Aziyadé

Corticchiato's Aziyadé reads like a perfumed reimagining of a Damascus souk at dusk, where the savoury thrust of Egyptian cumin collides with sticky dates and bruised pomegranate arils in a way that's simultaneously unsettling and utterly compelling. This isn't polite orientalism—it's the real thing, complete with cumin's sweaty, almost fenugreek-like earthiness cutting through the expected cinnamon and cardamom. The genius lies in how those candied dates and plum provide a jammy, bronze-hued sweetness that stops the spice assault from becoming aggressive, whilst almond lends an almost marzipan-like richness that shouldn't work but absolutely does. As frankincense smoke weaves through vanilla absolute in the heart, there's something ecclesiastical happening here, though the patchouli keeps it grounded in soil rather than sanctuary. The cistus in the base brings that sun-baked, labdanum-adjacent stickiness—part leather, part resin, wholly addictive—whilst Tonkin musk adds an animalic whisper that never quite shouts. This is for the fragrance wearer who finds Amouage too polite and Serge Lutens too cerebral; someone who wants the full-throttled spice bazaar experience without apology. Wear it when you're ready to own a room, preferably in cooler months when that cumin won't turn on you. It's uncompromising, borderline unwearable to some, but that's precisely its charm.