Vintage orientals are often too grand for me - Youth Dew and that projecting bosom, the feeling of having to approach Shalimar on all fours. Glamour can be oppressive. Seul Tresor, along with her beau Le Dandy by D'Orsay, offers a proto-gourmand, nearly domestic take on what can be a demanding family for me.
The route Seul Tresor winds out of Theda Bara territory is spice - not Road, no houris in sight, no intimate, acrid cumin funk - but something homespun, fine sleet of nutmeg on eggnog, clove-studded hams, warm vanilla-speckled puddings and custards. In some ways it resembles a Chardin reproduction in a 50s art book, the kind where the painting is printed on a separate shiny sheet, then pasted in - soft as duck down, placid, eggshell brown.
Perfume writing is littered with mothers who smelled like iris face powder and lipstick. Seul Tresor smells nothing like them, thank goodness.