Travel Memoirs: Singapore part 2

Walking under a lightly tinted oriental umbrella fit for the hot sun, but also the sudden shower of the tropics, I find myself savoring the sights and smells of exotic Singapore again as I reminiscence. Besides the lush vegetation, olfactory stimuli exist in other venues as well.

One of the best ways to get to know a culture is through its cuisine. Singapore’s cuisine seems to have been a fusion of other cultural influences long before fusion became the “in” word it has since become. Encompassing elements of Chinese, Indian and Malayan gastronomy it is as rich and fragrant as the wildest imagination could fathom. Tamarind, turmeric and heavy smelling ghee (a class of clarified butter) feature heavily as does sampal, a common chili-based accompaniment to most foods. Fragrances such as Black XS for Her or John Varvatos have taken elements of that rich spicy tradition of Asia and wouldn’t be too out of place in this subtext.

The aroma of spices is evident in such dishes as Char siew rice (chā shāo fàn) and Char siew noodles (chā shāo miàn), a Cantonese-inspired dish of rice or noodles served with barbecued pork in a thick sauce. Satay bee hoon, thin rice vermicelli, is served with spicy satay sauce of crushed peanuts. Kare Kare is a Philippine-inspired dish of oxtail, similarly stewed in peanut sauce. Oyster omelet, combines the fishy, iodine odor of oysters with coriander leaves. Spicy kangkung, a dish of leafy green vegetables is fried in sambal, imparting a biting hot tang that excites the tongue’s buds.

The fruit selection is both amazing and surprising in its variety and fragrant goodness. Atis, the Philippine word for Cherimoya, are to quote Mark Twain "the most delicious fruit known to men." Mangos are a breed apart from what you get in the West. If your idea of a mango is the green, unripe one in the refreshing Un Jardin sur le Nil by Hermes (which smells more like a wounded grapefruit), you are in for a welcome surprise: the deep apricot color, sweetness and yumminess of aroma in mangos of tropical southeastern Asia is a feast for all the senses. To the other end of the spectrum, in the heavier oriental category, a complex mix of the spices and fruits of the southeastern Asia is encaptured in Jungle L’elephant by Kenzo.
Kalamansi (citrus micracarpa) can also be found in Singapore, a small citrus fruit, often called sour lime, with which description it’d be hard to argue after one tongue-curling taste of the juice. Cold, served in cocktails, it imparts a zesty, tart and sweet aroma with shades of grapefruit and tangerine that is totally refreshing amidst the monsoon steam.

The desserts range from the interesting ice cream flavors like corn, cheese and ube (the Philippine word for taro) to halo-halo (pronounced hah-low hah-low), crushed ice with corn and fruit and jelly and Bubur cha cha, yam and sweet potato cubes served in coconut milk and sago, served hot or cold. Red rubies, a Thai-inspired dessert, is made by boiling water-chestnuts covered in rice flour and red food coloring, served over shaved ice, rose syrup and evaporated milk. The latter is sometimes referred to as "mock pomegranate", since the chestnut pieces bear a resemblance to the pomegranate seeds. Magical Moon by Hanae Mori includes coconut, milky lactonic notes and rose in a fragrance that reminds me a bit of this particular dessert.

After an orgiastic feast that leaves you a bit too full for comfort, seeking comfort of the soul is where your weary but satisfied feet take you. Singapore offers temples of Hinduist, Buddhist and Taoist credo and even Muslim mosques to cater for its cosmopolitan citizenship. Yueh Hai Ching temple and Thian Hock Keng temple are well known placed amidst the central part of the city. In front of the antique stores, a laughing Buddha is sitting to whom people clamor, to rub his belly and drop coins into the slot over his navel for good luck and karma.

In the relative quiet of the Hindu temple, full of the fragrant smell of what seems like Nag Champa incense and illuminated by numerous small candles under the enshrined deities decorated with flowers, one of the caretakers invites us to see the idol up close; he cups a metal bowl over our heads and gives us herbal leaves to chew on as well as red powder. The latter is used to mark a woman’s forehead.

In comparison the Buddhist temple is packed with people kneeling in prayer, chanting from dog-eared books and burning incense sticks which produce a thick smoke of what would be olfactory heaven if they had stuck to the alloted three sticks per burning, incidentally the lucky number for this. The smell of the temple overall reminds me of the peculiarly wonderful mix in L’artisan’s Timbuktu: one part incense to two parts living, breathing beings. People in their desire to please the divine universe, bowing their heads in supplication, have grabbed handfuls of sticks, their tips smoldering into ash which falls on their hands and on their clothes in fleeting moments of pain. I try to imagine what they’re praying for and fail: surely everyone is different and they have their own worries to think about, much different than what I contemplate myself.
The mystical atmosphere of the temples will accompany me on the long, long flight home as I already long for visiting once again.

Pic of Wakm Hai Cheng Bio temple and Trishaws courtesy of Worldisround.com. Ati/Cherimoya pic courtesy of Wikipedia

Travel Memoirs: Singapore

Upon setting foot on the Changi airport at Singapore a different world unfolds itself ahead of your eyes or more accurately your whole being. The tropical humidity which reaches an all-time high during the monsoon season is catching your breath as you exit the air-conditioned cabin, waving to the obligingly polite air-hostesses with the vividly colorful attire. And the colonial ivory linens ~shades of Ivory-Merchant worth gentleman’s attire~, which you had meticulously ironed for the journey thinking they were the appropriate look, become crumbled and stick to your body in nanoseconds. It’s probably the second shock, if you count that you are instructed before you get off the plane to sign a form indicating that you are aware the penalty for carrying narcotic substances into the country is death. Nothing really prepares you for the climatic and climactic experience to be savored in such a visit.

