A Feast of Scents: Royal Apothic Giveaway

The email arrived out of the blue in March of 2009.

Hi There,

I am getting ready to launch a new home fragrance company. Would you mind if I used one of your pics of the London garden in a post on my blog? One of my fragrances captures the scent and the image is exactly what inspired me.

Best,
Sean

("A Cutting Garden", Luminarie candle)

Of course I said yes. And thus the foundation was laid for the beginning of a delightful friendship between Sean O'Mara, perfumer and founder of Royal Apothic, and me. We traded emails, we met for lunch and I found myself drawn deeper and deeper into the tale of how his business was founded when the past reached out its dusty fingers to him...

"On a sabbatical in London, I came upon a book tucked high upon a shelf in a forgotten Notting Hill antique stall. This hidden treasure revealed itself to be an apothecary manual from the 18th century. Listed within its pages were the formulas of concoctions created for many of the great monarchies of Europe."

Is that like a plot point out of "Great Expectations" or what? As a former beauty industry veteran, Sean immediately grasped that his discovery was game-changing. Realizing he could tie his own expertise into the formulas, he returned to Los Angeles, began duplicating the fragrances listed in the manual and presto, Royal Apothic was born.

("Firewood" and "Black Walnut" extracts, The Extract Collection)

I knew the company was going to be a success as soon as I tested out the scents and candles that Sean gave me to try at lunch one day. (I wasn't alone. Just last month, Royal Apothic won Best of Show at the New York International Gift Fair.) From its launch last year, the line has now expanded to include interior scents, eau de parfum and single fragrance roll-on extracts (which you can mix and match to create your own bespoke scent).

Herewith, a few of my faves...

Distillation of: Edwardian Fireplace mingles white birch cinders, smoke plumes, clove and amber in a blend so redolent of a certain time and place that I swear I rushed to my bookcase in search of my battered copy of "Howard's End." According to Sean, this scent has become a cult fragrance and sells out immediately whenever it appears in stores.

("Edwardian Fireplace" Interior Perfume)

Although Sean's inspiration for the Violette Pastille single note extract comes from the candies his grandmother always used to carry in her purse, for me it brought a completely different Proustian flashback - that of a little troll doll with purple hair I had as a child in Sweden. The doll's hair was faintly scented with something that all these years I've never been able to pinpoint...until now. It was violet. Fresh, subtle and ever so slightly shy.

("Violette Pastille", "Green Tea" and "Hydrangea" extracts,

The Extracts Collection)

But it's Distillation of: Mulholland Drive that made a hero out of me. I placed it on the table in my foyer and when my husband came home from work, he said, "What is that? That's the best candle I've ever smelled."

When I told Sean that he managed to elicit a positive comment about a candle from a straight man (which must be some kind of record), he said it's because it exactly captures the scent of Los Angeles.

"I took a field trip to The Arboretum and asked the botanic experts which scents defined Los Angeles. They told me the Santa Ana winds come down from Santa Barbara carrying the scent of the ocean, pick up notes of eucalyptus as they wind their way through the forests, head downtown and then circle back to grab night-blooming jasmine from the hills. All these elements are in my candle."

The Royal Apothic Giveaway

Sean has offered one lucky reader of "A Bloomsbury Life" a set of four candles from his brand-new collection, available exclusively at Anthropologie.

The set includes one each of the following candles (pictured above; for more information, click on the links below):

Distillation of: Venetian Grove

- a fresh pick of orange tree blossoms, currants and rose leaves -

Compound of: Cutting Garden

- gardenias, jasmine, lily and tuberose with a light base of fern -

Attar of: Santorini Fig

- earthy, green, woodsy and fruity notes of fig -

Distillation of: Mulholland Drive

- a seaside breeze of eucalyptus and night-blooming jasmine -

The winner will be announced on Monday, October 25th. To enter, just leave me a comment on this post (only one entry per person, please) by midnight October 24th and I'll use a random number generator to determine whose lucky day it's going to be.

Editor's Update:

Sean just emailed me that he's also giving a 20% discount on Royal Apothic online to all readers of this blog. Just type in "bloomsburylife" at checkout, and you're good to go. (The giveaway candles are exclusive to Anthropologie, but there are lots of amazing things to buy online, as you'll soon discover.) Thank you, Sean!

