Tomalisman

1884, Holy Mass for All Souls' Day in an arch-Catholic parish in Lower Bavaria. The priest delivers a monotonous chant of prayers in Latin. The attendees understand not a word and doze off in lethargic muse. The two young altar boys on either side of the priest swing their incense burners leisurely like the pendulums of a grandfather clock.

Then it happens...one of the altar boys loses the rhythm and, in a futile attempt to regain harmony, the metal bowl filled with glowing incense resin comes loose and clatters loudly down the steps in front of the altar. The contents hiss as they spill onto the cold stone floor of the house of worship. A considerable, grayish cloud of incense escapes from the mass and envelops the entire front area of the church in the incredibly concentrated, resinous-dark haze of Somali incense.

In the protection of the cloud, a boy in the front pews nibbles on his, admittedly forbidden but nevertheless brought-along, salty pretzel. The services back then were long, monotonous, strict, and cold in winter...and many attendees needed a little fortification, whether through food or also through schnapps.

Mystic Incense starts virtuously with cool, authentic incense, as one knows it from Catholic services. This clearly plays the main role in this fragrance. In the background, a hint of salty pretzel can occasionally be perceived, and as time goes on, slightly chocolatey elements join in.
For lovers of authentic incense, it's almost a must-have; for those who are not so fond of resinous-smoky incense, it is not recommended. Overall, a special fragrance, for which, however, it is not entirely easy to find a suitable occasion to wear it.

Paris in November 1942. A gusty wind lashes the drizzle through the narrow streets of the 4th arrondissement, damp leaves and various debris collect between the cobblestones, large puddles have formed in the low-lying areas of the streets. It is evening, it has been dark for hours, hardly any passersby to be seen, somewhere an old shutter rattles in the wind. The windows of the somewhat run-down houses along Rue Gambetta are darkened, either with antiquated shutters or plywood boards.

Only at the corner of Rue Gambetta, Place de Ambroise does a dim light shine through inadequately darkened windows, voices and the sentimental music of French chanson are more to be sensed than actually heard. An old bicycle leans against a wall. Light reflections shimmer on the wet cobblestones in front of the bar "Le Tréffle Rouge," for this is what it is. Despite the curfew that began at 6:30 PM for the greater Paris area, this bar, popular with both locals and the German occupiers, is open with special permission from the German city commander. In the large hall at the back, originally intended for celebrations of all kinds, anniversaries, funerals, members of the Wehrmacht from the nearby Wehrwirtschaftshauptamt West are celebrating the promotion of one of their comrades. It is lively, Vin de Table, Cognac, and other spirits from the stocks of this office do their best to lift the mood, loosening tongues so that sporadic attempts can be heard to start singing popular songs.

The front, actual bar area is dark, indeed somewhat gloomy. Weak light bulbs illuminate the place only inadequately. On the few tables and at the bar counter, candles burn, creating a stifling atmosphere. Next to the counter, a wood stove struggles in vain against the damp, oppressive humidity of the room. Only behind the bar, where the bartender with a mustache and greasy apron, a corn-yellow, extinguished Gaulloise in the corner of his mouth, is laboriously working, is the lighting better. There is also the phonograph, crackling out sentimental chansons and well-known French melodies. "Le Tréffle Rouge" hosts only a few guests; at a round table, three older men sit in silent card play, at the bar, a young girl from across the way waits for the wine to be poured for her father. At the counter, a man in a beret sleeps, his head and arms resting on the counter, beside him a full, still smoking ashtray and a three-quarters empty glass of Vin Rouge d'Herault. It is uncomfortably cold, the wind whistles through some openings in the door and window frames, an unpleasant dampness emanates from the stone floor, which is covered with numerous cigarette butts and other debris. It smells of smoke, a lot of smoke, of unfiltered black tobacco, of spilled wine, and the exhalations of absent individuals. From the adjoining room, the loud laughter and wine-soaked singing of the drunken German occupiers can be heard.

Then there is a knock in a specific rhythm on the blackout shutter. The bartender interrupts his work and opens the door. Along with a rush of fresh, rain-soaked air, a younger man in a shiny leather coat, hat, and flashlight enters the establishment, briefly greets those present, and makes his way to the bar. The bartender silently sets a Petit Rouge in front of him, gives the newcomer a light for his cigarette, and discreetly hands the stranger a thin folder with papers, which he carefully stows away in the depths of his leather coat. The men at the card table glance up briefly before continuing their game. The man at the bar downs his glass in one go, carelessly throws the smoked cigarette on the floor, and leaves the bar, leaving behind a trace of a refined, masculine perfume...

Red Tobacco by Mancera reminds me of stays in dark clubs, crowded music pubs, lonely hotel bars late at night, where, in my opinion, its best applications lie. The opening of the fragrance is intoxicating, indeed explosively spicy with saffron, incense, and loud spices, truly not a scent for the office. As it develops, the strict sharpness softens, the fragrance becomes more aromatic, milder but always distinctly noticeable. Longevity and sillage are exalted. For me, summed up, it is a very special fragrance that I would not want to miss. A timeless scent from 2017, it could just as well have fit into France under Marshal Pétain.

Incredibly weak scent that is not worth the money invested. Despite more than ten vigorous sprays, the fragrance is only perceptible in memory after 15 minutes.

As for the scent itself, I can only sense a faint aquatic-sweet-citrusy combination rather than actually recognize it. Many Eaux de Toilette from supermarkets and drugstores perform significantly better and at a tenth of the price of Trussardi Uomo. From what I've heard, the 1983 edition was a hit in every aspect with cult status during the wild 80s of the last century. This version seems to be the opposite, a hastily mixed brew without any discernible progression, with underground longevity and sillage, as well as an extremely reduced olfactory level. The bottle and design are, in my subjective opinion, the only aspects that stand out somewhat positively.

No recommendation from me to buy; better to try a cheap summer fragrance from the supermarket range or treat yourself to 250 ml of Davidoff Cool Water for the same price.

Sublime scent with an opening of ripe fruits, saffron, and cocoa...as it develops, a prominent oriental spice note becomes noticeable, before musk, sandalwood, and molasses successfully lead into the drydown. Vanilla and leather accord are well listed, but unfortunately not detectable for my coarse olfactory bulb.

Overall, a fruity-spicy, special fragrance that seems well-suited for both everyday use and special occasions. Longevity and sillage meet the expectations of a scent in this price category.

The bottle is typically cylindrical for Bois 1920 and entirely black with a wooden cap. As a result, the embossed black brand logo is difficult to decipher. A gold inscription on a black bottle would, in my opinion, appear more elegant and sophisticated and would better reflect the name of the fragrance.

Well, what can I say about this....a synthetic aquatic-sweet seeming elixir that, after seven to nine minutes, almost one might say fortunately, irrevocably releases its scent notes into the universe.
The bottle is quite appealing, fits well in the hand, and the spray head performs its duty as intended. One cannot expect olfactory masterpieces from the content at this price point, but the fact that both longevity and sillage are practically obsolete should not be entirely indifferent for an Eau de Toilette from a renowned sports brand like Puma.

The scent itself is sweet-spicy, nothing that stands out pleasantly from the mass of countless aquatic sport fragrances. Apart from the listed aquatic-citrus notes and spices, I cannot perceive any cocktail or smoked wood; perhaps the time between spraying and the complete disappearance of the scent is simply too short. I ordered the fragrance blind, subjected it to a brief evaluation, and since then it has led a barely used existence in the glove compartment of my car.