Angel by Thierry Mugler, 1992

"I eat crow," is an idiom in the U.S. for "I said something wrong, I will swallow my words." My first rating for Angel was one-star! Now I consider it full-bottle-worthy. It took me seven years to fall in love with Angel. During that time, I have bought and worn many patchouli fragrances from the least to the most sweet: Santa Maria Novella Patchouly, Borneo 1834, Aromatics Elixir, Black Oud, Les Parfums de Rosine Une Folie de Rose, Narciso Rodriguez for Her, and Coromandel. I now embrace the sweetest one of all: Angel. At first, I hated the gourmand genre. My preferred partners for patchouli were dry herbs and roses. Later I accepted chocolate, vanilla and mint. Only now do I embrace the fruit, caramel, and cotton candy that used to revolt me. I must admit -- its dry-down won me over, clinging to clothing for weeks, earthy-fruity-sweet -- so unique and recognizable. The huge dose of patchouli is buried under such heavy sweetness that women who hate patchouli do not even detect its presence. I find that hilarious. No more musty, hippy associations. Thank you, Angel for making patchouli popular again. I add you to my collection. Sorry it took me so long. I was wrong.

OK, so here's the legendary Angel. For all the drama and notoriety, it's not nearly as sickly sweet as I had imagined it would be. So what does it smell like? Well, its that synergy that happens when patchouli and vanilla mix and it smells like burnt caramel. It's got lavender and some sort of aromatic green menthol-ish herb on top for brightness. It's also got a milky note, so it kind of smells like dulce de leche, the caramel you get from heating a can of evaporated condensed milk. There's also an animalic undertone, a sort of vaguely poopy sweaty smell like a very dirty child (which was especially unnerving when mixed with the milk smell), as well as some sort of fruits and chocolate. But it all came together to smell like a multi-layered caramel smell with lots of bright non-gourmand aromatics and a thin layer of gross underneath. Time has proven that you can add almost anything to this Angel formula and get gold. From A*Men and its flankers to the hundreds of gourmands influenced by Angel, this really has launched a revolution. And that's my main issue with Angel - After smelling it with smoke and coffee and malt and woods and cotton candy and licorice and leather and everything else that's been thrown at it, Angel seems a little less compelling than its spawn. The only thing that Angel brings to the table that's missing from its descendants is that gross animalic milk smell, which was the part I didn't like. Aside from its general loudness, I have no technical issues with Angel, but I'd personally much rather wear A*Men or New Haarlem, which take the Angel structure in directions I like better.

I thought I was ready to experience this classic. Gourmand orientals are probably my favorite genre and I'm really into fragrances with character and depth. That said, this is the first fragrance I've tried that made me want to scrub it off my wrist immediately. I fought the impulse and tried to give it some time but I couldn't go longer than 20 minutes. My first impression was vile. Angel is so sweet it smells dirty. It made me feel sticky and in need of a shower. It smelled like I had my face against a dirty wooden floor after a 4 year old birthday party, in which the raspberry popsicles and vanilla ice cream were a hit, got out of hand and ended in a mess of sticky-faced, noise-picking, obnoxious children. Also brought this imagery of a landfill for popsicle sticks. It shrieks. I tried to ignore it while browsing the rest of the store, hoping that it would simmer down and reward my patience with something pleasant smelling. But I felt like I was being followed by a banshee. I do have to give Angel credit for being so salient and uncanny. It evokes memories of my past nightmares. The scent is permanently branded into my memory as a synesthetic image. The main notes I could detect were raspberry, an overdose of patchouli, and a smidge of vanilla. All scents that should be agreeable, but somehow the combination is raunchy and undeniably unforgettable.