Camping at the Kemps

When I was in London in August, we switched it up and stayed at the Knightsbridge Hotel, part of Tim and Kit Kemp's Firmdale Group (they own the Covent Garden Hotel and the newly opened Crosby Street Hotel in New York, among others). It's a stunner of a place, small, discreet and tucked into a leafy court just steps away from Harrod's. Designed by Kit Kemp in her signature English eccentric style, it was filled with so many inspiring details that the memory capacity of my Nikon SLR was sorely tested.

One detail that especially struck me was this lovely use of grosgrain ribbon to border the turquoise wallpaper in the hallways.

(Ribbon detail, Knightsbridge Hotel)

It's a great example of how a small detail can add textural finish to a pattern in the same way that contrast piping adds sharpness to a cushion.

Editor's Note: I had no idea this little detail had a name until I read a post on the impossibly erudite An Aesthete's Lament about Deborah Mitford's vicarage at Chatsworth. Aesthete writes:

"The fillet... in case you didn't know, is a narrow strip of fabric, metal, or gilded wood that outlines a room and its architectural features. It is especially useful when one wishes to provide detail without actual bulk, particularly when a room is, well, deficient in architectural charm.

One could also use grosgrain ribbon to similar effect."

Thank you, Aesthete, for bringing my discovery full circle.

* * * * *

Now back to The Knightsbridge. Seriously, it was so lovely that I wished we could just lounge there all day. The main sitting room off the lobby was decorated with the kind of soulful eclecticism that makes everyone sitting in it seem completely fascinating. I felt as though if I were to ask someone, "When do you next go to Cairo?" or "How is your novel coming along?" or "Is it true that your fall collection was inspired by traditional Hungarian costumes?" that I would definitely get answers.

Beyond the sitting room is an intimate library and it's here that we sat every morning and had a cup of coffee before venturing outside. I am completely in love with the color palette in this room. The muted greens, blues, reds and pinks harmonize wonderfully with each other and it somehow feels moody and cheerful at the same time.

Here's a close up of the fireplace fender upholstered in the same fabric as the club chairs. I love fireplace fenders and think somebody needs to start manufacturing them in the US for a reasonable price (not $4,000 which is how much all the UK ones I like seem to cost. Hello, anyone?) They can be classic or modern, can be upholstered in anything, take up no room and make great extra seating in a pinch.

And look over here. The library ladder is neon. It's these kind of tongue-in-cheek design touches that I love so much because they remind me that great style should be personal, witty and not overly serious.

While I was rhapsodizing over the decor, it was the Honesty Bar that my son absolutely could not get over. When I informed him that beyond it lay a room filled with snacks and drinks for guests of the hotel to enjoy, his eyes grew as big as saucers. "But wh-wh-why would they let us do that?" he stuttered. "Because the staff TRUSTS that you are going be HONEST and WRITE IT DOWN so they can CHARGE YOU LATER," I said.

Luca: Can I go in?

Me: All right.

After much deliberation, he selected an Orangina and a chocolate bar and wrote it carefully down in the hotel ledger in big capital letters. When he emerged, his bearing was more confident and he had a maturity about him that seemed born from newfound responsibility. Who would have thought that a room filled with bottled sodas would turn out to be a watershed moment for an eight-year-old?

* * * * *

I wish I had taken better photos of the room, but I didn't think about it until it was filled with all our things. It overlooked the little tree-lined court and had a fireplace and lovely ceiling-height windows. But what really blew me away were the closets and bathroom -- large, light and beautifully designed with every possible desire anticipated. As a thoughtful touch, there were two full-length lighted mirrors inside the closet doors so I could get a 360 degree view of exactly where all those scones I'd eaten had ended up. (Sadly, I kid only slightly.)

The London/Marrakech Express, Part Three

(Highgate, London, 2009)

December 24th

London. Morning. Cold everywhere. Cold up on Hampstead Heath, where it settles on the cheeks of children sledding on Parliament Hill. Cold in the noses of salesgirls arriving for their morning shift at Top Shop. Cold creeping into the collars of City businessmen; cold savagely freezing the fingers and toes of tourists standing in line for Madame Tussaud's. Cold all round, whirling and swirling into every crevice and corner of the frozen metropolis.

