
So here it is: the legendary Patou pour Homme.
Once you get the tricky lid open, Patou launches as a very strong, very odd blend of green notes, bitter citrus, hot pepper, and tarragon, which together form an accord not unlike a smoky Speyside single malt whisky. I like single malt whiskies.
The tarragon bows out rather quickly, or at least moves well into the background, while a bouquet of dry herbs and lavender moves forward in its place. This is supported by a subtle sandalwood note and a touch of conifer resin. The whisky grows darker and more smoky, transforming almost imperceptibly into a potent leather. Playing above this, rather like a soft, solitary flute, is a surprisingly delicate floral accord, including a note of carnation or clove. In my experience the tenuous counterpoint between this and the hefty leather and woods really is something special.
After an hour or so the dry herb accord begins to peel away to more fully reveal the carnation against the conifer and leather background. Meanwhile the black pepper, along with vetiver and sage(?), give Patou a bitter edge that may not be to everybody's liking.
The first real hint of sweetness in Patou emerges even later, in the form of a faint vanilla and amber. And when I say faint, I mean it - these notes hover just on the verge of perception. They're not so much an accord as an atmospheric effect that ever-so-slightly tempers the scent's edge.
Patou is tenacious and mellows only very slowly as it wears. The bitter vetiver persists over the sandalwood and (real?) oakmoss foundation, but eases up enough to allow the amber and vanilla some breathing room. About four hours into the drydown Patou's thorns finally blunt a bit, leaving amber, spices, and vanilla to relax over moss, leather, and woods. This phase is when I enjoy Patou the most, and I'm happy to report that it continues for hours without fading. An exceptionally well-blended castoreum note lends some animalic danger all the way through and keeps Patou from wandering into "old man" territory.
The overall impression is a bit harsh and aggressive (we are talking 1980 here folks,) but not at all brutish - more like a 1930s Humphrey Bogart than a pugnacious street punk. It's tough and edgy, but not radical. The sillage and projection are both excellent, and I strongly recommend applying Patou with a light hand. Otherwise you could wind up smelling like you bathed in the stuff.
I suspect that for a certain generation (mine) that came of age in the 1980s, this is what a man's fragrance ought to smell like. Rock solid, serious, and full of power. This may be part of the reason that Patou is so revered. It probably doesn't hurt either that Patou pour Homme stands in sharp relief against the plethora of dilute powdered soft drinks that pass as fragrances these days.
Don't get the impression that Patou pour Homme is without merit. Far, far from it. Some hallowed classics (like Bois du Portugal,) have disappointed me, while others (including JHL,) have lived up to their reputations. Patou is a great scent. It's characterful, incredibly complex, and develops through an exciting sequence of moods over a very long time. I find it easier to wear than some of the other late twentieth century powerhouses like Kouros and Yatagan. Even so, I don't have all that many occasions to wear something like this. (I don't do leveraged buyouts or corporate takeovers.)
So is Patou the greatest of all men's fragrances? I wouldn't go so far as to say that, but I can understand why some do. This emperor certainly is wearing clothes, but he's not the only well dressed man in town.