Tryst (Hiram Green)

... and if necessary, alone.

J. M. W. Turner "Val d’Aosta," 1840-44

Every Esxence brings with it a brief but solemn moment when I pay my respects to the small, plain stand of Hiram Green. No one bucks trends more nonchalantly and decidedly than him. His perfumes are all-natural, yet refuse to fall into the dun-colored herb soup typical of the genre. Instead they they are strong, resplendent and athletic, as if all of fragrance chemistry were merely a pair of crutches unfit for heroes. This year he was there, unruffled as ever, surrounded by a mob of aficiòn. He said hello, and his assistant handed over a vial of Tryst, his latest.

Reading the description online before smelling it, I had my doubts: orange flower and honey. Those are two smells that can satiate pretty easily. Wonderful orange flower has oily, chemical off-notes that anyone who has lived in Athens, as I have, will recognize from pacing suburban streets in April¹. Honey is terrific with salted butter on tartines, but the perfumery version is more often than not monstrously hot, coarse and loud. I was therefore ready for the first Hiram Green perfume I wouldn’t like. I was wrong.