Massimo Dutti Massimo Dutti 1988 Eau de Toilette
4
Encounter with Senor Dutti
Barely has he enjoyed his Cortado and set the small porcelain cup down at the counter, when this remarkably elegant Senor Dutti has already disappeared again.
From the friendly "Ola" as he entered the small café behind the Iglesia de Sant Bartolomeu, to the quick kiss he blows on the cheek of the young dark-haired waitress as a farewell, only a few moments pass. He appeared so refreshed and unflustered right from the first moment, as if the oppressive heat of the day could not affect him at all. Endearingly charming, yet not a bit intrusive or disturbing. The pretty dark-haired girl smiles after him. Did she really flirt with him?
His very well-groomed impression stands out refreshingly from the never-ending streams of tourists, who are already pushing through the picturesque town around the Placa d´Espanya in overwhelming numbers during early summer. Senor Dutti is the living and undeniable proof that one can go about their daily tasks without sandals, unspeakable shorts, checkered functional shirts, or silly T-shirts and baseball caps.
The subtle scent of his aftershave wafts lightly by, his full, slicked-back hair shines well-groomed but not at all oily. He seems as if he has just come from his barber, whom he has been visiting every second Saturday at half past ten for decades. He does not visit a nervous hairstylist, but rather a solid, calm craftsman who has learned his barbering skills from the ground up.
The purple silk pocket square he wears with his beige linen suit has a charming nonchalance that almost seems cheeky. The pastel shirt is freshly washed and subtly scented with lavender and jasmine, the top two buttons, of course, undone. Inevitably, the gaze wanders to his custom-made leather shoes. Cognac-colored, stunning. There is not the slightest hint of vulgarity that one can often smell from a distance on other gentlemen of his indefinable age. That macho lustfulness is completely absent from him; he is simply too unflustered.
Perhaps he lacks the fiery passion that has been stereotypically attributed to his countrymen for ages. But Senor Dutti does not care about any of that. In his younger years: of course. During his Sturm und Drang period: certainly. But today: Y que? What does it matter? He no longer needs to prove his masculinity. Not to others, and certainly not to himself. Does he still have enough of it? "So please," he smiles away any doubt with a knowing look. If he allows someone close enough, they can feel the animalistic side in him.
One would gladly chat with him and listen to the warm timbre of his voice, enjoying a little more conversation; he is such a charming conversationalist, this gentleman, but God knows he is no windbag. He is a pleasant companion with an interesting core. Even this brief encounter feels like a small performance, enviably stylish, dignified yet without drifting into seriousness.
And just like that, he has graciously thrown out his Adios! to the group, which everyone else in the café responds to just as kindly. "Ya nos veremos! We'll see each other again!"
Hopefully soon, because the pleasure was undeniably too fleeting. What a pity.
From the friendly "Ola" as he entered the small café behind the Iglesia de Sant Bartolomeu, to the quick kiss he blows on the cheek of the young dark-haired waitress as a farewell, only a few moments pass. He appeared so refreshed and unflustered right from the first moment, as if the oppressive heat of the day could not affect him at all. Endearingly charming, yet not a bit intrusive or disturbing. The pretty dark-haired girl smiles after him. Did she really flirt with him?
His very well-groomed impression stands out refreshingly from the never-ending streams of tourists, who are already pushing through the picturesque town around the Placa d´Espanya in overwhelming numbers during early summer. Senor Dutti is the living and undeniable proof that one can go about their daily tasks without sandals, unspeakable shorts, checkered functional shirts, or silly T-shirts and baseball caps.
The subtle scent of his aftershave wafts lightly by, his full, slicked-back hair shines well-groomed but not at all oily. He seems as if he has just come from his barber, whom he has been visiting every second Saturday at half past ten for decades. He does not visit a nervous hairstylist, but rather a solid, calm craftsman who has learned his barbering skills from the ground up.
The purple silk pocket square he wears with his beige linen suit has a charming nonchalance that almost seems cheeky. The pastel shirt is freshly washed and subtly scented with lavender and jasmine, the top two buttons, of course, undone. Inevitably, the gaze wanders to his custom-made leather shoes. Cognac-colored, stunning. There is not the slightest hint of vulgarity that one can often smell from a distance on other gentlemen of his indefinable age. That macho lustfulness is completely absent from him; he is simply too unflustered.
Perhaps he lacks the fiery passion that has been stereotypically attributed to his countrymen for ages. But Senor Dutti does not care about any of that. In his younger years: of course. During his Sturm und Drang period: certainly. But today: Y que? What does it matter? He no longer needs to prove his masculinity. Not to others, and certainly not to himself. Does he still have enough of it? "So please," he smiles away any doubt with a knowing look. If he allows someone close enough, they can feel the animalistic side in him.
One would gladly chat with him and listen to the warm timbre of his voice, enjoying a little more conversation; he is such a charming conversationalist, this gentleman, but God knows he is no windbag. He is a pleasant companion with an interesting core. Even this brief encounter feels like a small performance, enviably stylish, dignified yet without drifting into seriousness.
And just like that, he has graciously thrown out his Adios! to the group, which everyone else in the café responds to just as kindly. "Ya nos veremos! We'll see each other again!"
Hopefully soon, because the pleasure was undeniably too fleeting. What a pity.
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