Cabochard by Grès

Cabochard feels like a completely different fragrance depending on the year. Lately, I’m getting tired of the patchouli and leather, so now I see it as a comforting, stable dryness with a fresh touch. It’s like a hot towel straight from the shower, with just the right amount of roughness. That smoky, almost incense-like note is what makes it work, where the tobacco balances out a bit of the florals and coconut.

I wrote the previous review after testing it on blotter paper, but on skin it smooths out those notes that I initially disliked. The car leather scent sinks deeper, becoming soft and harmless, though it’s still there to remind me not to overapply. The dry, powdery, almost sweet spices become much more noticeable. While some might find it too close to the wrist, it’s crafted with just enough caution so you don’t feel suffocated.

I understand you don’t like it because it’s not for everyone and can be extravagant, but I doubt it’s the tobacco you dislike. In perfumery, it doesn’t smell like smoke or pure cigars; it’s a figurative, refined, precious note that results in a wet, earthy, sweet, and mysterious scent. The tobacco in Cabochard is the most beautiful I’ve ever smelled in a women’s perfume. As you can see, two people interpret the same thing differently. If you didn’t like this, I wouldn’t recommend blindly buying the 2019 versions; they keep the DNA very intense and are more a reinterpretation than a modernization, as they don’t follow current trends. The old version is still available in 30 and 50 ml without any risk.

Sure, it’s an aromatic with personality, but for me, it smells terrible. The tobacco scent is very noticeable, and I don’t think it’s pleasant, at least not in this formulation. I suppose it would be different in another era, because back then they wore stronger scents, but now it just doesn’t work; it clashes. Even on an older lady with personality, it will be hard to wear, and she’ll end up not using it. It’s an eau de toilette, but for me, it’s like breathing smoke. I’m curious to try the new Grès Cabochards to see how they’ve modernized it.

@Amarilisbelladona Right now on Amazon Spain, the 100 ml bottle is out of stock at 17.95€, with free shipping via Prime or an extra 3.95€. If you pre-order, you have to wait without a specific date, sometimes months. Disadvantages: they might charge you upfront (usually they don’t), and sometimes they say they won’t restock, but in most cases they do send it, and if not, they refund you. You just need a lot of patience. For me, it’s worth it due to the significant discount. If you need it soon, you can get the 50 ml version for 17.24€ with delivery between May 30 and June 2, under the same conditions. The price hike is ridiculous; last year it fluctuated between 9.95€ and 40€. I got lucky snagging a 100 ml bottle for 9.95€ during a crazy sale, so I had to keep a close eye on it.

My first layering! Mother of mercy, I love it!🥰 To sum up: I was going to sleep with my old Cabochard, a tester from the classic bottle just after launch, rubbing the back of my hands because I already know how they get worn out. And there it was, as every time I’ve tried it, smelling it with delight, distinguishing a bunch of nuances with my clumsy and ignorant nose (even though I can’t name them), trying to overlook the tobacco that reminds me too much of an ashtray. I felt like adding something to sweeten it. I opened the drawer, and instead of new, sweet scents, there it was in the front row: Cassandra. It’s a totally ‘vintage’ and strong Ylang-ylang, but sweet, so I thought, ‘They’re contemporaries, it will go well.’ One single swipe where I had sprayed the previous one… Marvel! It’s like a completely new perfume, beautiful, alive, and happy! Note: A very curious sensation that the scent feels ‘stuck to the skin.’ How to say it? Solid? I don’t know. But it’s curious that when I showed my invention to my husband, he observed exactly the same thing without me saying anything.

I won double. Today I wore Aramis, and my girlfriend, under pressure, disappeared. When she returned, she asked to smell my wrist and said, ‘No, Aramis, you put that on.’ She then gifted me a freshly bought Cabochard. It’s the other side of Aramis. At home, I compared both: Cabochard has a less intense but more nuanced aldehydic opening, with fruits that aren’t sweet. They evolve similarly, but Cabochard’s base is more complex, featuring worked tobacco and well-supported leather. Is it more feminine? Maybe, but Aramis is more vigorous at the start. It’s a precious gift from someone who truly understood me. Elegant, sensual, and daring for those who know how to see.

