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Caron are killing their scents, nothing smells the same anymore. My beloved En Avion and Nuit de Noel have had so much surgery as to be almost unrecognisable. Caron Pour Un Homme still smells fabulous but seems to be losing its softness. But Tabac, Tabac, Tabac. (Dramatic sigh) I wear the extract. Anything else is pointless. It still smells astonishing. Dripping in nostalgia and tricked out in spiky F***-you style, Tabac Blond is still a jaw-dropping hotel lobby that awash with marble, leather and faded gold. Music echoes through the columns, heels click rhythmically across inlaid tiles. Diamonds glitter, a woman laughs, a man turns, then a gunshot. The man falls in smoke-drenched slo-mo. The woman smiles, lights a cigarette, slips the gun into an immaculate clutch and walks out into the early morning sun. This is Tabac Blond. Sex, style and death.
29 April, 2010