Égoïste / L'Égoïste
Chanel (1990)

Chanel Egoiste is a woody spicy fragrance released in 1990. Egoiste is timeless, classic, sophisticated and elegant. Very Chanel. Very French. The scent is unique and may not be appealing to everyone’s taste. If you don’t like rosewood you might be put off by the mahogany, Brazilian rosewood, coriander and Sicilian mandarin opening. I personally am impressed with the scent’s top. The fragrance quickly enters the heart phase with a warm, intense cinnamon note accompanied by a strong rose and carnation blend. I still get rosewood in the heart. The base is creamy sandalwood, vanilla, tobacco, leather, amber and musky ambrette. The scent is woody, floral, creamy and sweet. The rosewood is detectable during the life of the fragrance. The scent is a sandalwood, intense cinnamon and rose fragrance that keeps my interest from start to finish deep into the long dry down.

Egoiste is best suited for evening and formal wear. It’s not the most versatile scent. The fragrance is a good performer with excellent longevity and good sillage. Egoiste is best for cooler weather. This is not a summer scent.

After repeated wearings, I find Egoiste to be unique, rich and very enjoyable. Given its limited versatility, I don’t reach for it as often as I should. It really is a masculine masterpiece. Recommended. Thumbs up.

I missed the train when this was originally released as Bois Noir in 1987. I would be interested to smell it sometime to see how different it is, if at all. I didn’t miss the train the second time, with my bottles made in 1992, two years after Bois Noir was rereleased as Egoiste. The first thing to pop into my head when I smell Egoiste is incense. But nope, it’s not. Give it a couple more minutes and several deep inhales. What you’ll find is an orchestra with the sections playing different notes and the wavelengths adding up to a single major chord. To me that chord rings very similarly to a complex myrrh-frankincense incense combo but Egoiste is so much more than that. Orchestral is about the best and only way I can describe Egoiste. Deep, juicy and oily orange rinds; coriander; rosewood and sandalwood; vanilla; cinnamon; roses and carnations; animalic musks. Every single one of these notes is seamlessly intertwined. Attracted to each other like iron filings to a magnet, to try to separate them would be fool’s task.

It’s ineffable, one of very few perfumes that leave me speechless and at a loss for description. It’s funny to describe an overtly masculine-geared perfume as achingly beautiful, but it is. This might be the best perfume Jacques Polge made for Chanel (while I’m writing that statement I’m side-eyeing a few of his other perfumes that I love in my cabinet to make sure they don’t launch themselves at me in fury, especially the Sycomore EdT; angry goat, that one). I’ve worn Egoiste in the winter, I’ve worn it in the summer, I’ve worn it at the office, I’ve worn it at a night out, I’ve worn it at a funeral, and I’ve worn it at a wedding. It’s never been anything less than perfect. Some perfumes just mean a great deal to you, and sometimes you’re just unable to articulate what something means to you because it doesn’t go into your brain, it goes into your heart. Habit Rouge is another one of those for me. And just like HR, I can’t imagine ever being without Egoiste.

As I write this, I begin playing Brian Eno's Discreet Music, and I think of how many ways we can articulate our experience with any given fragrance. We can recall the note breakdown (and certainly I will mention what I smell in Égoïste and it will match a lot of that pyramid). Then we can state what smells in our life of which it reminds us: nature, food, places, people. We can expound upon how it makes us feel, the mood it evokes, the imagery it conjures in our mind. We can tell of how it transports us elsewhere, even to a place we may have never visited before, or even a place that doesn't exist. Going even further, shapes, colors, sounds—a synesthesia, can be expressed.

Égoïste seems to be composed with space in mind. Space in between the wearer and the scent, the man and the myth, the dream and the waking life. It's clear that it has a cult following, given the many reviews dedicated to it. For some enthusiasts, becoming acquainted with it seems a rite of passage. Some even think that there are camps: those who love Égoïste, and those who don't know what's good for them. As prolific as I am in my writing, I often struggle to put down in words my authentic experience without falling into the typical tropes. But Égoïste, well, I just dispose of most conventions. I turn down the noise and listen to, and smell, the spaces in between the notes.

The bottle in my possession (a 1997 vintage for those who must catechize) traces lines between what is rose and rosewood. It is an outline of Pruneaux d’Agen Fourrés, a whiff of a carnation boutonnière, a humidor's ghost. It's a recollection of my seven year old self examining my father's Gibson, poking my nose through the strings and into the sound hole, studying his various picks, their tortoise shell pattern. Égoïste smells the way tortoise shell looks, a mottled, warm-tones dreamy. But those picks are often made of celluloid, much like film, capturing snapshots, memories, vignettes. The ambrette is what stands out the most to my nose, nut and fruit, vegetal and buttery musk, harmonizing impeccably with the discreet music of the sandalwood.

Fin.

The older version of Egoiste is a perfect spicy-resinous gourmand on me, a very sweet and sugary cinnamon roll scent, very feminine too. The modern one is slightly woodier and less sweet and more unisex smelling, but also rosier and with more patchouli. Both are great though. When I smell Egoiste on my scarf, it's a deep, intoxicating, woody scent with a hint of spice and rose and resinous sweetness, and I think I'd love to smell it on men and on women equally. When I smell it on my skin, I can't believe it's a masculine scent; it comes off as a straight bakery-type gourmand, and a perfect one at that. I guess it's just my skin that pulls the sweet notes that much and you might not smell like you've just baked a batch of cinnamon buns after spraying it, but ladies, I do recommend stealing a spray or three from your men - because this one is not for them only. It's also for me.
Am I an egoist for thinking this scent was made for ME? If you think so, you've just proved my point.

I don't precisely remember why I purchased a bottle of this stuff, but I had it in my head that is was a little challenging. Somewhere along the way I think someone said it was a fougere. Not sure.

Coming from my olifactory memory, this is a grandma scent. It's dominated by a feminine fruity rose.... It just screams grandma's makeup cabinet when I first sprayed it.

The syrupy grandma smell dissipated in drydown and left me with a cloyingly sweet rose/ fruit. I tried it again next day just to be sure I wasn't missing something in my initial assessment. I was. Largely the same experience, grandma's rose perfume followed by a sickly sweet rose/ fruit/ baby powder.

Just about finished a 50 ml bottle. It's the rectangular bottle with the continuous (longer vertical) black cap. I believe this version has a more challenging opening as the citrussy tangerine clashes with the smooth sandalwood and gentle spices. The opening had been 'cortected' in the reformulated (horizontal cap) version. But it is all part of the charm and adds interest.

My general feeling is that this comes off as an almost Sandalwood Soliflore. The buttery, spicy (cinnamon), floral (rock rose) aspects feel like an extension of the characteristic of the Sandalwood. Even a slight dark cherry feel and images of antique french-polished mahogany furniture. Quite an ingenious exploration / extrapolation of the sandalwood note.

Uber smooth and sophisticated and always done with a gentle touch. Very Chanel. Could sound heavy and dense but is in fact airy and ephemeral. Great for formal / special occasion wear. One idiosyncratic image that comes to my mind is a classic Jaguar car with a lacquered rosewood dash.

Objective qualities aside. Unsure if I'll replace my bottle. Most of the magic is within the first hour and then becomes a slightly flat, close, warm (sweaty?)Sandalwood. Maybe it's just not quite 'me'. Maybe hindered by the limitations of artificial sandalwood.

Overall a timeless classic well suited to the right gentleman. Subjectively, not quite hitting masterpiece status.
80/100