Singapore, situated at the south end of the Malayan peninsula and really a cluster of islands, is a feast for the eyes as much as for the nose. Like the etymology of its name, and despite its small size, this highly urbanized landscape commands the respect and awe one would reserve upon gazing a lion smack in the eyes. The air is a heavy alloy: laden with moisture from the Sungei Pandan River, laced with driftwood and mysterious rainforest flora, bringing wafts of exotic fruits, the smell of functional products from the ultra-clean public places and the local spices used by coolies on the tongkangs. One is hard pressed to envision the Malayan princes sailing the river in eras past that I had glimpsed in old colonial gravures, when gazing from the top of Bukit Timah Hill; so much have the skyscrapers changed the scenery.

I remember taking Guerlain’s classic Vetiver with me on this trip; its cool, earthy and herbal character spiked with coriander, nutmeg and capsicum complimenting the heat, it resisted the somewhat yeasty air of the city which might turn another fragrance for the sour. Cities have their own scents and some leave an indelible mark on one’s memory. Singapore emits the aroma of freshly baked bread that has been leavened with sourdough starter. The citrusy blast of Vetiver first thing in the morning was akin to putting one’s face in front of an open fridge door with the eager anticipation of finding an unusual snack of green tentacles and savory taste. And usually just that kind of treat did expect us among the many little curiosities hidden inside. The fragrance also managed to keep some semblance of decorum to our glimmering with sweat-beads forehead as we ventured on extended excursions on the nearby islands, the most impressive of which is Sentosa.

Despite its ominous old Malay name of Blakang Mati, which translates as island of the dead, Sentosa is bursting with life in all shapes and forms. Crossing the Harbor Front via air cable cars one is greeted with a vista of the plushest tropical greenery and the most exquisite blossoms. Indeed the brightness of the shade of green is comparable only to the wettest spots of Britain and New Zealand.

There, in the Mandai Garden and in the Botanical Gardens the sight of myriads of colorful orchids interspersed with small lakes holds you in stasis, their scintillating aroma wafting in the moist breeze. A special Orchidarium is devoted to this most erotic-looking bloom with waxy petals. Immersing your nose amidst the stems defies any conceivable expectation. Astonishingly, different kinds of orchids smell of a variety of things. From classic softly vanillic pollen-powdery varieties to the slightly chocolaty Neostylis ‘Sweet Fragrance’, the Cymbidium Ensifolium with its jasmine aroma laced with a twist of lemon and the Maxillaria Tenufolia which possesses a tinge of coconut. That last one allied to complimentary saffron is contributing to the heart accord of Givenchy’s floriental Ange ou Démon, a composition that while not my favorite by any means, highlights the nature of that particular blossom quite well. In fact it was not until I came across the Givenchy fragrance and tested it repeatedly that I realized it reminded me of the tropical odor emanating from an orchid seen long ago yet never identified by name in my mind; until then, that is. But there are also the more displeasing, yet fascinatingly interesting orchid varieties which lure flies instead of bees, such as one which emits the pong of rotten meat and some still which have a peculiar fishy, iodine-like odor.
An evening spent amidst the surprisingly tall orchids, the Tempusu trees and the ginger perennials, (since the Gardens don’t close their doors until midnight) is very close to olfactory intoxication.

To be continued...

Pic via Wikipedia

Travel Memoirs: Arabian Rituals

Encountering other cultures is often revealing of prejudices of one own’s culture. And nowhere is this more apparent than upon glimpsing the fragrant rituals of the Middle East and in particular the Arab world. Immersed in the tradition of aromas, which were brought to Europe through the Crusades, soon opens a vista of a sensuous world. Fragrance is used to augment not only a person’s attraction but also to enhance food, living quarters and personal objects, to give a sense of moral purity and to unite members of a social group. Furthermore, in Islam scent is coupled to beliefs of evil spirits being associated to foul smells, while “the scented person is surrounded by angels”. Fragrance therefore takes on a deeply spiritual meaning, a matter of sanctity or sin, allying one with the forces of good and dispelling evil influences.

Arab people use aromatics in abundance and they revel in expensive materials when they can afford it, but they try to use what they can lay their hands on when they cannot. Women adhere to the motto: “We must use lots of smells”. But contrary to the beastly trail one imagines being left behind, that does not happen in public. An intimate approach is favored: within family and friends or among other women’s company.

In the United Arab Emirates specifically, highly prized are aloe wood (with a price to reflect it of upwards 250$ a pound), saffron, musk, rose, ambergris, jasmine, Arabian jasmine, narcissus, sandalwood, civet, and henna. Oil form is prefered due to its sensual nature and because oil holds fragrance better. Seeds and leaves are grinded into powder to enrich those oils. Arabian women are increasingly appreciating the convenience of Western-style spray fragrances, emulating the Western ideal, yet there is also the belief those smell a little less beautiful due to the intense alcoholic blast out of the sprayer.

Different aromatics are employed for different parts of the body. After a thorough bath, based on the principle that the application of fragrance on unwashed skin invites disease, the ritual begins. The purpose of perfuming is to revel in the scent. Rose, musk and saffron are favored for use all over, while hair benefits from sesame seed or walnut oil, fragranced with essences of ambergris or jasmine. Mkhammariyah is a red-hued mixture of aloe wood, saffron, rose, musk and civet that is put on ears for scenting as well as coloring. The armpits are scented with ambergris or sandalwood, the nostrils with aloe wood, the neck with ambergris, aloe wood, saffron, musk, narcissus and rose.

The rituals become even more elaborate for a wedding: the bride is washed, massaged, oiled and censed with various unguents and lotions. The bridal dress is soaked in water aromatized with rose-water, pepper, saffron and civet and then fumigated with ambergris and musk. A husband says after describing his wife’s scents on her person and her garments: “We men like all scents used but have a preference for musk, ambergris, aloe wood and saffron”*. Arabian men are also catered for: often with the same scents ~ rose, ambergris and particularly aloe wood. They are rubbed on ears, under nostrils, on the palms and smeared on the beard.

