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09/21/2020
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Colonial goods X: Tom Yam
The name and scent of this friendly green bottled perfume pose one or two puzzles to be solved. It is quite simple that "Limes" here does not mean "lime blossoms" but "limes" (the English word is ambiguous).
A bit more difficult is the one after the meaning of "West Indian". It is old hat that Columbus, when he discovered America in the shape of the Caribbean, thought he had found India. The area was therefore first called "India", and when the mistake was later discovered, the Caribbean and Central America were called "West Indies" to distinguish them from each other, and the real India was called "East India". In English language usage this has been preserved until today, and so the term "West Indian" probably does not mean "limes from the West India" but "Caribbean limes". Although the findings are not 100% clear, but more about that later, first of all about the scent!
I don't particularly like West Indian Limes. There's a long queue of English colognes, which have a kind of stern, unattractive, unrounded "side smell" for my nose, something swollen with British that doesn't belong in a fresh cologne. I have addressed this in my commentary on Wellington and therefore do not want to repeat myself. And just as with that commander's fragrance, I must therefore take the opposite position to the enthusiastic and elated comments of Yatagan and Fittleworth, who have no problems with the Caribbean lime but hover on the seventh lemon cloud.
I even have two problems: Firstly, I notice a metallic hardness, especially from the fifth minute on; for me this is the most unattractive aspect of the 4711 classic. If you can't cope with this blue-steel sharpness of the Cologne classic, I wouldn't recommend this Englishman either. On the other hand, and here comes the British creakiness, I smell a decidedly non-citric, vegetable brown-green creakiness from the first second on. By the way, this also leads to the fact that I have classified the scent under "Colonial Goods" and not (as I had first planned) under "Neukölln"
Presumably this complex of notes (which others may perceive as nice barbershop-like, but I don't) comes from a combination of the clove with, yes, with, and here we are back to the ambiguities, with the lemongrass. I can't stand the taste of lemon grass in food (especially in Thai Tom Yam soup), and probably he's going to denature this cologne as well.
And now back to the chapter puzzles: According to a major online encyclopedia, there are two varieties of lemongrass. One is "cymbopogon citratus", the West Indian (or Gualtematec) lemongrass, which, crazy enough, probably originates from India, but was named after "West Indies" (i.e. the Caribbean), but, roll back, is mainly used in Asian (India, Thailand, Vietnam) cuisine for soups and teas. And then "cymbopogon flexuosus", the East Indian lemongrass, which also originates from India, is also named after East India (the real India), and is hardly ever used in the kitchen, but mainly in perfumery. Well, now you can add up clues, but you won't know which lemon grass was used here. Especially since the British were represented with colonies in East and West India...
Apart from these two uncomfortable accents, there is nothing else to complain about: a beautiful, summery fresh, versatile citric fragrance, with extensions into the orange
Who not only, like me, often agrees with the evaluations of Fittleworth and Yatagan, but also likes 4711 and Tom Yam soup, should not be deterred by this sceptical comment, but best order blindly.
It remains for me to thank Yatagan for the rehearsal and to look forward to "Extract of West Indian Limes" by G.F. Trumper. I haven't smelled this scent for the last time 10 years ago, so I can't talk about it right now, but I remember that I liked it. And guaranteed soup-free.
A bit more difficult is the one after the meaning of "West Indian". It is old hat that Columbus, when he discovered America in the shape of the Caribbean, thought he had found India. The area was therefore first called "India", and when the mistake was later discovered, the Caribbean and Central America were called "West Indies" to distinguish them from each other, and the real India was called "East India". In English language usage this has been preserved until today, and so the term "West Indian" probably does not mean "limes from the West India" but "Caribbean limes". Although the findings are not 100% clear, but more about that later, first of all about the scent!
I don't particularly like West Indian Limes. There's a long queue of English colognes, which have a kind of stern, unattractive, unrounded "side smell" for my nose, something swollen with British that doesn't belong in a fresh cologne. I have addressed this in my commentary on Wellington and therefore do not want to repeat myself. And just as with that commander's fragrance, I must therefore take the opposite position to the enthusiastic and elated comments of Yatagan and Fittleworth, who have no problems with the Caribbean lime but hover on the seventh lemon cloud.
I even have two problems: Firstly, I notice a metallic hardness, especially from the fifth minute on; for me this is the most unattractive aspect of the 4711 classic. If you can't cope with this blue-steel sharpness of the Cologne classic, I wouldn't recommend this Englishman either. On the other hand, and here comes the British creakiness, I smell a decidedly non-citric, vegetable brown-green creakiness from the first second on. By the way, this also leads to the fact that I have classified the scent under "Colonial Goods" and not (as I had first planned) under "Neukölln"
Presumably this complex of notes (which others may perceive as nice barbershop-like, but I don't) comes from a combination of the clove with, yes, with, and here we are back to the ambiguities, with the lemongrass. I can't stand the taste of lemon grass in food (especially in Thai Tom Yam soup), and probably he's going to denature this cologne as well.
And now back to the chapter puzzles: According to a major online encyclopedia, there are two varieties of lemongrass. One is "cymbopogon citratus", the West Indian (or Gualtematec) lemongrass, which, crazy enough, probably originates from India, but was named after "West Indies" (i.e. the Caribbean), but, roll back, is mainly used in Asian (India, Thailand, Vietnam) cuisine for soups and teas. And then "cymbopogon flexuosus", the East Indian lemongrass, which also originates from India, is also named after East India (the real India), and is hardly ever used in the kitchen, but mainly in perfumery. Well, now you can add up clues, but you won't know which lemon grass was used here. Especially since the British were represented with colonies in East and West India...
Apart from these two uncomfortable accents, there is nothing else to complain about: a beautiful, summery fresh, versatile citric fragrance, with extensions into the orange
Who not only, like me, often agrees with the evaluations of Fittleworth and Yatagan, but also likes 4711 and Tom Yam soup, should not be deterred by this sceptical comment, but best order blindly.
It remains for me to thank Yatagan for the rehearsal and to look forward to "Extract of West Indian Limes" by G.F. Trumper. I haven't smelled this scent for the last time 10 years ago, so I can't talk about it right now, but I remember that I liked it. And guaranteed soup-free.
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