Byredo’s Bibliothèque is that time you snuck a jelly filled donut into the library: a lovely hit of plummy jam on top of papery leather, with musky violet almond dust.
Only a short story, but sweet and satisfying.
I was determined to visit Byredo while seeing my family in Sweden this year.
Niche perfumery from Stockholm with an Indian influence and a simple streamlined aesthetic? Ja, tack–yes, please!
We looked the address up online, and I was excited to discover the store was on Mäster Samuelsgatan street, across from Happy Socks–though my dad made faces when I mentioned the funky footwear shop. My brother and I had trouble getting there–he led me all over streets at odd angles with amazing names–but just when we were about to give up, we found the flagship perfume shop.
The store was a little crystal cave. I’m not sure what I was expecting–something bigger, perhaps, or that the founder Ben Gorham, actually would be there, and I could ask him the odd questions that people side-eye until you tell them you’re a writer–but the saleswomen were supermodel gorgeous, and my dress was faded and my shoes scuffed, and I was too intimidated to ask anything of them.
I sniffed Flowerhead, a fresh floral; the new sweet autumn Eleventh Hour; and bought the fig grenade Pulp–my birthday treat to myself–and they gave me a sample of Bal d’Afrique, too.
Each of the Byredo frags have only a few simple notes–a designer trademark–but they come together to create oddly complicated and evocative scents. A lot of fun for an amateur frag-head like me.
We left in a hurry to meet Dad for dinner, no time to shop anywhere else. They gave me Happy Socks for my birthday.
I get lime and cigarette tobacco–freshly lit.
Maybe baked apples with cloves, but possibly dried figs and sweet pepper, and a quick finish to what I can only call “expensive coat closet”–slight animal, cedar and rum.
The liquid bites at the skin a bit, and it doesn’t last long.
I could almost compare it to Tank Battle, with the spicy bubblegum notes, except this has more Y chromosome at the bottom.
I like it.
Opens sharp, an oily floral zest of citrus, then sweetens to lemon cake close on the skin.
Slowly settles into wet vetiver and marigolds, and forest floor violets that bloom long and loud, a foot off the body for hours.
Lingers for days with an odd minty amber after bite–like arctic lake water.
I don’t get an African ball in Paris from this, but I’ve never been to one.
A Diorissimo martini.
So interesting-. Spring green jasmine and lily-of-the-valley and all the heavy white flowers, but with a tipsy watery note and a lemon zest curl that cuts through the floral wax with a vodka edge.
Cocktail hour lasts three hours, and leaves a kid leather glove behind, 1950’s Cinderella chic.
A walk through the produce aisle in sexy shoes that only come in European sizes.
Byredo’s Pulp is lush fruit rind you want to press your thumb into to check for ripeness. Tart currants spill onto a heap of figs, then there’s a nuttiness, a bite of candy bar like a bawdy pick-up line, funny rather than insulting.
Drunk apples sit on the skin for several hours, waiting for elegant lipstick bites, then they fade to a woody stem.
I bought the biggest bottle I could legally take on the airplane.