Clothes are censed with “fumigation”: washed, dried and then placed on a rack over a big incense burner purposely used for this process. The scent captured by the fabric remains perceptible even after washing, that dense the cloud of smoke is. Darker clothes (usually worn by women) are being censed with aloe wood, musk, ambergris, rose, Arabic gum and sugar, while white clothes (usually worn by men) are only censed with aloe wood for fear of staining.

You can watch the ritual here:



Olfactory pleasures come in gustatory form as well. Food is cooked slowly, with lid on, so as to preserve the aromas of fragrant materials used, resulting in mouth-watering Epicureanism. Spices are highly prized, especially anise, pepper, cinnamon, clove, garlic and ginger. Rose-water, orange-blossom water, cardamom and saffron are recipe ingredients in desserts. Cardamom is used in Arabic coffee and saffron in tea, while both saffron and cardamom oil are often added to milk. Frankincense smoke is sometimes used for drinking water, also useful for disinfecting it, which is arguably the origin of the now archaic tradition. A pot is filled with thick frankincense vapors, then water is poured over it and the lid put back on.

An invitation to an Arab house is occasion for reveling in olfactory pleasures as a means of tightening social ties. Good manners dictate to arrive pleasantly perfumed and to compliment the scents of the house and the food. The end of a meal is a chance to partake in fragrance sharing rituals, which intensifies the group’s sense of unity. A 19th century narration of the process goes thus: “A small square box […] is filled with charcoal or live embers of Ithel and on these are laid three or four small bits of sweet-scented wood. […] Everyone now takes in turn the burning vase, passes it under his beard…next lifts up one after another the corners of his head-gear or kerchief, to catch therein an abiding perfume.”* Currently Arab hostesses bring out fragrances for the guests to savor and put on themselves. The higher quality the scents are, the higher the praise for the hostess when passersby and friends smell the guests leaving from the place of invitation.

The pious aspect of fragrances in the Arab world is reflected in places of holiness and funeral rites.
Mosques are weekly incensed with frankincense for purification and it is an old tradition that musk had been used in the mortar to render a pleasant smell for years to come. I haven’t personally smelled it as such but the literature insists that it was so.
Funerals are held to be scented affairs. The body is washed with water scented with fragrant leaves and then smeared with camphor, sandalwood and saffron oil. On each side a censer, with Arabic gum and frankincense respectively, is placed, while the burial ground is also aromatized with aloe wood sticks sending their fragrant trails to the heavens. However it is interesting to note that although perfuming is lavished on the dead, for this occasion it is reserved for them only: the living do not use perfume as a mark of separation from the realm of the dead and as an external manifestation of mourning.

Recapitulating, it is fascinating to contemplate that fragrance takes on so many aesthetic and moral uses in a rich culture such as the Arabic one. Perhaps the West has still things to get taught.

References:
*1) A.Kanafani “Aesthetics and Ritual in the United Arab Emirates: the Anthropology of Food and Personal Adornment among Arabian Women”, American University of Beirut, 1983 pp.42-90
*2) W.G.Palgrave, “Narrative of a year’s journey through Central and Eastern Arabia”, Macmillan 1866, vol.2, p.26

Artwork "Two Lovers" from the 19th century, via the Hermitage museum. Clip originally uploaded by BBCWomeninBlack (from the homonymous documentary) and kindly sent to me by Kels.

Travel Memoirs: Istanbul part3

Desserts in Turkey take on many aromatic guises in their war-like mission to ruin one's waistline and walking through the marketplace one faces its own portable amunition.
One of the most famous, referenced even in The Chronicles of Narnia, is Turkish Delight: lokum or loukoum. Contrary to what one might be led to believe from homonymous perfumes circulating, such as Rahat Loukoum by Lutens and Loukhoum by Keiko Mecheri, the traditional jelly-like delicasy, lightly dusted so as not to stick, isn't made with almond nor cherry. Instead lokoum is made from starch and sugar and aromatized with rose water and lemon, giving it a refreshing flavour, justifying the Arab name rahat al-hulkum (=contentment of the throat). Varieties might include little cubes with other nuts such as pistachios or walnuts and some types even have a touch of cinnamon or mint aroma.

Another olfactory delight is Salep, a traditional winter drink sold by street vendors in big copper caldrons. Salep is produced by grinding the dried tubers of Orchis mascula, Orchis militaris and related species of orchids, which contain a starch-like polysaccharide, bassorin, with nutritional and heartening properties. It has a reputation of being an aphrodisiac (which might be accounted by the etymology of its plant source, relating it to the Greek word for testicle!). It is milky, flavoured with rosewater or mastic and dusted with cinnamon or nutmeg, to be optionally sprinkled with crushed walnuts on top. Salep enters along with mastic into the traditional Turkish ice-cream, Dondurma, which is much stickier and resistant to melting than regular ice-cream or gelato.

A perfume that has being inspired by this drink is Ayala Moriel's Sahleb. A wonderful comforting fragrance with a starchy pudding quality about it, it gives you the cosy feeling of sipping a dessert rich in buttery creaminess with the aromatic tinge of mastic that recalls the Mediterranean. There is no floral clearly discernible, yet if one leans one's head and inhales deeply, there comes the subtle nuance of the traditional rosy loukoums of the Bazaar, down to the dusty, powdery feel of coconutty copra enrobing them. Vanillic goodness in restrained doses compliments the fluffy and nutty flavour of this softest of gourmands. It makes me nostalgize of the true salep on the streets of Istanbul. Sadly the true thing is forbidden to be exported. But how lucky are we that there is a fix in the form of a fragrance!

