Paris, pour moi, is synonymous with two sensory pleasures: fruits de mer at La Coupole and a visit to Jar on rue de Castiglione. The latter being a true feat of self indulgence. My friend Josef who manages this velvet flocked, haven of olfaction, is ever ready to declare the Jar manifesto: a charming anti-establishment rant about discretion and non branding. The tear drop bottle is jewel like and free from any insignia. One is urged to sample the fragrance atop the wrist rather than under and there are no vials to spritz and sniff at ones' leisure. A leather chamois is doused with the fragrance and housed within crystal domes as if to entrap the perfume's spirit. I was drawn to Golconda, a quixotic blend of earth and clove, quite unplaceable and evolving on the skin.
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