Grand Soir

Grand Soir is Francis Kurkdjian's love letter to the great amber orientals of the past, rendered with a contemporary plushness that feels almost indecent. The saffron in the opening isn't the metallic, leathery sort—it's honeyed and glowing, melting immediately into a tide of labdanum that smells of warm skin and burnt sugar. This is amber as pure sensory luxury: thick, resinous, unapologetically sweet without tipping into gourmand territory. The tonka and vanilla weave through the composition like golden threads, their creamy richness tempered by the slightly bitter, herbaceous facets of cistus and the powdery snap of benzoin. There's a balsamic depth here that keeps it from feeling cloying—imagine the sticky darkness of labdanum absolute meeting the caramelised edges of crème brûlée, all wrapped in cashmere.

This is a fragrance for those who understand that restraint is overrated. It demands cold weather and evening wear, the kind of scent that fills a room when you remove your coat at a dinner party. Grand Soir suits the person who'd rather be memorable than polite, who appreciates that true elegance sometimes means excess done perfectly. The longevity is formidable—expect this to cling to your skin well into the next day—and the sillage creates an enveloping cloud that's intimate rather than aggressive. Kurkdjian has crafted something that feels both timeless and utterly of-the-moment: an amber that could have existed in 1950 or 2050, rich enough to satisfy die-hard oriental devotees whilst maintaining the smooth, meticulously blended house style.