After all this indulgence, one needs to come to terms with one's body. When in Rome do as the Romans do. In this Nova Roma, who could deny a Turkish bath? Cagaloglu Hamami is one of the most famous hammams in the city, constructed in 1741 to bring revenue to the library of Sultan Mahmut I, situated inside the Haghia Sophia mosque. It receives both men (from the main street entrace, on Hilal-I Ahmer) and women (from the side street entrance).
Stepping into the various cubicles and rooms with terlik (a kind of slippers) on the feet and a pestemal (clothing wrap), one can see a raised platform of stone (goebektas) in the center, with bathing alcoves all around, in coloured quartz tiles which remove static and help unwind, by sweating and sustaining an internal dialogue. A sight to behold is the pool in the middle of the camegah with its waterjet.
The light is softly filtered through glass from the ceiling in the hot room (Hararet), with small star-like windows on the domes. The air is fragrant with the essences of various unguents and the mind is dizzied into a reverie. The exfoliation with kese is blissful, using lavender, tea, chamomile and olive oil soap. One can bring their own products and Harvey Nichols at 185 Kanyon Alýþveriþ Merkezi provides a rich selection, among which the organic Jo Wood line (by the wife of Ronnie of the Rolling Stones). Amka Bath Oil contains Persian rose Otto, feminine Egyptian jasmine, along with neroli and bergamot for their uplifting effect. Mmmmm...
Next one can require a relaxing massage to recuperate and energise the muscles, which is followed with hair washing and a cold shower, before drinking dark tea, aromatic and dense, at the old marble café-bar. One could get really spoiled in this place!

And yet in the strange, lucid melancholy of such an abode, I cannot help but wonder how many women or men with tragic love tales, unfulfilled desires and bittersweet memories have passed from here through the years, sighing and opening their souls to one another as mussels do when steamed.

Like this most touching tale: A Touch of Spice(Politiki Kouzina). A young Greek boy (Fanis) grows up in Istanbul, whose grandfather, a culinary philosopher and mentor,teaches him that both food and life require a little salt to give them flavor; they both require... a Touch of Spice. Fanis and his parents leave Istnabul during the 1963 deportation of Greeks. He grows up to become an astronomer and an excellent cook using his cooking skills to spice up the lives of those around him. 35 years later he leaves Athens and travels back to his birthplace of Istanbul to reunite with his grandfather and his childhood love, the Turkish girl Saïme, now married with a daughter; he travels back only to realize that he forgot to put a little bit of spice in his own life...



The song (Baharat, tarçın ve buse) translates as:

"That night you left me
you went with a pinch of spice
a shadow inside the marketplace
I laid salt on the streets of Beyoglu
to find you in the hideouts

A kiss of cinnamon and spice,
recipe hidden in the attic
Moonlight and the Bosphorus lonely
That lighthouse is our childhood love"

On that bittersweet note, we will leave the enchanting Istanbul behind...
But Travel Memoirs will take you to another fascinating destination soon.

Loukoums through Fotosearch. Painting In the Trepidarium by Sir Lawrence Alma Tadema (c.1903), originally uploaded on Mary's blog. Clip from the film Politiki Kouzina/A touch of Spice from Youtube, uploaded by JasonSeaman1

Travel Memoirs: Istanbul, part2

Much of the olfactory enjoyment when in Istanbul comes from the culinary exploration of dishes that delight all the senses and make one abandon all expectations of following a diet regime in a flash. It is no accident that the Turkish refer to Culinary Arts when talking about food. The abundance and diversity owing to the rich flora and fauna of the area provide rich culinary escapades for an inquisitive gourmet palate. Babette's Feast with an oriental twist!
And so often food and drink is accompanied by oryantal dancing* to excite the senses even more: One feels like James Bond.



With a nomadic origin back to the first millenium in Central Asia, the Turkish repertoire has been influenced by the Arab, Persian, Greek /Byzantine, Seljuk and French traditions, as well as the Imperial Kitchen of the Ottomans, adding colourful spices and refined techniques. The little balls of delight that are içli kofte with their outer shell of bulgur and minced meat and their filling of pine nuts and spicy minced meat are inducement to a glimpse of heaven. They are chased away with tangy turnip juice. In Imam Bayildi bittersweet aubergines in onion and tomato sauce are sweetly melting into the tava (pan). The name literally means 'the Imam fainted', presumambly with pleasure. My favorite and one I recreate at home is Manti, home-made ravioli-like bites stuffed with minced meat with a yoghurt sauce on top.

Cumin and turmeric are especially prized and used in meat preparations which are roasted (kebap), stewed (yahni) and grilled (külbastı). Their acrid, sweaty flavour enhances the oiliness of onion-marinated meat, accompanying donerli rice pilafs in earthen pots topped with bright sauces to be enjoyed with your commensall. The background of those spices recalls the Arabic tradition of the souk echoed in the Serge Lutens perfumes and indeed this is the place to comprehend their intricasy best. Everything mingles nicely in this melting pot of civilizations: their Iskender Kebab is named after the Persian name for Alexander the Great!

When the weather is warm and the bitter orange trees in Balat are in bloom one can catch whiffs of their honeyed goodness intemingled with the sweet smells of the bakeries meters away. To the East, along the Golden Horn, brings you to Eminonu and the Spice (Egyptian) Bazaar, both old trading districts dating to Byzantium and the Spice Road. The pungent, rich smell leads you by the nose across the stalls of the sellers. Each one in its own heap of bright vermillon, deep mustard and brownish golden, they invite you to lean and take a deep breath with the desire to immerse your hands into the expensive, little red stigmata, yellow-green leaves of lemongrass and brown seeds. I find myself trying to mentally decipher the composition of Safran Troublant, a fragrance by L’artisan Parfumeur composed by Olivia Giacobetti. The natural combo of bitterness and sweetness like that in iodoform, as well as the smooth, pleasant feel of saffron(Crocus cartwrightianus) escape from the bottle like djenies from a middle-eastern tale with merchants and thieves. The same feel accompagnies me in Agent Provocateur where the rose is playing cello to saffron’s basso.
All these references are here dissected with the precision of a surgeon: saffron here, rose petals there, curcuma and turmeric like mustard-coloured dust, and fenugreek for pastırma, a delicasy that is destined for the brave and adventurous.

