Méo Fusciuni Odor 93, olfactory meanderings

I keep a decorative cardboard box on my bedside table, full of perfume samples — tiny glass vials with small, stubborn plastic caps. These minuscule vessels full of to-be-discovered fragrance are routinely doled out by people in the perfume biz, a generous little redolent gift, or more often a gesture when we make a purchase in their establishment. Most people, I suspect, pay little attention to these samples, dropping them into a pocketbook, where they keep company with bobby pins, cough drops and paperclips, or tossing them into a drawer. But for parfumistas (parfumista: someone who is obsessed with perfume and fragrance), these vials are precious and coveted. Each one offers the possibility of new olfactory wonders, or a reminder of aromatic marvels of the past.

Five or so years ago, I found an unlabeled sample in this box on my nightstand. I pried it open to discover — a weird and wild smoky floral, with a strange wintergreen hum on first sniff. I dabbed a few drops onto my wrists and went to sleep. This is my favorite way to become intimately acquainted with a perfume; my sleeping brain somehow apprehends and analyzes fragrance in deep and instinctive ways and I always know, after a night with a fragrant wrist, whether the perfume will end up in my collection or whether I can live without it.

The initial medicinal wintergreen vibrations of the mysterious sample gradually settled into an earthy, incense-y tuberose. A rich white floral played counterpoint with bitter and green, smoke and spice. As it began to evolve, vetiver and patchouli played with the spices, and, perhaps, a touch of oud, helping to keep it sharp and vivid instead of succumbing to the languid and cloying weight of tropical white flowers.

An unmarked vial can send me scurrying down the proverbial rabbit hole, depending on whether or not I’ve fallen in love and depending on how straightforward or difficult it is to identify any unlabeled mini-flask. For several nights in a row, I carefully doled out the remaining drops in that teeny bottle. I was enchanted. I racked my brain, trying to remember where I’d gotten the sample. Months went by, turning into years, and new fragrant quests and discoveries obscured the immediacy of my unlabeled vial, which continued to rattle around in the box on my nightstand. It ceased being front and center, but I never quite forgot it and every so often the little glass tube would resurface and remind me of my unfulfilled aromatic crusade.

Finally, last year, during lockdown #1, Dorothée Duret, propriètaire of Le Nez Insurgé (do not miss this boutique when next you visit Bordeaux), generously pedaled past my house, dropping off one of her small, decorative shopping bags with my confinement indulgence of a bottle of beloved Romanza as well as a lavish collection of samples. That evening I pried open one of the little glass vials. And to my utter astonishment, there was my medicinal, smoky, bitter tuberose fragrance! I looked at the tiny label, and there, in Dorothée’s scrupulous handwriting, was the answer to my years-long mystery. Odor 93. At last a name for my unmarked vial and my 5-year perfume obsession. The internet did its magic, and thus I discovered Méo Fusciuni’s breathtaking tuberose interpretation.

And yes. I did, indeed, indulge in a bottle. In fact, I contacted Dorothée the following day and asked if she would be willing to put aside what turned out to the the last bottle she had in stock. I feel lucky!