ann fragrance
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The first fifteen minutes are a citrus detonation—bergamot and lemon leading the charge with coriander's soapy, metallic edge cutting through like a knife. Orange blossom flickers between sweet and bitter, whilst mandarin fizzes underneath, creating that particularly Eighties sense of expensive, high-tech freshness. There's a synthetic shimmer to everything that feels deliberate rather than accidental, like light bouncing off chrome.
Once the citrus calms, the florals emerge in a surprisingly dense cloud—lily of the valley's green brightness tangles with rosy geranium, whilst jasmine adds just enough indolic depth to prevent things becoming too prim. The sweetness intensifies here, that accord pushing towards something almost gourmand, though the rose keeps things tethered to classic perfumery. It's the smell of a very put-together person who's just applied fresh lipstick.
What remains is a soft, ambery glow with tonka bean and benzoin creating a vanilla-ish cocoon that's more comforting than seductive. The cedar provides just enough structure to prevent the base from collapsing into pure sweetness, whilst traces of that initial freshness still sparkle faintly at the edges. It's quiet, close to the skin, and oddly nostalgic—like the memory of someone's signature scent rather than the scent itself.
The Royal announces itself with the kind of crystalline freshness that defined early Eighties perfumery—before "fresh" became shorthand for laundry detergent. Michel Almairac has constructed something unapologetically bright and synthetic in the way that synthetic once meant futuristic rather than cheap. The opening blast pairs bitter-sharp bergamot and lemon with that distinctive metallic twang of coriander, whilst orange blossom hovers between citrus and indolic floral, never quite committing to either camp. The mandarin adds a fizzy sweetness that stops the composition from veering too austere.
As it develops, The Royal reveals its true character: a surprisingly plush white floral heart that manages to feel both formal and insouciant. The lily of the valley brings that green, almost soapy brightness—the smell of expensive toiletries in a grand hotel—whilst jasmine and rose provide just enough richness to avoid astringency. Geranium adds a peculiar minty-rosy facet that amplifies the synthetic quality rather than masking it. This isn't the lush, analogue florals of classic perfumery; it's something more transparent, more deliberately artificial.
Add fragrances to your collection and unlock your personalised scent DNA, note map, and shareable identity card.
4.3/5 (213)