Never has a perfume left me so perplexed. First laughter, then fascination. It’s like an ugly baby that grows up to conquer. The current EDT is ambiguous: it starts with a painful green note, then lemon with magical herbs. The dominance is moss, tobacco, and leather with a touch of sandalwood. Only a very masculine ylang and a wet, wild, unsweetened coconut break the monotony. This fascinating coconut is from a broken nut, nothing childish. It’s a beauty you don’t buy blindly. In my case, a happy ending: it’s my Scotch Brite, indispensable. Although I believe the original from 1959 or later reformulations surpass it. Only for chypre connoisseurs. Gourmands and sweet florals should abstain. Gentlemen, if you’re not part of those groups, it will suit you perfectly.

I got it through an exchange. The opening is citrusy and spicy, but as it dries on my skin, leather, oakmoss, and tobacco stand out. The tobacco isn’t intense, and the fruits are almost unnoticeable. I was scared of the tobacco, but I loved it. The asafoetida gives it a peculiar touch. Maybe difficult for untrained noses; it’s dry and bitter.

Reading clear reviews with a handkerchief and a drop of Cabochard, I keep trying to understand this strange, dark, and moody creature. I don’t like it and don’t dare to wear it, but little by little I try to appreciate it (thanks to Grès for the olfactory lesson). I don’t smell the leather; I just imagine it. I feel the dry, powdery, and astringent base of moss. The darkness of tobacco, a thick ylang, and a mature, almost withered jasmine. It smells like Madame Edwiga on that fateful night in the Paris brothels, until a gray, desolate early morning. She is Evil, possessing life-and-death power, and she smells like this. It’s the fragrance of erotic anguish, not sensuality. It makes no promises; it’s not an evanescent desire, it’s pure flesh: tough, without doubts, and a bit bitter.

I couldn’t handle it. I tried it many times, but I couldn’t. That leather on my skin turns bitter. Smelling my wrists was like sticking my nose into a bag with wet, dirty clothes soaked in tobacco. It’s not a bad perfume; it has exceptional longevity, for example. I would recommend not buying it blindly. I imagined it differently, and it was a huge disappointment; I don’t want to smell like that.

I got it last week at a good price and was amazed. I won’t add much detail because there are already long reviews… For me, it’s the archetype of a leather perfume for women. A delight, a masterful balance. The opening is powerful leather, sweetened by flowers, a bit aggressive. Then it settles soft, creamy, with tobacco-leather and a halo of powdery florals. It’s glory; what a joy to finally meet Cabochard.

I bought it in a physical store for under €10. When I got home and sprayed it on my wrists, it was a surprising scent, very vintage, dry, and clean. It’s so different from the current versions that it’s scary. It’s true that it smells very masculine due to the leather and tobacco, and that’s what I like most. Those who adore sweet perfumes should abstain.

Thanks to REBECAVPF I tried this ancestral brew, from the days when the witches of Macbeth spoke less than they whispered. Powerful and sober opening, so unisex it seems more masculine, but in reality it belongs to no human gender. It is the perfect sibling for any drastically masculine Fougère or wild Chypre. Here there is no cloying sweetness or delicate flowers, but an aromatic accord of ancient, archaic leather, from when only attraction to the dark and the animal existed. Prudent aldehydes that don’t give synthetic shine, but the dark glass of a witch’s phial. Rusty herbs like St. John’s fennel, asafetida dosed to transmute its smell of garlic and cheese into something carnal and orgiastic. Sour juices of lemon and bitter sage that trap you in their poison, more suggestive than any pleasure. Evil and beloved flowers, enraged petals, Ylang-Ylang, rose, and black geranium like the ladies of the night. All wrapped in tobacco-stained leather and deep forest moss where light never reaches. I can’t imagine any current celebrity wearing CABOCHARD; it is the perfume of Mary Shelley, Bram Stoker, Mata Hari, Theda Bara, John Dee, Aleister Crowley, Salieri, and Lucrezia Borgia. It is all one thing. Ordo Ab Chao.

The bottle is simple and elegant, like a tuxedo. I didn’t like the fragrance at all; it makes me dizzy and reminds me of my teenage years. The comments when I wore it were negative, plus it lasts forever. I wouldn’t buy it again.