Pastırma is made from wind-dried cured meat, usually veal. Legend has it that agressive horsemen preserved meat by placing slabs of it in the pockets on the sides of their saddles, where it dried by the pressure of their thighs on the horse (this is also the origin of Steak Tartare). Then dried meat is covered in a paste called çemen comprising crushed cumin, fenugreek, garlic, and hot paprika as well as salt. Pastırma is intensely rich with the aroma of fenugreek (Trigonella foenum-graecum), an herb primarily used as a galactogue for millenia, as well as for cattle food. An opaque, rather bitter smell with a nutty undertone, it traverses the urinary track to scent a person’s urine as well as their sweat and intimate juices. Its seeds’ odour is comparable to thick maple suryp. Fenugreek is featured in many fragrances which have rippled the waters of niche perfumery with pre-eminent examples Sables by Annick Goutal and Eau Noire by Christian Dior (composed by nose Francis Kurkdjian). Everytime I smell them I am reminded of the intense flavour that this spice gives them.

To take the heat off those spicy dishes the Turks have devised the wonderfully refreshing drink Ayran or Airan, a mix of yogurt, water and salt, not too different from traditional Lassi from India. It manages to clean the palate and restore the stomach to its best function.
But the most fascinating of them all is the winter drink Boza, a fermented drink made from bulgur. It tastes tart and is thick as glue. Traditionally served with a dash of cinnamon on top and double roasted chickpeas (called leblebi in Turkish) on the side, it was confided to us by our waiter that it grows the breasts to become bigger! I can't vouch for its effects but it sure makes an impression upon hearing the rumour, doesn’t it?


To be continued with bittersweet romance, hammams and desserts...

Pics through Fotosearch and cafefernando.com. Clip from the film From Russia with Love, courtesy of JamesBondwiki.com

*For you ladies who consider this kind of dancing demeening, please click to see this AMAZING clip!

Travel Memoirs: Istanbul

"The ghosts return at night, little lights for unredeemed souls
And if you gaze up at the barricades, you’ll see figures looking back at you
And it’s then that a complaint wanders you through the cobblestone alleys
Of Constantinople, a lover from yore, whom you find in someone else’s embrace".

~"Vosporos", by Nikos Zoudiaris, sung by Alkinoos Ioannidis

Travel Memoirs begins with one of the most sensuous destinations: Istanbul ~the Ottoman name under which the former capital of the Byzantine Empire, Constantinople, is known today.
Initially the city was named after the Roman emperor Constantine the Great who made it Nova Roma, over the site of the ancient Greek colony founded by Megara citizens simply named Byzantium. Yet the name Istanbul itself is based on the common Greek usage of referring to Constantinople simply as “The City”, because it was the crown jewel of medieval cities with a population and grandeur that exceeded many western European cities, such as London, Paris and Rome, for centuries. It derives from the phrase "εις την Πόλιν" or "στην Πόλη" {(i)stimboli(n)}, both meaning "in the city" or "to the city".

And it is no surprise that in an Empire whose majority of the population was Greek or speaking Greek, there is still a strong Greek element running through the fabric of memory when one sets foot on Istanbul’s soil. But the Ottoman heritage is none the less interesting to witness: minarets and mosques, majestic palaces, bazaars, carpet dealers and salep sellers on the street peppered with excellent cuisine and suggestive dancing render the visitor captive of its charms. It’s this fusion between Occidental and Oriental that gives Istanbul its extraordinary character. A character of strange melancholy: perhaps it’s the ancestral call…

Passing through the arabesque cobblestone on Istiklal across from the fish market, one enters the Cukurcuma district, full of antique shops, lazy cats sunning their bellies and the aroma of slowly roasted, dark coffee on hot sand, Turkish coffee (Türk kahvesi), made the traditional way. The preparation begins by boiling finely powdered roast coffee beans in a copper ibrik, the shape of a tiny ewer, with the addition of cardamom and (optionally) sugar. The thick liquid boils and boils again ceremoniously, emitting the aroma beyond the scope of the little terraces where it is served. Made one cup (fildžan) at a time, where the dregs settle and a thick golden cream forms on top, the köpük, it is a process of slow anticipation, a largo of animation. And also a journey into the past and the future. In this small fildžan I can almost glimpse the Levantine Arabs bringing the fruit of coffea bush to Constantinople. The Ottoman chronicler İbrahim Peçevi reports the opening of the first coffeehouse in İstanbul:

“Until the year 962 (1554-55), in the High, God-Guarded city of Constantinople, as well as in Ottoman lands generally, coffee and coffeehouses did not exist. About that year, a fellow called Hakam from Aleppo and a wag called Shams from Damascus, came to the city: they each opened a large shop in the district called Tahtalkala, and began to purvey coffee.”

~ Cemal Kafadar, "A History of Coffee", Economic History Congress XIII (Buenos Aires, 2002)

But I can also forsee the future: those sludgy grounds left at the bottom serve for tasseography, an old tradition of fortune telling. The cup is turned onto the saucer and the symbols formed are deciphered by some older woman.The flavour of cardamom and sometimes kakule (pistachio grains whole seed "pods", pistachio-looking like of the cardamom plant) settles in the mouth, lingering for a long time, like the prophecies revealed by the symbols on the cup. “Will they ever come true?”, one wonders gallivanting through the medieval alleys.



