Shem-el-Nessim
Grossmith (1906)

The Gilded age grace of Shem-el-Nessim transports one to the grandeur of the period—billowing leg of mutton sleeves, sleek hour glass shapes, stiff high-collars, top hats and gloves. There is an Edwardian finesse to it, suggesting contemplative inactivity while bathed in the golden glow of sunlight. It has an opalescence to it that differs it from the matte melancholy of L'Heure Bleue and the pearly powder orange hue of L'Origan. One highlight here is the satisfying synergy that comes with neroli laid over orris, like a glistening orb and its ghostly after-image.

Geranium and ylang also is a stimulating coupling—what would otherwise be considered a Mutt and Jeff of sorts ends up having such a chemistry, each softening into the other like a passionate embrace. The clove-spiced heliotrope, a voyeur of sorts, peeks through, but doesn't muscle its way into the scene to steal its radiance. For a phrase or two, Shem-el-Nessim straddles between heady and soft, but in due time, it melts down to the poshest powder of its Florentine iris and a cool, musky bitter almond vanilla cream. Wearing it warms the cockles of my heart.

Yup, this smells a lot like L'Heure Bleue. That being said, L'Heure is really difficult to pick apart, thanks largely to the powder that cloaks it. Nessim, however, isn't very powdery, so it's less mysterious. That being said, it's still a hard smell to describe.

So what does it smell like? Sort of like yeasted bread dough with hints of pie spices, with touches of clove, suede, and iris. There's vanilla in there, and honeyed beeswax and sandalwood. It's also got that old-fashioned leather from Knize Ten. But really, it all melts together into rich, honeyed dough. It's too leathery and "perfumey" to be a gourmand, but it has the sweet richness of the genre.

I'm a huge L'Heure Bleue fan, and I can't see needing a bottle of this when I have my Bleue extrait close at hand, but there's no way I can give this anything other than a thumbs up. Nicely done.

This is the fraternal twin to L'Heure Bleue. Evidently, the original Shem came first, along with L'Origan (if this matters). Regardless, they are all very closely related in form and style, and if you love one, you will probably be interested in taking her sisters for a waltz or two around the Edwardian ballroom, as well. The Grossmith is a slightly more airy and herbal take on L'Heure, and I find its additional geranium notes rather lovely. It is not as heavy and sweet as the Guerlain, substituting a sophisticated, almost stellar radiance for L'Heure's velvety marshmallow warmth. Roja Dove and Luca Turin both love Shem-el-Nessim (if you care), and I do, too.

A slightly more luminous and pixie-dust version of Guerlain's classic.

Floral-to-vanilla complexityA beautiful neroli-bergamot freshness combines with delightful geranium-jasmine floral additions in this traditional but very well blended opening. In the drydown a nice rose and ylang-ylang merge into a base of white musk, patchouli and a nice cedar-vanilla base. There is colourful development on my skin over time, with high-quality components and good silage and projection. I get about five hours of longevity. In all is classicity this is delicious, especuially on a nice spring day.

There's no denying that this and L'Heure Bleue spring from the same gene pool – they both have the same melancholy sweet subtlety born of the heliotrope-sandal notes that are their foundation. This is great for reveries, introspective days when its quiet sophistication will prompt the mind to slip away to an ever-so-tempting elsewhere. One of those scents that play with time, stretching the mental experience of it to a lovely stasis. Lovely twinkly, powdery fadeout.

I'm rubbish at detailed reviews, but this reminds me of L'Heure Bleue, minus a heavy play-doh note I didn't like in LB, and with amped up florals. Great stuff and full bottle worthy (oh if I could afford it all, I would!)