Awraq Al Oud Lattafa

No, I am not a criminal. I never was. But isn't it true that sometimes you drift off in thought and they, well how should I put it… feel so real, as if you are right in the middle of the film of your vivid imagination, where everything is legal?

Awraq al Oud is such a trigger. I hold the bottle in my hand. It is made of ribbed glass with a brown gradient and quite heavy. The transparent cap looks like a small whipped cream meringue. Quite pretty in itself, but I would have expected a masculine oud scent in it, and thus it doesn't seem very inviting for me to test it at first.

I spray once and the intensity instantly transports me to a marble bathroom of the distant Orient. Shiny surfaces. Artistic wall paintings. Golden and silver bowls, ornate mirrors, a sunken bathtub filled with fresh rose petals. A cool breeze flows through the open windows. The pretty maids wink at each other with their kohl-rimmed almond eyes, ready for the Queen of Sheba. The echo of slow footsteps reverberates against the vaulted ceilings. Majestic, almost floating, she enters. A vision. The rustling of high-quality embroidered fabrics brushes against her flawless body. The girls would be lying if they said they didn’t look. We all secretly admire the divine silhouette, reminiscent of a Stradivari. How beautiful she is. Immersed in the bath, she stretches her hand into the air. Instinctively, I know immediately what she needs and offer her a wooden bowl with a piece of rose soap. Our eyes follow as she glides over her velvety skin in slow motion, as if she were the most fragile thing in the world. Oh may this enchanting ritual never end. I don’t even notice that I am holding my breath. What an honor it is to be in these sacred halls. Just as I reach out to touch a soap bubble, it bursts and suddenly I am back on my Ikea couch, potato chips to my left and the bottle to my right. What was that? Still captivated by this spectacle, I want to scratch off the golden label and rename it “Queen of Sheba.” Or no, even better…

I spray again and am instantly transported to a Parisian atelier. It feels bustling, a lot of murmuring and the clattering of fine porcelain dishes. I look closer; it’s the antique teacups with rose patterns and gold rims that you almost only find today in grandmothers' display cabinets or antique shops. Drawings for beautiful dresses lie everywhere on the tables. Oh, I almost knocked a hat with netting off a chair.
“We need a new inspiration. Chanel managed it with her number 5,” I hear a woman’s voice say. I turn around. The room goes completely silent, but no one seems to notice me. I am still puzzling over what year I have landed in. The 30s? 40s or perhaps the 50s? The ladies are wearing pearl jewelry and silk stockings with a black seam on their calves. Their hair is carefully styled in waves, red lipstick as far as the eye can see. “May I?” I hear myself say as I fumble Awraq al Oud out of my coat pocket. Since the bottle seems a bit unworthy, I decant it into a crystal bottle shaped like a rose. A splash bottle of course, because one drop is enough. Tied with a red tassel around the neck of the bottle, I offer it to the lady. She doesn’t have time to wonder about the foreign intruder, as she is obviously losing her heart to the magical liquid. With wide eyes, she looks around in shock, “This is it! Chanel has serious competition!” A shrill squeal. Everyone present gathers excitedly around the bottle. “What’s it called?” I manage to say with a smile, “Queen of Sheba,” just before a gloved hand grabs me, I dissolve into thin air, and plop back down on my sofa.

What a scent. I am not ashamed of the thought of wanting to decant the perfume into a more elegant vessel. Lattafa, you have surprised and impressed me. I would sell it for 15 times the price. Sillage and longevity are exceptionally strong. One spray fills rooms. The aldehydes start off energetically, cool, and soapy. Rich, ripe roses unfold their beauty, nestled in a woody shell. It is not a typical oriental oud with a barn-like or cheesy character. Much more palatable and harmoniously subdued. More of a beginner's oud. Also no comparison to other rose-oud scents. It doesn’t get sweet here; I would have almost labeled it as a chypre. Aldehydes almost always have a vintage charm. Here too, a little, but the soap takes center stage and yet it has a timeless character. The scent implies confidence. The desire for a delicate skin scent is ruthlessly overwhelmed here. Would men wear it? Well, if they have no problem with crocheted doilies, why not!
I feel not of this world, but 40 years smarter, elevated, elegant, and super expensive on my Ikea furniture with chips in the crevices. Who can match me?
“I” breathes the Queen of Sheba, pulling me from my dreams in my living room with her rose bowl.