Chergui

Chergui is a powdered tobacco dream wrapped in warm amber resin, the scent of sun-bleached wooden shutters and honey-soaked pastries in a Moroccan salon. Christopher Sheldrake has orchestrated a masterful collision between tobacco leaf's dry, papery quality and iris's cool, lipstick-like powder, creating an almost chalky sweetness that feels both indulgent and restrained. The honey here isn't cloying—it's old, crystallised, dusty with age, threading through hay's grassy-dry warmth like golden syrup through dried stems. Rose and incense smoulder in the heart, their smoke curling upward through layers of tonka and benzoin that transform the composition into something between a spice souk and a gentleman's smoking jacket left too long in the sun.

This is a fragrance for those who find comfort in the worn and weathered rather than the pristine and polished. It suits contemplative evenings, dimly lit libraries, the slow burn of conversation over aged spirits. There's a lived-in quality here—tobacco that's been handled, iris powder that's settled into fabric creases, amber resin that's warmed against skin. The performance is formidable; Chergui clings and evolves, its sweet tobacco haze announcing your presence without shouting. This isn't for the faint-hearted or those seeking freshness—it's dense, enveloping, unapologetically opulent. The sort of scent that makes strangers lean closer and ask what you're wearing, then nod knowingly when you tell them it's Lutens.