They hadn’t intended to drink so much and no one, but no one, had gone out looking for a fight.
But it had all began badly with nectarine bellinis at a quarter to four.
Champagne and fruit sugar syrup served in green clear stemmed flutes to kick off an ‘evening out’ is rarely a recipe for refinement and style.
Neither was it in this case.
Barreling out of the top floor bar an hour, two mandarin vodka chillers and a Long Island Iced Oolong Orange Blossom Tea later, our girls, ladies of a certain age to be precise, have the express lift in their increasingly blurred sights.
Puzzled to find an ‘elevator man’ inside, the Leader barks ‘Florists please’, the even more puzzled fellow passenger timidly replies ‘I don’t think we go to that floor’ knowing the store has no actual flower department. A stranger in the increasingly cramped descending room, a clean-starched lily of the valley type, remarks with disdain ‘You’ll have to get out at the bottom and try to clamber back up’.
With an art deco bell the doors open and all thoughts of elegant floral arrangements evaporate.
What palace is this in which our heroines find themselves?
Who knows, but this room is certainly its perfume hall.
The Perfume Hall
Remembering their lost blooms they scatter hither and thither in search of a perfect scent for the next stage of their adventure.
Without discrimination or discernment they try every faux flower chemists have conjured for their delight.
At the concession by the stairs some carnation, at the one in the corner iris, here an over made up assistant offers hyacinth, there her male, even more made up colleague jollily proffers jasmine. Gardenia are everywhere and our gang are not sure whether the last cocktail is repeating but orange blossom lurks ominously always.
Then ‘This is it!’ our Leader of the lift, our elevator Amazon exclaims loudly and proudly enough to alarm the manager in the attic. ‘I’ve found it’.
She grasps a flacon in her meticulously manicured fist and thrusts it first aloft and then across the pushed out sacrificial pulse points of her hoard, spraying all with her scent.
‘Tuberose!’.
Some swoon with sublime joy, others with impending sickness.
Whether it was that most particular of perfumes or the proximity of linens and furnishing that did it, but a little little lay down suddenly seemed the most preferable position to take.
And here they were, our ladies turned girls of a certain age, draped over demonstration divans and corpsed on country chintz covered canapes when the officers of the law arrived, called no doubt by that alarmed manager from his office in the attic.
Repelled by the aromatic altercation that arrested them upon arrival our law enforcers still sought to intervene, to negotiate a retreat by our over-scented sleeping sirens.
One went to wake the Leader.
She expressly had not meant to hit a policeman.
Her meticulously manicured fist was not designed for that sorry purpose.
And as for the melee that followed…
*************
That Fracas has a lot to answer for.
Arriving like a steam train punch in 1948, Germaine Cellier’s southpaw to the jaw still has force enough to dislocate sixty years later, despite a 1998 reissue.
This over-ripe fruit and floral explosion, an apotheosis of glittering and splendid tack, must have been ‘call an officer’ alarming at the time of it’s release.
One can imagine men asking men at their clubs whether they thought it fit for wives or servants to catch the merest whiff of it for fear of corruption.
Indeed, there is something both corrupted and frankly contemptible in a self consciously scientific fruit bowl punch opening, whose saccharine sweetness never really leaves the party. Quite an accomplishment when one considers that the next guests are a whole bouquet of every type of flower except for a shrinking violet.
Most prominent and ghoulishly got up of all a formidable drag artiste of a tuberose.
And what this lady lacks in authenticity she more than makes up for staying power. Many hours after the guests have departed and when the hosts are in their pyjamas gazing bleary-eyed at watches, this old bloom is still hitting out renditions of ‘We’ll meet again’.
Most likely we will: in the morning, because this Fracas goes on and on and on…
Excuse me if I sound churlish, but this is an aroma best experienced in anecdote.
As for the idea of men wanting to wear it?
To be frank, I would rather endure the original than the death by a thousand and one echoes (though generally without the tuberose and therefore the point) that currently assail the feminine fragrance market.
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy
The Perfumed Dandy. 
Oh! I have a short story to go with your perfume, Fracas, “What Mad Pursuit” by Noel Coward… About an English author flung into the company of an over zealous, inexhaustible, group of Manhattan socialites…
xox,
V
Vickie I am sure it is a riot of a story but can it possibly be any better than this review by The Perfumed Dandy? What a great story with a wonderful review of Fracas all wrapped up in lovely expensive department store white tissue…(Hiding the boxing gloves underneath.)
PS… I have always wanted to try Fracas but now I am frightened to the very core.
Not better, just another twist on the theme – a compliment, if you will. Certainly nothing could compare to this “most prominent and ghoulishly got up of all a formidable drag artiste of a tuberose” – nothing! Now I’m scared too!
In that case a dab of Palmolive behind the ear will keep the boogie man away!
A girl needs her aldehydes and ketones! True confession, when I go to sleep I like to rub lavender oil on my temples and wrists.
Bon nuit!
