L'Innommable Serge Lutens 2018

Smelly smells in hotel cupboards and stale pub smells that have settled into clothes regularly bring me to the brink of death. Recently on the train from Strasbourg to Paris I enjoyed 2 hours the olfactory remains of onions, Munster cheese, bacon and smoke, which clearly came from an Alsatian Flammkuchenbude. And now they were emanating from a denim jacket hanging on the hook directly behind my head. Since the train was full, I could not move and tied a silk cloth sprayed with Chanel 22 around my nose. Although face veiling is forbidden in France. But I would have had good arguments for it. Somehow I staggered out of the train after about 2 hours at the Gare de l'Est and even felt the dusty-sweet smell of the metro as a relief. That means something, because I actually hate him too. Fortunately my professional appointment went by faster than I expected and so I unexpectedly had the afternoon off. So nothing like going into the Palais Royal, into the garden, past the usual stupid Selfie tourists, under the arcades - to Lutens. We did it! We did it!
I wanted to buy El Attarine, no idea why, probably the subtle dried fruit notes had stuck in the synapses.
In the darkened Lutens shop, a beautiful saleswoman Madonna with flowing hair is always scurrying around and saying her usual saying: "Je peux vous aider?"
Yeah, sure, El Attarine. But first of all I had to try the novelty of the house, L'innomable, that which cannot be named, raved the Madonna. Sounded very promising.
Until I got a splash of it on my hand. And I almost vomited: A plate of saffron rice with curry chicken at the Indian restaurant, whose smell got stuck in a jeans jacket. I was finished, I was still smelling the train ride in my neck, I had to go to the door, such a dainty automatic iron door, the saleswoman Madonna got a fright, I breathed deeply outside and stared into the garden. I don't-want-no-smell-after-eat!! God damn it.
When I came back in, the Madonna taught me it was the Siam-Benzoe. I smiled nicely. It wouldn't have helped to tell her that it was more like the smell of a Siamese cat steamed in curry.
So I grabbed my El Attarine and escaped. I also found several samples in the black bag, including L'innomable. I think the Madonna wanted to convert me so badly.
A few days later and after overcoming the stale clothes I sprayed it bravely into the air. Nah, guys. Who wants to smell like an Indian restaurant? It doesn't work at all