A lovely crisp candied apple with a citrus zest, feminine and smart, but this is no shy cherub–she’s loud enough to make one a bit cross-eyed at close quarters. Angel EDT is a cleaner version of the original, less syrup, less musk–the apple held in place with light pink florals at the top that slide into a wet minty patchouli and finish with sweet pale woods.
Lasts all day and sparkles in the cold, but tends to leave crumbs on my couch and wears my favorite hoodie without asking–my house is too small for the both of us.
The air is foggy today and the wind skates just on the edge of freezing, trailing icicles as she goes.
Seductive blackberry patch and dark chocolate ‘chouli.
The icon of the past quarter-century, Angel defines gourmand, with a fashionable nod to environmental consciousness in its earthy caramel amber base and refillable bottles.
The candy fluff on top leaves an immediate impression, with the hit of every of flavor of fruit Life Savers, artificially sweet, batting-fake-lashes adorable. The tart berries in the middle slowly drown in vanilla honey, but they die happy, and the patchouli cocoa at the end is heaven eternal. As in forever. The stuff is like embalming fluid, it lasts so long.
And memorable, too. You’ll always recognize the trail she’s left behind–on the elevator an hour ago, in the bar restroom where he swore she wasn’t last night, on his shirt in the bottom of the laundry basket. She’s no angel, even if she smells like it.
Starts out cool and syrupy, like raspberry sorbet, then slowly melts into gorgeous sugary rose–the kind they make Turkish delight from–with a woody base tempered with benzoin.
The rose and the woods are linear, but there’s a slow progression to the fruity notes. They start tart and crisp and fill-the-room gigantic, but they sweeten through the day, softening to arms’ length pink floral candy, and end in the evening with a marvelous berry flavored cola on the skin.
Definitely a shift from the iconic patchouli-chocolate-caramel of the past thirty years, but this New Angel and Eau Croisière is a refreshing direction, and I’m totally ready for it.
“I want to smell like tuna fish,” said no woman ever.
All power to those with the chemistry, confidence or Sponge-Bob Squarepants fetish that can pull off oceanic animalics this strong, but I’m not one of them. Vague fruit and loud salt musk that projects a nautical mile and lasts a daylong clam dig.
Airport duty-free testers are disgusting–those germs have survived tropics and tundras from all over the world–but this one was well worth the risk.
Angel “Cruise” opens loud and proud with delicious fresh mango that lasted the trudge to my gate and through fancy class pre-boarding–I was worried I would be THAT seatmate, who gives everyone in the row a headache with their perfume–but it settled nicely to a few inches off the wrist with pink grapefruit ice by the time I managed to cram my bag into the overhead compartment.
Somewhere over Iceland the sorbet gave way to Angel’s signature caramel patchouli, without the amber musk that I usually find cloying.
It was gone when we landed, and my connection too short to hit the shops for a bottle of my own.
Next trip, maybe.
Here’s some nice light jazz that’s actually wonderfully filthy.
The bottle is gorgeous. I want it to hold all my secrets and mist me with strength and sex and knowledge.
Instead, I am sprayed with slush and rock-salt from a road plow, and pelted with rotting strawberries, and wow, does Thierry Mugler ever blow loud and long on that truck horn.
Whew. Not for me.
All the love for this woman–and I adore this salty song.