with friendly couples from the professor scene. I was never ready for that. I don’t even know if I didn’t want it or if I just wasn’t willing to pay the price for it. I’ve always been too slow, and then I stand there in my dark winter clothes, step out onto the street, and realize that spring is here with its 15 degrees; and in the closet, nothing but winter clothes.

I’ve always just reacted; that’s too slow in the long run. Then life does what it wants, and I can only watch what happens. I’ve always lacked foresight, the will to plan. I create nothing; life molds around me. That’s why there was never a fireplace.

So, that should be it. If I’m lucky, I have two pawns tomorrow. And a rook. Rooks are always good.

I’m done.
Your Hank
-in memoriam Charles B.-

Yes, I know. I should wear my glasses when I want to read something closely, and it’s no coincidence that they say: Those who can read have a clear advantage.....

So, I was very curious about the scent L´Elephant terrible and was already quite puzzled by the name, which reminded me a bit of ELdO. The laugh was, of course, great when I then read the actual name above.

This fragrance is subtly erotic, sensual, and incredibly delicious.

Although cumin is used here, the top note does not become sweaty, but instead gains a pleasant bulkiness.

From the heart, it becomes beautifully woody, spicy-warm, and deliciously sweet.

The base has something pleasantly dirty and restrainedly animalistic about it. I’ll just say one thing, drool.

This Jovoy is neither terrible nor childish, and it has nothing in common with an elephant. In contrast to Turandot, I can very well imagine this terrible child on a woman as well.