In Kapali Carci (the Grand Bazaar with the 1000 shops) one comes across all kinds of scented products. Fragrant balms for the hair, henna paste for body and hair, oils of rare plants and fossilised resins, like lumps of gum benjamin (benzoin), Turkish sweetgum (Liquidabar orientalis) and all the spices of Arabia. If one persists there are manuscripts, or should I say copies of old manuscripts posing as older than they are, with recipes using them. One of them is "Theriaca Andromachi Senioris", a Venice treacle recipe that uses benzoin appearing in the 1686 d'Amsterdammer Apotheek, a honey- or molasses-based alexipharmic composition once thought to be effective against venom. First developed in Italy, then exported throughout Europe from Venice and ending in Constantinople. If only the offered manuscript were authentic…

And of course there is Anatolian rose Otto (from Ottoman) which leaves an intense trail of almost fruity scent to one’s hands after handling the precious little bottles, with the name Gül (Rose) written on the label. I try to recall if any commercial fragrance captures the intense, decadent and yet also fresh odour of such an essence and come up with none. One is hard pressed not to haggle with the local sellers who are expecting so and the little treasure is secured into a handbag, folded with a silk handkerchief depicting seagulls. It will linger in a drawer with old, frayed photos of ancestors, impregnating their precious memory with the essence of the place they begrudgingly had to leave.



To be continued....

Pic shows Ortaköy Mosque (officially Büyük Mecidiye Camii, the Grand Imperial Mosque of Sultan Abdülmecid) and the Bosphorus Bridge by cafefernando.com.
Translation of lyrics by the author.
Clip from the intro of Greek-Turkish film Politiki Kouzina, uploaded on Youtube by JasonSeaman1.

Travel Memoirs begin

By popular vote, Travel Memoirs will be the subsequent theme running through the next posts. We will traverse the length and breadth of the globe in search of olfactory memories and scent associations and you're all invited in this virtual journey of reminiscence and nostalgia.

One of the major pleasures of travelling is getting to know a different culture and imbuing oneself into the different sensory stimuli at hand. I was never a tourist who ~camera at hand and jockey on head~ would go after the designated sights and frantically check shops and lists with things to do. I believe in savouring the journey, mingling with the locals and slackening the tempo of life till it approximates that of the place itself.

In the first instalment of Travel Memoirs, I am going to focus on the exotic carpet of civilizations that is Istanbul and the Golden Horn and recount the olfactory tittilation that a visitor is bound to experience.

Stay tuned!

London Calling...part 3

If on the previous post I talked about the opportunity of a hand and arm massage being rather uncommon to encounter in a perfume boutique, it is with regularity that one encounters the practice at another bastion of British skinscentsa-experience, that of Jo Malone. That’s only to be expected of course from someone who began as a facialist working with her hands, mixing to the degree that seemed right to her, as well as coming from a lineage in the profession. And up until the acquisition of the firm by Estee Lauder, Jo herself was seen at the boutiques getting involved in the process.
Today only the flagship store is controlled by Jo, per info divulged by the manager.The rest of the boutiques are controlled by the Lauder Group, remaining nevertheless totally respective to Jo’ vision for the line.

What is most pleasing about the Jo Malone boutiques is the presentation and stylish interiors. The walls are painted in ivory reflecting the shade of the luxurious boxes and thick paper bags, etched in black, with grosgrain black ribbon to match. It just looks the opposite of ostentatious; it’s really stylish, unaffected, old money style yet with a certain modern worldliness about it that other brands aiming at such miss. I can see a young at heart, busy and self-fulfilled, about town woman carrying the little tote bags filled with gifts for family, the glorious candles for the home (which burn exceptionally well and do scent the whole house) and a couple of bath and body products for herself. The lotions do lend a new meaning to the notion of self-pampering, they’re so velvety soft.
The shelves in the stores are spacious and inviting, beckoning you to lean closer and smell the testers with the lovely scents. There is an apothecary style of presentation, done however in light and bright hues that give off the modern edge I mentioned.

Going into the cornucopia of scents comprising the line, one is spoilt for choice, as there is apparently something for everyone. The notion of combining scents to produce a third, personal one is at the core of the brand and it is something that allows individualism to an extent, always a good thing in my books.

The one basic gripe I often hear about Jo Malone scents is that they are not very lasting and that this is due to them being “colognes”. With that in mind I tackled the manager with a direct approach aimed at producing the “deer caught in the headlights” effect which might have made me persona non grata in the store had the British good manners not surfaced and a smart managing direction not prevailed. No, my question was not rude or impertinent, it seemed. This was often voiced and they had a perfectly valid explanation. The fragrances in the Jo Malone line are really of eau de toilette (and in some cases even eau de parfum) strength, however the eau de cologne tag was chosen to denote that the products are really meant to be shared, being unisex, so as not to alienate the male customer venturing into the store. Phrased like that it does make sense, although I have to admit that the lasting power is greatly dependent on the specific fragrance chosen, as some seem to go on for hours, while others vanish in a “puff the magic dragon” instant.

As the whole line is available where I live quite easily I wasn’t temped into actual purchases, so the whole purpose of the exercise was to really get the feel of the shop, talk to the manager and get info for our readers concerning aspects of the brand. To the interests of the latter issue I tentatively asked what the bestsellers are. The artsy types go for Pomegranate Noir, I was told, with its deep and brocade-like tapestry of rich hues and sweet and sour fruits, while the more traditional women go for Red Roses.

Contrasted to my local boutique bestsellers, which the manager had revealed to be Orange Blossom and Honeysuckle & Jasmine (those are both very likeable and suited to warmer temperatures), I saw that there is substance to the notion of choices based on climate. However Pomegranate Noir is the perennial favourite for the winter season.
Men often go for the traditional Amber and Lavender and Vetyver. I think although the former is rather mainstream and not very exciting, it does blend pleasing sides of both notes. Vetyver I found not to my liking, I’m sad to report. Rather discordant.

From the choices before me I really appreciated again the slight spiciness of Vintage Gardenia, which makes it unique in the universe of gardenias, even if not as realistically accurate as the one by Yves Rocher or the new Private Collection Tuberose Gardenia by Estee Lauder. Blue agave and cacao is slightly salty and has a rather bitter edge that is very welcome in the heat.

