As you may know, I love tea. British and Asian.... is it any wonder? My current favourite brew: Wang De Chuan osmanthus oolong, with additional floral notes both heady (Favols rose-petal jam) and musky (blue mallow). 

It brews up (85ºC water, two minutes) clear honeyed amber, and ridiculously fragrant -- subsequent infusions (with longer steeping times) are progressively richer and earthier, and I sometimes *whispers* like to add a splash of milk to round out the later ones. British, remember D:

mmmmmmmmm tea

Some of you also know that I love perfumes. (Actually too much to blog about them -- like books and music, it's an interest I share with lots of people in my offline life (an interest in these is kinda sorta a condition of having them in my life, in fact :P) so I need no additional outlet for drivel.)  But, as 'perfume' was proposed as a topic for my current all-smog-no-pictures bloggy state, here's an idiosyncratically organised list of my favourite tea fragrances, inspired equally by Gaia and Sei Shōnagon.

Comme des Garçons Series 1: Leaves: Tea is bracingly harsh, like taking a big whiff straight from a caddy full of tarry lapsang souchong, metallic tang of the tin included.. Sadly (for me, because I find the almost chokingy smoky opening quite addictive) it almost ‘brews’ as it wears, softening into a warm, abstract vanilla & woods composition. Annick Goutal Eau De Fier is a more naturalistic take on this theme, lightened and brightened by citrus.

CB I Hate Perfume Russian Caravan Tea is another black-leaves-and-citrus brew, and my most-worn Goldilocks choice in this category (and from among CBIHP’s tea lineup too: his Cedarwood / Rose / Lavender Tea scents are too simplistic for me — more Demeter-literal than CB-evocative). There’s a gentle Lapsang smokiness here, but closer to comforting steam rather than acrid tar, moderated further by smooth, full-bodied Assam; bergamot adds a soft glow (this is an autumnal bergamot, no shrill too-bright citrus zing) and dusty woods bring a dry, refreshing quality that saves this scent from too-lush steaminess and makes it incredibly moreish. (This is a CB I prefer in the water perfume rather than the oil — the absolute is sweeter and softer, and less tea-ish.)

L’Artisan’s discontinued(!) Tea For Two does sometimes tip over into too-lush, almost chewily sweet territory, so I tend to reserve it for scarves on frosty winter days; wearing it on my sweetness-amplifying skin can be overkill. But even through the blended sweetnesses of milk, marmalade and spiced cake, the clear-as-amber tea note (supposedly Lapsang, but more Ceylon-with-tobacco to my nose) still predominates, and rings true right through to the drydown, with no over-steeped fading or muddying; Olivia Giacobetti’s genius for transparency guaranteeing clarity even in such a golden borderline gourmand. Serge Lutens’ 5 O’Clock Au Gingembre is a simpler, less quirky (so probably more likeable) evocation of the afternoon-tea-and-treats-in-a-wood-panelled-nook thing, worth a sniff if you can't get to grips with (or ahold of) TfT.

Without one of the more obviously identifiable smoky black tea notes, for me, the key element that gives a fragrance a unified tea-ness (vs remaining a more abstract composition of light floral, citrus, woods and spices) is a certain kind of luminous warmth, that evokes the airy (rather than sultry) steam curling from a freshly brewed cup. I'm not sure exactly which combinations of aromachemicals trigger the 'tea' light in my brain (some alchemy of rounded citrus+dry woods, I think), but fragrances that seem to perfectly evoke the simultaneous refreshment and comfort of tea steam include: 

Dior Escale à Pondichéry, clean India tea and optimistic jasmine;

Ava Luxe Thé Blanc / White Tea, all spring florals and first-flush silver tips, airy but never insipid, a uniquely warm, clear (rather than soft or powdery) white in my sniffing experience;

and Made In Italy Sardinia, a zippy oolong grounded by drily aromatic touches of honeysuckle, broom and ambrette.

Bvlgari's tea series also fits into this category -- highly abstract compositions once deconstructed, but reliably evocative of 'tea' even when tested on blindfolded muggles. (Yep. I did. FOR SCIENCE.) I'm not very fond of the iconic Eau Parfumée au Thé Vert (can't shake the '90s changing room associations, sorry), but often reach for my bottles of Blanc (musky woods that smell like fluffiest darjeeling mixed with dry, powdered milk) and Rouge (a husky rooibos). 

Bvlgari BLACK is another sneaky tea scent in the line: contrary to its omg so edgy innit!! marketing, it wears as an offbeat but cuddly, bergamot- and vanilla-rounded Lapsang.

Something else that unites all these fragrances (and contributes to their tea-ness for me) is a combination of translucent linearity, impressive lasting power, and subtle sillage; however light or dense the scent itself. they all sit close to the skin, but they do so all day on me.

These are all lighter and cooler than the last category and (perhaps not quite coincidentally?) require frequent reapplication, but are lovely enough for me to persevere:

Delicately radiant: Hermes Osmanthe Yunnan -- its osmanthus all gauzy petals, abstracted from its edible creamy apricot facets, and its tea the rare silvery Yunnan biluochun rather than the more robust blacks or pu-erhs associated with the region. I much prefer it (constant re-dousing and all) to Parfum d’Empire’s Osmanthus Interdite -- the latter's greater throw and lasting power comes at the price of too much heaviness, dissonant with its notes to me. On my skin, Rose Ikebana, another Hermessence, is OY's sister scent -- more rose tea than tea rose.

L’Artisan Thé Pour Un Été, is another cool tea (supposedly green tea, but a lightly minted darjeeling to me), this time blended with jasmine -- again, all ethereally pretty petals with nary a hint of an uncouth indole.

Since we've run from smoking hot to elegantly cool, here are some unarguably summery iced-teascents. I'm not usually a fan of this much unadulterated sweetness 'n' light in my fragrances, but have been finding them indispensably refreshing in humid E. Asian summers, with more character than the ubiquitous 'clean, posh-shampoo' scents or ironically acrid ozone/marine colognes.

Heeley Oranges and Lemons Say The Bells of St Clement’s is a fruity earl grey with enough petitgrain astringency to save it from orangeade. Still nowhere near as serious and gentlemanly-cologny as its bottle would have you think -- more fluffy Wodehouse fop.