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.

Habanita (Molinard, 1921)

Some time ago, I wrote a very mean post about a small perfumery in Havana. My fellow Smellbound blogger Violet Kolinsky, who has a soft spot for the workers, has been cross with me ever since: apparently, the people in the shop might see it and get upset. Bearing in mind the state of internet access in Cuba, this seems unlikely. Still, I love Cuba and its people very much, and for that reason the subject of today’s sermon will be the ultimate classic of Cuban scent: Molinard’s timeless Habanita.

The eagle-eyed among you may have noticed that Molinard is, in fact, a French perfume house. Quite so, but Habanita – meaning ‘woman from Havana’ – is much more than a Cuban-inspired perfume. More perfectly than any other fragrance I can think of, Habanita captures the essence of a city. If you have ever been in Havana, one sniff will send you straight back. The evocation is startling, all the more so because Habanita is 87 years old.

Bearing in mind that most people have not been in Havana, some sort of florid description may be called for. Imagine if you will (or Google image search if you won’t) a Spanish colonial town of breathtaking elegance. Every street is lined with a jumble of buildings, each with its own individual and charming architectural features. Now imagine that city surrounded by the azure waters of the Caribbean, fringed with palms, and suffused with sun and heat, brought down to a balmy temperature by the sea breeze. Now imagine that there has been a long period of dictatorship followed by Communist revolution. All these beautiful buildings have slowly decayed and tumbled down. They have been propped up in imaginative ways, and repainted in haphazard colours or with murals of socialist heroes versus American villains.

Along the main boulevards are the grand old mansions that house Havana’s cigar factories. Inside cool, dark rooms, at antique desks, sit dozens of men and women, selecting tobacco leaves, stripping out the stems, artfully twisting them into cigars and packing them into blocks.

All these things are captured by Habanita, even though the Communist revolution happened almost four decades after it was created. The first note is a sweet, sharp slap of cured tobacco leaf with a sort of synthetic-preservative edge, something like formaldehyde. I’m not sufficiently familiar with the process of cigar manufacture to confirm precisely what it is, but it’s exactly the same smell that fills the ground-floor chambers of the Partagas tobacco factory, where sweating, muscular men unwrap and thrash the enormous bundles of leaves.

Soon, the edge softens and Habanita’s heart comes out. And that heart is peach. My weakness for peach is a rare exception to the general disdain in which I hold all non-citrus fruit scents. I had a brief passion for Aqaba, which was only partly influenced by Lawrence of Arabia. I know peach is a lab-created note, not a natural distillation. And Habanita has been reformulated, so it is even less natural-smelling than it used to be. No matter. The synthetic peachy smell is just that of the cheap perfumes and cosmetics worn by the cigar-rolling workers upstairs in the factory.

Inevitably at this point on the tour, someone trots out that tired line about cigars being ‘rolled on the thighs of virgins.’ The workers’ sex lives are none of my business, but they do indeed roll cigars on their thighs, on leather aprons; and, right on cue, Habanita brings in its leathery base note, sinking gently into an exotic, languorous blend of patchouli and amber.

Habanita is a perfume of imaginative genius, and its brash, synthetic edge is all part of the appeal. Famously, it was first sold to scent cigarettes. To use a delightful expression from another part of the Caribbean, the sort of women who scented their cigarettes in 1921 didn't got no behaviour at all. Havana, and Habanita, are about heat, smoking, and sin.

As the sun goes down over Habana Vieja, the tobacco workers come out into the streets to drink mojitos, smoke Cohibas and dance salsa under the winsome gaze of a mural of Che Guevara. It's going to be a long night.

Tom Ford For Men (Tom Ford, 2007)

Tom Ford For Men is Mr. Ford's company's first foray into the world of male perfumery. Together with knowledge of the perfume's title, the print ads (see above) suggest one of two things. One, this perfume smells of lady's undercarriage or, two, smelling of this scent will gain one access to a lady's undercarriage. Given the staggeringly nonsexual smell of the fragrance I must assume it is option two that Mr. Ford's advertising agency is attempting to persuade us is in prospect. That said, returning to the advertisement for a moment, quite who would like to spend any intimate time with a hairless, oiled up anorexic I cannot imagine, certainly no-one with a penchant for sensual delights. And perhaps that's just it, here is a perfume aimed at people who like to think of themselves as deeply sexual and sensual but actually aren't, they need to be explicitly sold a product which puts vagina and perfume in as close physical proximity as mainstream publishing will allow to get through their heads: "Oh this is the sexy one. This one will get me laid". They must lack the capacity (or interest perhaps) to smell the array of profoundly sexy smells that perfumers have created to delight our noses, summon our blood and stiffen our sinews. What kind of mind sees this advert and buys this scent I wonder? It can only be someone for whom the vapid objectification of women, the rendering of the act of sex itself in its most artificial manner combined with the removal of any passion or emotion appeals. There is no humanity, no warmth and no sensuality. I don't doubt that people exist who get their kicks from such empty idolatry but marketing to them makes me almost speechless with anger and disappointment at my fellow males.

Returning to the product itself I had personally hoped, given the photo (setting aside social and political objections for a moment), that it might smell of ladies' undercarriages but my disappointment in finding that it did not was as nothing compared to the disappointment that it did not stir the slightest twitch of excitement in my nether regions. There are so many scents competing in this perfume that it is almost as if the perfumer, unsure of what Mr. Ford wanted for his first masculine fragrance, decided to put them all in just in case. Allow me to list them for you: citrus, lemon leaf oil, bergamot, mandarin zest, basil, violet leaves, ginger, orange blossom, black pepper, tobacco leaf, grapefruit blossom, amber, cedar, patchouli, vetiver, oakmoss, leatherwood and cypriol. It is the latter that all the fuss is being made over. Mr. Ford has commented that cypriol, a root from India, is the vital ingredient that gives, "that slightly dirty, sensual, sexy smell...It's not the same as natural musk used to be, but it has a bit of something that some people would think slightly dirty...I think it's warm and sensual." I think it's insipid and weak: semi-skimmed musk at best. To be honest, to my nose the scent it recalls most is that cheap soap that Boots used to sell, the allegedly unperfumed sort that instead had a slightly soap flakes kind of pong to it, not acrid nor pine-fresh clean but still a long way from a dirty tussle in some damp sheets. This scent has no libido at all; I really can't find anything animalic in this fragrance. Actually looking back at the compendious list of ingredients, the reason I can't get any sexy animal scent is because there is indeed no sexy animal ingredient to be found. And here is where this fragrance falls apart for me given the pure sex hyperbole of the advertising.

There is nothing offensive about the perfume itself, it is quite clean and fresh smelling, there is a hint of Earl Grey in amongst the citrus and gentle spices. But musk? No sir, nary a hint. This is no perfume to widen the nostrils; it would suffice for meeting ,and not frightening, an elderly maiden aunt perhaps, but not one's paramour. The deliciously sexy Musc Ravageur from Editions de Parfums which, despite Mr. Ford's placement of musk in the past tense, is positively engorged with the stuff is described thus on their website, "No flowers, just a refined and exalted skin scent." And that's what you need to get you horny. Lemons, violets and bergamot all have their places (in a martini, the garden and Earl Grey tea for example) but it is the smell of sweat and human skin that is arousing and Tom Ford For Men lacks any sense of it.