One thing I came across that you won’t be coaxed into relying solely on the recommendations of the catalogue or the site is the marvelous combination of the woodiness of masculine 154 cologne and Red Roses: the effect is vaguely reminiscent of Voleur de Roses by L’artisan, with a different enough tonality to it, that is more sandalwood rich but with the earthy touch of vetiver instead of patchouli. Neat!



Next post will offer a glimpse of greatness...

Pics courtesy of Jo Malone site

Arabian Attars: a journey to the mundane?

A while ago, I got a very kind invitation by Janet (Spadefoot) from Perfume of Life to review some Arabian attars which she had brought with her back from Yemen.
She told me that she would be pleased if I reviewed them. So, as promised, here it is.

The little package came with a postcard created by Janet herself: a great sketch of a tourist photographing two muslim women wearing the chador and humouring the photographer with playful gestures to one another. She had written on it: “Enjoy the journey” with a wide, sweeping handwriting that denotes artistic tendencies and expressive personality.
The little box that held the perfumes was a sight: bright vermillion and purple, painted by her on a box which seemed to be an Altoids tin in a previous incarnation. I found this so fitting; a humble box that would hold humble –maybe- perfumes, but full of brightness and confidence. Not an Ali-Baba cave, full of costly treasure, but a journey to the everyday. This touched me; simple, poor, honest people are just as entitled to the mythical, the chimerical, the fantasy.

The perfumes were all in oil form, thick and viscous, in varying colours that capture one’s fancy like the multicoloured crayons in a Caran d’Ache box catch the fascination in a child’s eye. The word Attar refers traditionally to distillations of vegetal materials into sandalwood or sesame oil, used mainly in India. It could also be applied to more modern perfumes in oil form, as I have experienced in Middle Eastern perfumes before. These are not exactly natural extracts, but that is beside the point in an international industry that increasingly uses mostly synthetics in its products. In fact many of the “attars” smell natural enough to me. The texture meant that although they seem very concentrated and potently harsh at first, they mellow nicely on the skin, not evolving in the classical pyramid of French perfumery that relies on gradual evaporation, but remaining close to the conceived theme of each one, only allowing their more volatile ingredients to exit noiselessly.
I do not know who makes those compositions, which made my olfactory adventure all the more exciting.

This introduction to my fragrant journey reminded me in turn of the Iranian film director Abbas Kiarostami and his films dealing with the mundane becoming philosophical. In particular A taste of cherry (Ta'm e guillas-1997) and Where is the friend's house? (Khane-ye doust kodjast? -1987). In the former a man is intent on committing suicide traveling all over the country, meeting people along the way and conversing, only to change his mind upon encountering an old man who was about to do the same but says the taste of cherry saved his life. In the latter a small boy is furtively searching the streets of the city, gaining experiences meanwhile, in pursuit of his schoolmate’s house in order to deliver his workbook that he had secretly borrowed, without which on the morrow his mate will be expelled from classes.
In this little non-heroic Odyssey I found the measure of my inspiration: imagine if a mature woman went through the streets of Yemen, this time, in pursuit of something else, savouring the tastes and smells along the way.

Arbitrarily I decided to baptise her Jasmin, an Arabian name of both the sweet little flower that is my favourite bloom and of women. Her true nature hidden by the conventional façade of an arranged marriage that had given her a family.

To quote Rabindranath Tagor (an indian poet)

“Yet my memory is still sweet with the first white jasmines
which I held in
my hands when I was a child.”

She would have an honest hard-working husband and kind children, friends and acquaintances. She would be tender, motherly, a little shy, a little wistful. She would smell of Abu Younis, honouring thus the losses of her youth. A light golden liquid like cloudy honey dribbling over lovers’ skin, like living things giving off their juice, smelling of citrus on the top like lime/lemon with a sharp greenness, segueing into a heart of rich and tender rose. She would evoke the nuance of a noble floral chypré with just a touch of the male in there, perhaps due to some incense or balsam (so ingrained in the Arabian tradition), to give a melancholic aspect of a long lost love that was not meant to be.

It would be a haphazard meeting with an old acquaintance that would remind her of that long lost love. Her gossipy, flamboyant, female friend would smell of Wejdan.
Golden ambery in colour it is fruity with peaches and plums, some bittersweet heliotropin in there and maybe even orange blossom, sweet vanillic ambery in the fond with just a touch of the animalic; this one would be the least Arabic in that cornucopia of smells that is an Arabian perfume shop recalling in fact a bastard L’heure bleue with its equally bittersweet background crossed with the very sweet nature of Jean Paul Gaultier Classique. That’s one acquaintance to either love or hate.
A passing mention of a man now ill, terminally ill, a man that had been the secret passion of Jasmin long ago, would set the latter upon a spontaneous one-day journey to the end of the town to bid him perhaps the last goodbye.

In her mental eye the woman Jasmin could have been beside him would be different, best represented by the whitish yellow of Shaikha: full of floral notes of a carnal and feminine nature such as lush jasmine that scents the alleys of middle eastern towns with its sweet fragrance during the balmy nights and exotic ylang ylang flowers touched with a little acrid wood and maybe a touch of leather; sensual, joyful , exalted. In this rendition the two flowers are intense and Arabian in nature; what Lutens might have come up with, not Guerlain. Perhaps not as complex, but uplifting and bright.

Her next stop would be at the mosque. Mosques are beautiful things, creatures of myth, tabulae for the arabesque word of spirituality. The majestic one in Cordoba is breathtaking. Yemen, I am sure, has many beautiful ones as well. The air is thick with incense, the walls sweat pure musk, ingrained as it is in the mortar by local craftsmen. And the mustiness of centuries would be a reminder of our own mortality. Although not musky to my nose, Shayma’a was my olfactory choice for that stop on Jasmin’s journey. It has a decidedly musty and herbal opening with a balsamic quality later on that recalls both frankincense and sweeter Peru Balsam. The rose is also making an appearance as it is so precious to muslims to appear almost everywhere, representing their tradition and unifying spirituality and sensuality in its thick petals.
The scent of wood is also prevalent, making this one a very complex and intriguing alloy that can be worn by both sexes who are willing to try something different.

