M. Micallef
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
Tangerine oil gleams briefly—more marmalade than fresh peel—whilst orange blossom hovers in an indolic, slightly soapy corona around it. Within minutes, the citrus dims like house lights going down, and you're already tasting the vanilla-passion fruit syrup waiting in the wings.
Here's where Mon Parfum plants its flag: passion fruit cordial melds with vanilla in a thick, almost custard-like embrace, whilst caramel begins its slow creep from below. The sweetness borders on cloying, yet that earthy patchouli keeps it from becoming entirely edible, adding a subtle, grounding must that suggests skin rather than confection.
What remains is a powdery vanilla-musk duet with caramel's ghost sweetening the edges, the patchouli now a mere shadow lending the faintest botanical whisper. It settles close, intimate, like the lingering scent in a cashmere jumper worn all day—soft, slightly worn-in, persistently sweet.
Mon Parfum reads like Geoffrey Nejman's love letter to the gauzy, sugar-dusted fantasies of early noughties perfumery—utterly unrepentant in its sweetness. This is tangerine and orange blossom stripped of their sharp edges, softened into a hazy citrus veil that barely whispers 'fresh' before tumbling headlong into a vat of vanilla crème anglaise. The passion fruit here isn't the tart, fibrous pulp you'd scoop from a wrinkled shell; it's the cordial version, syrupy and slightly artificial, nestling into caramel that tastes more of burnt sugar than salted sophistication. Patchouli provides structural backbone—earthy, slightly musty—but it's fighting a losing battle against the relentless tide of lactonic vanilla and that peculiar powdery musk that recalls vintage face powder compacts left open on a dressing table. The effect is oddly nostalgic: part candied fruit stall at a Continental market, part the warm skin of someone who's devoted to a single vanilla-based body cream for decades. This wears best on those who've never met a gourmand they didn't adore, who find comfort in sweetness without cynicism. It's an unapologetically soft, pillowy cloud of scent—perhaps too sweet for some, but there's an honesty to its excess that's almost endearing. Think late breakfast in bed, croissants with apricot preserves, sun streaming through gauze curtains. Not subtle. Not trying to be.
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3.5/5 (76)