A Friendship That Makes Scents
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After a satisfying feast of spicy sausages, sea bass with anise sauce, marinated asparagus, and tarte tatin, we head back to the institute to dutifully sniff even stronger raw materials. When Laurence pulls out the black currant, I expect it to smell like jam, but it causes everyone to make a sour face. "It's sweet, but the fruity scent disappears quickly and you are left with the bad aspect," Laurence says. "I don't know how to say this, but it smells like pee pee du chat." Kathy and I exchange a look: And they bottle this?
When class lets out, Antoinette, who works for a fragrance manufacturer in town, suggests we visit Fragonard's Historic Factory. We learn that although Grasse is referred to as the perfume capital of the world, it didn't start out that way. In the 15th century, the town was known for its exquisitely crafted gloves. Legend has it that Queen Catherine de Medici liked scented gloves, so local tanners learned to imbue cowhide with the scent of lavender. The leather trade eventually lost out to the growing perfume industry.
Our guide at the factory, a young woman who looks like a Mediterranean Demi Moore, leads us to a crazy contraption of tubes and beakers and then asks us if we know the difference between eau de toilette and eau de cologne. Kathy and I speak passable French, but it's a joint effort. I understand more than I can say, and she can say more than she understands. This time, I translate the question for Kathy.
"Eau de toilette is usually eight to twelve percent essential oil, and eau de cologne is six to eight percent," Kathy calls out in French.
The guide looks over at us, surprised.
We're so thrilled about getting the answer right (in French!) that neither of us knows what to do next.
After the tour, we're still giddy, so we skip the cab ride and hike up the hill to our hotel, singing, "J'aime Grasse! J'aime l'eau de parfum!" Yes, the Kathy and Karen Show is back.
The next morning, Laurence gives us a pop quiz on lavender versus lavandin, which are actually different plants. When it comes to the art of identifying scents, half the battle is learning to distinguish between raw materials that smell alike. To test us on this skill, she passes out strips and instructs us to write down whether it's lavender (refined and powdery) or lavandin (rustic and pungent). Even though Kathy and I met as adults, we have always had a healthy sense of adolescent sibling rivalry. When I get all the answers right and she misses two, I playfully poke her in the side, convinced that I'm destined to be a perfume maker. Kathy doesn't really appreciate it.
By 11:30 a.m., after just an hour of inhaling tonka-bean resin ("It smells like Africa," Kathy says) and opopanax (a key ingredient in Shalimar), I've got a headache, and Kathy buries her nose in her sleeve because she can't stop sneezing. I'm also forced to rethink that brilliant second career of mine.
Johari sits in the back with us, where all the troublemakers tend to hang out. Kathy and I like him because he knows things, such as the fact that smelling ylang-ylang after dark means a female vampire is nearby. Laurence shoots us a stern look as she distributes strips dipped in Christian Dior's Poison. The room erupts in loud chatter. Suddenly, it's 1985.
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