Bond No. 9 boutique, 9 Bond Street, New York

There are a lot of clichés about American perfumery. Americans like to smell clean, while everyone else in the world likes to smell dirty; American perfumes are all about things you can eat, mostly fruit but occasionally coffee, chocolate or cake; the United States produces a lot of smells, but has yet to produce a truly great fragrance house. Bond No. 9 aims to challenge all of these.

But does it succeed?

Hmm.

I spent a long time in the flagship store, fighting off some supercilious assistants, all armed with that overtrained, po-faced, robotic sales patter that some American corporations seem to think the customer would like more than talking to an actual responsive human with a personality, a sense of humour and some opinions.

Bodes badly, right?

Right.

I see the Bon-Bon Box (above) in the window, What a lovely thing! How shiny! Lots of little smells, beautifully packaged! An ideal gift for Violet, Beverly or Mr Atrocity! I sally forth to the testing counter to poke my nose into their business.

Chinatown is supposed to be Bond's truly great scent, so that's where I start. And, yes, it's good. A complex, intelligent peach'n'patchouli oriental that manages to be elegant and pleasing at every stage. But that's it. Pleasing. I am pleased. There's nothing about Chinatown that challenges or surprises me. It is chic and polished, and as it progresses goes through a formal, controlled, unobjectionable sequence. It's a lot like the sales assistants.

It's good, all right? And there's something alluring about perfect poise. But I can't find it in my heart - or, for that matter, my nose - to love something so very orderly. So very safe.

Next I try Andy Warhol Silver Factory, one of a range inspired by the artist. Again, it's good. A smart, careful balancing of Warhol's favourite smells: violet, incense and woods. It dries down to something nice. It is nice. I am pleased. I might be even more pleased than I was with Chinatown. And yet my heart rate is unchanged.

I look bored. "This is our bestseller," monotones the assistant, spraying me with a cloud of something purple called The Scent of Peace. Horrific name, and horrific... at last! Something that produces a reaction! Unfortunately, that reaction is sneezing, because I'm being drowned in grapefruit! Look, if I wanted to smell like The Body Shop, I wouldn't have to spend $130 on a bottle. And that's the small size. (They vary. Silver Factory comes in at a whopping $230.)

I plead for something less like bath gel, and a succession of spicies is paraded in front of me: Nuits de Noho (vanilla/patchouli), Great Jones (cedar), Wall Street (lavender/vetiver), HOT Always (cinnamon/bergamot). They're all fine. Great Jones is very fine. I sniff it again. Yes, very fine. I am pleased.

It's very hard to object to any of them. Except they're so... thin. There's no body, no sensuousness, no emotion.

Tom Wolfe, in that quintessential New York novel Bonfire of the Vanities, describes a certain type of socialite women. These women are ageing but heavily into artificial preservation, rail-thin, perfectly blowdried and manicured: simultaneously satirising their appearance and their brittle vapidity, he calls them "social X-rays".

I bet the social X-rays love Bond No. 9.

I stumbled back on to the street, outwardly pleased but inwardly disappointed, my wallet no lighter. Bond No. 9 makes a very tasteful range of well-produced scents. If you wear one (pretty much any one, apart from that horrible Peace thing), you will project an aura of immaculate luxury, and you won't offend anyone.

That's just not what I'm after in a perfume. But, then again, I am a European.

L'Officina Profumo Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella

朝聖大廳, originally uploaded by Alanmei.

Like everything in Florence, L'Officina Profumo Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella is massively, almost painfully over-decorated with frescoes, statues and patterns. Officially founded in 1612 - although in production from 1221 - this is one of the world's oldest pharmacies, housed in a stunning 14th century monastery on the Via della Scala. The Dominican friars concocted potions using herbs grown in the monastery garden, for use in the infirmary, and thus the pharmacy was born.

The pharmacy is gorgeous beyond compare, with room after room, each more glorious than the one before, crammed with bell jars and flasks and distillation equipment. In glass cabinets sit countless bottles of lotions and potions: a rose tincture for tired eyes, a vinegar ('Vinegar of the Seven Thieves') for fainting fits, an infused water for hysterical women (incidentally, they've changed the label on this one. It just says, mysteriously, 'Santa Maria Novella Water'). There are soaps, incenses, foot lotions, mouthwashes, candles and pretty much everything else, none of which seems to have been updated since the days of mediaeval medicine.

The colognes themselves number about fifty, and I would have tried them all were it not for the typically aloof Florentine staff. The bottles aren't out on display so you have to ask for each fragrance individually by name, and the staff tend to go and serve somebody else between each sniff. Having asked, in broken Italian, to try about ten fragrances, I started to feel a bit awkward and like I should really buy something. Which is, presumably, exactly what they're aiming for. I found the majority of the scents a bit boringly single-note: the rose smells like rose, the violet smells like violet, the vetiver smells like vetiver. I assume these products started out as medicinal extracts which would explain why they haven't been blended, but it can be a little disappointing to smell the topnote and realise that nothing else is coming. Exceptions to this were Amber and Hay, both of which we ended up buying. The Amber starts like a combination of tar and a warm hearth after a wood fire, eventually maturing to amber and then to formaldehyde; the Hay is a lovely, rosy green scent, like a meadow in spring.

If you find yourself in Florence then make sure to visit L'Officina Profumo Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella, but maybe buy the fragrances from one of their other shops around the world. Preferably from a shop that lets you get at the bottles.