Prayer though only being able to do so much, Jasmin would have to leave the mosque behind her as well. On to the streets through the souk she would bypass the rich reddish yellow of saffron and the dark brown of clove, dates and raisins wrinkling up in the heat, the proximity of numerous human bodies in all their olfactory glory, but also the smells of Maysoon and Zamani. Both of these are completely lovable, simple creations encompassing pleasing and agreeable notes that are more traditional and acceptable by a Western idiosyncrasy.
Maysoon is a light golden liquid with the playful, pretty, juicy smell of roses and violet leaves, with a fruity touch, insinuating perhaps the added use of damascones (which are naturally occurring in rose anyway); a sweet concoction for a young lady that is smiling behind her chador/yashmak, hinting with kholed eyes at a desire for private frivolity expressed by the background of some sandalwood oil. I see a street vendor trying to sell this to Jasmin herself, only to be rejected politely, and being asked for something for her young daughter instead.
Enter Zamani, a yellowish oil of lightness and zing that is owed to expressed peel of lemon coupled with the sharp note of petigrain perhaps, smelling like squashed lemon leaves, with pepper and another spicy note (which sadly eludes me), soaring into uplifting octaves of lightness and air, cutting through the heat of the Arabian landscape. I can very well see her buying that last one and her daughter smiling while playing dress-up in the small mirror on the stucco-ed wall. I see even her brother stealing drops of it when going out to flirt the veiled young ladies with his eyes.

As she would make her way through the market streets, tourists browsing and forgetting to haggle with the locals, she would change the itinerary to pass through less crowded places, allowing herself to glimpse through windows, catching women darning their husbands’ socks, children playing with frogs or chasing pitiful, dirty little dogs, men smoking the narguilé in silence lost in reverie, even a young bride getting dressed in the best cloth affordable by the family, anointed with Haneen al-Qulub in eager preparation. This oil of rich yellow was one of my favourites. I could see why the delicate young bride would wear it; soft, powdery, like a classic aldehydic perfume, rather sweet but not too much, it has the fizzy rush of someone embarking on an exciting adventure, oblivious to possible trouble; optimistic yet grounded with a little suede note hiding a budding sexuality. The more one wears it, the more it blends in to the natural smell of skin baked in the sun, imperceptible, yet still there, sensual and feminine, warm and inviting.

Diverting her eye and the melancholy such a sight would naturally produce in a woman who entered an arranged marriage, Jasmin would carry on to the little sweet shop in the edge of the town, in close proximity to her youth’s would-be-lover who had remained only the stuff of dreams and what-ifs all these years.
There she would purchase local variation loukhoums, smelling sweetly a bit like Mokhalat al Sed’ae. The white-gold of the liquid is watery like the airy flower-water of diluted neroli in the recipe of loukhoums, almondy like their flavour, rosy like the powderiness dusting sugar leaves on the palate, with the innocence of a white rose, like cherry pits in maraschino, yet not exactly gourmand in the sense we are accustomed to, neither exactly like loukhoum, but I wanted to fit this anyway I guess.
I liked the perfume oil a lot, I have to admit.

(By the way, to make loukhoums according to my recipe, one
would need 2 cups sugar, 1/8 teaspoon salt, ½ cup hot water,all of which one
would boil to thick syrup. One would then need to mix 2 tablespoons powdered
gelatin in ½ cup water separately and after a while add it to the hot syrup. To
that one would add ½ cup orange juice or flower water, 2 tablespoons lemon
juice, optionally 2/3 cup almond whites -roasted and cut coarsely- and ½
teaspoon bitter almond or rose essence. One would then pour into a wide pan,
refrigerate for 6 hours and when firm cut in little squares and roll onto
dusting sugar.)

Armed with loukhoums, to sweeten bitter memories of involuntary parting for the second time, Jasmin would call upon Karim (the imaginary name I devised for the ill man). He would be alone, deserted, with only a nurse to look after him. His tired face would alight upon finding out who the matronly lady was. Years had passed so quickly, only to stall in illness now.
After a few exchanges, he would direct her silently to an old chest of drawers squeaking when used. It smelled of aged Oudh. Old, musty, mouldy, the way a cold crypt would smell hiding bones of the holy or the unholy, it didn’t even matter by then… The dark thick oil that was named after that precious wood (which also comes by the name of oud, aoudh, aloewood or agarwood ) is dark brown, a singular colour for a perfume oil. Unusual and unfriendly, it would be very hard to wear alone, as if demons were festering a tortured body. And yet, it is an ingredient of so many fine perfumes it makes one wonder how the demonic can be rendered sublime.
In the words of Françoise Sagan:

"Doesn't perfume derive its beauty from that sensation of a time that doesn't
flow, but soars? Everything in this world is but smoke.”

To the bottom drawer, unused for years it seemed, under numerous yellowed papers she unearthed a little box; bright vermillion and purple. Inside it a man’s once-upon-a-time perfumed handkerchief holding a dried up remnant of a rose, smelling the way Taif smells. Rather musty and chypré, it has the vicious colour of absinthe, the green fairy of the damned poets’ soul. Its bitterness and mysterious smoky leather envelops the floral, its musty like vetiver background is reminiscent of the eponymous liquor too in its controversial reputation.

She instantly knew. That was her parting gift, her memento. No words were necessary. The long journey home awaited her.

I don’t know if “the taste of cherry” could save a desperate man’s life. It seems unlikely. It could certainly enrich a woman’s experience however and I am honoured I tasted it through that imaginary woman thanks to Spadefoot’s generosity.