Bvlgari
Bvlgari
264 votes
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The initial spray releases a cloud of cool, almost metallic white tea that's startlingly clean, joined immediately by tarragon's liquorice-tinged greenness. There's a fleeting citric brightness that reads more like bergamot's ghost than actual citrus, whilst pepper provides tiny pinpricks of warmth that keep the composition from floating away entirely.
As it settles, the spicy elements come forward more boldly—that pepper now partnering with what feels like white florals rendered almost transparent, as though seen through steam rising from a teacup. The tea note deepens slightly, taking on a subtle woodiness that suggests the tannins have fully developed, whilst a soft powderiness begins to emerge at the edges.
The final act is remarkably close to skin, with amber and musk creating a barely-there veil that's more about texture than scent—think cashmere rather than velvet. The tea has become a memory, leaving behind only its mineral coolness and that persistent suggestion of something green and alive, like moss on stone after rain.
Bvlgari's Eau Parfumée au Thé Blanc is Jacques Cavallier-Belletrud at his most restrained and sophisticated, a study in translucent freshness that somehow achieves depth without weight. The white tea accord here isn't the sweet, jasmine-adjacent confection found in many modern interpretations—it's mineral, slightly vegetal, with that peculiar astringency of good silver needle tea left to cool in a porcelain cup. The tarragon brings an anisic greenness that keeps everything taut and lifted, whilst pepper threads through with a gentle bite that never overwhelms. What's remarkable is how the musk and amber manage to create structure without introducing obvious warmth; they're there purely as scaffolding, allowing the tea to hover in this airy, almost aqueous space that feels utterly contemporary two decades on.
This is fragrance for those who appreciate negative space in perfumery—the beauty of what's *not* there. It's worn by people who've moved beyond projection and power, who understand that intimacy sometimes speaks louder than sillage. Picture it on someone in crisp linen, reading in dappled sunlight, or in the quiet concentration of a ceramics studio. The floral aspect is more suggestion than statement, a ghostly whisper of petals steeping in that tea rather than full-blown blooms. It's cerebral without being cold, fresh without resorting to synthetic citrus pyrotechnics. This is the fragrance equivalent of a perfectly executed haiku—every element essential, nothing extraneous.
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3.6/5 (130)