V
Ms Lester
First may I just say what a treat you are delivering to us all this Oscar week.
To anyone who hasn;t seen The Dandy can only commend Ms L’s Beguiling Hollywood http://vickielester.com/
Perhaps this will come as no surprise, but The Dandy never goes to his bed unscented. Caron’s Pour un Homme often gets pressed into this nocturnal duty, though at the moment the same house’s Montaigne is being given quite an evening outing.
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy
Dear Mr Lanier
Did I ever mention Camay? It was a brand of soap we had here in Merrie Engdlande that had a fine perfume history – oh, d’ya now I feel a Sunday supplement feature coming on…
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy
We have Camay hand soap here!
Well Mr Lanier
Go take a sniff and see what you think perfume wise?
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy
I will look for Camay the next time I am in the supermarket.
Now the Dandy will have to go sniff too – I wonder if they reformulate soap?
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy
Ms L
A word of caution. This she appears to me, but to some she is as delicate a beauty as the splendid girl in our poster above.
All feminine radiance.
A case of Victor Victoria.
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy
Ms L
Just perfect.
D’ya know The Dandy did rather have in mind what if Bertie Wooster’s Manhattan meet ups had followed him back to London Town.
How our mind’s think alike.
I will go and check Mr Coward’s little opus soon.
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy
Now I have been inspired to wear Fracas while on my fearless girls-only trip to the Khan Kalili bazaar today!!! Ohhh we shall bat our lashes and haggle like falaha (farmers) from the village, even as our fair, fragrant skin and blue eyes show us to have not a single drop of pharaoh blood. On the way home we shall buy fresh zambak baladee as they call the tuberose here for there is no greater pleasure than to sleep and have this exotic scent invade your dreams.
Oh Rose of Cairo!
What an enthrallingly Egyptian day you have in prospect!
I wish you the most Dandy of dandy times.
Yes I adore tuberose too – but with lashings of humour.
Do haggle well for me…
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy
Hehe “Germaine Cellier’s southpaw to the jaw..”. Vintage! I’m terrified of tuberose and personally think it smells like extrait de petrol. An American cousin of mine, who I’m very fond of, of loves Fracas. She’s been in music showbiz since the 80s and has huge red hair (she’s not Madonna in case you’re wondering! Though Madonna does wear Fracas apparently). We had a petit fracas about Fracas recently on Facebook! Talking of which, Piguet have actually made a new version called Petit Fracas – still GRANDE to my nose.
Ma Griffe review – look forward to it!
Dearest Rose Strang
Well now, terrified of tuberose – now that is a thought. Though I know many people are very afraid of Amarige – oh the things I have heard that fragrance called!!
Madonna and Fracas – now why doesn’t that surprise The Dandy – one would certainly require a certain presence to carry it off – huge red hair would do that too…
I smelt ‘Petit Fracas’ as part of my research and I can only agree that there is nothing diminutive about that young lady.
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy
I gave up wearing Fracas when a friend’s infant rejected me because of it. The shock and indignation on her face as I came close! Withering. đŸ˜¦ I actually received compliments on Fracas before that. I think it needs a very light hand. I eventually stopped wearing it and gave my bottle away. What a great review! I envisioned the AbFab ladies (remember them?) passed out in the linens dept. That made me laugh.
Dearest Lilybelle
Infant refection is truly the sincerest and most crippling expression of disgust. What a situation!
To say a light hand is required of Fracas would almost be an understatement… One spray and the Dandy was away!!
Thank you for the kind words on the review. Yes I do remember Eddy and Pats, though I have actually seen people asleep in a department store and was influenced by a tale of my great mentor bear extraordinaire Paddington… who once fell asleep in a shop window.
Oh happy days
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy
Oh dear lord that review is so hysterically perfect! The olfactory orgy complete with rustling silk ballgowns and manicured fingertips! I cannot wear Fracas myself and have only tested it once. Once was quite enough. The extremity of the tuberose devoured my nasal cavities. Touche for having the fortitude to wear it a complete day!
My Dear Rosa
Once applied one has little choice but to stick with Fracas all day – I hazard even a hosing down would not remove its smell.
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy
A favorite of both rock stars and barristers, seems it gets rather aggressive if not given the spotlight it knows it deserves. Brilliantly funny write up.
Dear Mark
I feel that a shock of curly red hair or a record contract are pre-requisites to wearing this with the confidence it requires.
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy.
This.is.perfect.
Dear Victoria
That is praise indeed.
The Perfumed Dandy blushes slightly and tips his hat to you.
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy.
Poor dear Fracas, such humiliation. I still love the dear old girl even though she may seem too loud and a bit tipsy from time to time. She’ll always be lovely to me.
Dearest Ricky
Oh absolutely. What kind of world would it be if one didn’t have to many sherries now and again and fall asleep on the sofas in Selfridges – I pretty rum one says I!!!
A portrait done with a great deal of affection I hope you understand.
Yours ever
The Perfumed Dandy