Quailist

I'm somewhat of a freshie hater. The appeal of these often fleeting scents is lost on me, and if I simply want to "smell clean", showering and doing laundry typically suffice. Citrus-heavy fragrances are often an olfactory assault to my nose: Nishane's much-hyped Wūlóng Chá smells like someone knocked over bathroom cleaner at an upscale hotel, and Francis Kurkdjian's Petit Matin—rated with 7.8 stars on this site at the time of my review—made me wince, reeking as it does of urinal cakes.

Enter Crème de Cuir. A fragrance that exudes freshness without being a dreaded freshie. A strong citrus-forward opening, but without the usual shrieking harshness. An addicting pineapple note and a dash of pepper. Brightness and vigor in a bottle.

If I had to assign a gender to this fragrance, I'd go with "soft butch". The birch and leather notes read as conventionally masculine, but they've been brightened and sanded and softened, bringing to mind the pale wood of Scandinavian furniture and the suppleness of an ivory suede handbag. The presence of vanilla contributes a certain a cuddle factor but forgoes any girlish sweetness. The citruses are delightfully unisex, as is the fragrance as a whole (for what it's worth, however, my husband finds it "very masculine").

The softness of Crème de Cuir extends to its behavior on the skin: this is not a loud perfume by any means. I would deem it suitable for professional settings, travel, dentist's office visits and other situations where you want to smell exquisite without choking out the masses. I've enjoyed sampling it during a cold Swiss winter, but I suspect it shines even more in warmer temperatures. Performance is respectable for a fragrance of this kind, with three sprays from the sample atomizer yielding a soft bubble that lasts around five hours and dies down to a vanillic skin scent. With that said, I do wish it packed more of a punch—that and the price are the only things holding me back from acquiring a full bottle.

Potent citrus-iris-moss composition, so bright and sharp that you can almost hear it squeak.

L'Attesa has a lot going for it. The prominence of the iris. The strength of its fizzy first impression. The cool, detached, angular, slightly melancholic vibe. The evocation of cleanliness without veering into dreaded "freshie" territory. The excellent performance: it projects wildly for the first two to three hours and clings to fabric like mad.

I wanted to like L'Attesa more than I did, but the aforementioned sharpness ended up being the downfall of the fragrance for me. A few hours in, I felt fatigued by this relentless harshness, as if someone had tipped a cap full of bleach into my bubble bath.

With that said, I would probably enjoy smelling this on someone else – at a safe distance – and recommend that iris enthusiasts give it a try.

I initially wrote this one off – "Why would I want to smell like straight-up honey?" – relegating it to the hyper-realistic gourmand category of fragrance that usually meets with my disapproval.

Then, a few days following my initial test strip spray, I felt the strong urge to experience it again.

Yes, it was still straight-up honey – a mushroom cloud of the stuff, actually – but it was also oddly compelling. A side-by-side sniff test with a jar of honey from a local farm revealed that not only was Slowdive stronger and more dense, but that something else was at play here. After scanning the notes, a second side-by-side sniff test followed, this time with a bar of tobacco-scented soap. Indeed, there is some dusty tobacco underpinning the composition, although the turbo-honey tenor of Slowdive had initially rendered it undetectable to my nose.

Still, despite the tobacco I found lurking beneath the surface, I perceived Slowdive to be a highly linear scent, with other listed notes like tuberose and orange blossom nowhere to be found. On the longevity front, it was still chugging along when I went to bed eight hours after application.

In the end, I started to feel a bit trapped in the treacly world of Slowdive – an appealingly rustic scent, beguiling in its potency, but not something that I want to experience for hours on end. It is, however, nicely executed and certainly a must-try for gourmand enthusiasts, especially those with more opulent tastes.

To my nose, Coromandel is a linear, damp patchouli with a well-calibrated dose of sweetness.

The fragrance has a translucent and one-dimensional feel that leads me to crave more density and substance. Perhaps it's this diaphanous quality that others describe as elegant and wearable, but it ultimately left me wanting more. And while I enjoy patchouli in other fragrances, here it shows off its sour side, and I don't detect any accords that fully redeem it.

Another hype train that I won't be boarding.

I was fully prepared to dismiss Sintra—surely it would be too girly, too saccharine, too juvenile.

And while it does indeed exhibit some of those characteristics, it's also incredibly well executed.

Sintra is often compared to Kilian's Love Don't be Shy, but don't be fooled: Sintra is by far the superior fragrance. While I found LDBS unbalanced and gag-inducing, in Sintra the green accord cuts through the orange marshmallow sweetness, providing much needed edge and freshness.

A playful scent and a pleasant surprise.