Inside The Gore Hotel, however, it is blissfully warm. Piero and Luca have ventured out on various errands and I am alone. I glance down at the pile of books I have accumulated so far and my signed copy (thank you, Hatchard's) of interior decorator/society fixture Nicholas Haslam's new memoir stares beseechingly up at me.

All right, Nicky. It's your turn today.

I decide to read it downstairs in the hotel's fabled Bar 190, which is to me one of London's best-kept secrets. In 1968, the Rolling Stones filmed "Beggar's Banquet" there and it still has the feeling of a decadent private members club, complete with Gothic details and worn-to-a-high-sheen leather furniture. (They even offer a "Rock 'n Roll Tea" with star-shaped cookies and Jack Daniel muffins.) I repair downstairs and find it for once gloriously empty.

As I settle myself into the lounging area in the rear known as "Cinderella's Carriage"...

...I spot the massive framed photographs of the Rolling Stones taken in this very room during the "Beggars Banquet" party...

...and wonder if the energy of Mr. Haslam himself has led me here. In 1964, he threw the band a legendary soirée and has been close friends with them ever since. I leaf through the book's index and sure enough, there are multiple entries for the Rolling Stones. Synchronicity is in the house.

December 25th

Christmas lunch was at Baglioni's (opposite Hyde Park and just around the corner from our hotel).

(photo via Baglioni's website)

It was a wonderful meal, made even better by the fact that we celebrated with good friends.

(Belinda and me)

(Piero and Belinda's husband, Morgan)

After gorging ourselves on turkey and stuffing and bread and soup and salad and pudding and espresso (everyone) and pasta with butter and cheese (Luca), we all surreptitiously undo the top buttons of our respective trousers/skirts and stagger back to our respective abodes.

That evening, la famiglia Giramonti, still in the depths of a carbohydrate haze, collapses into bed early. Predictably, at some point during the wee hours, a mass fidgeting of legs underneath our respective bedclothes makes it apparent that we are all wide awake. Luca comes up with a brilliant remedy for our sleeplessness: a game of midnight Scrabble.

Outside, the city is completely silent. The only sound for miles, it seems to us, are our whispers ("That's not a word"; "Yes, it IS") and the sound of tiles clacking onto the game board.

December 26th

Boxing Day. Our flight to Marrakech leaves at 3pm. I leave Piero and Luca asleep in bed and take a taxi to meet Belinda for an early morning walk along the Thames. The light is just coming up and the streets are empty. The slow cadence of our footsteps feels like physical meditation.

I find myself wishing that I had made it to St. Paul's Cathedral when all of a sudden, there it is, visible through a gap in two buildings. I gasp. It's too strange.

The light is so mystical and otherworldly that I almost feel like crying. We walk in silence.

On the flight to Marrakech, we block out the turbulence and the cramped seats by retreating into private dominions. We are in a netherworld at 32,000 feet.

Setting foot on the tarmac (and a new continent), however, reenergizes us immediately. Our North African adventure has officially begun.

After clearing customs, we are met by a tall elegant Moroccan named Hamza who chauffeurs us into the city proper. We drive under a walled archway that marks passage into the ancient medina and through the maze-like alleys (too narrow to be called streets) to our hotel, La Sultana. Once inside, we are led down hallways that redefine my definition of the word "exquisite."

After being ushered into a gorgeous courtyard, we are feted with glasses of mint tea and a tiered stand of sweet delicacies which Luca promptly devours. Apparently, the task of checking-in is deemed too taxing a duty for arriving guests. All paperwork is performed off-stage and when our glasses are drained, our room key is presented.

If this is a sign of the level of service here, I think to myself, I may never want to leave.

Our room is on the second floor overlooking the interior of one of the five courtyards in the hotel. It's called "Crocodile" (and Luca counts twenty-four of them) but it is the wooden dome over our bed that I can't stop looking at.

The bathroom is another revelation, resplendent with marble and Moroccan plasterwork, carved alcoves and towels strewn with rose petals.

We take the elevator to the roof garden and peer over the edge. Below us, a thrilling cacophony of sounds and shouts floats up to us. French and Arabic voices mingle with the thrum of mopeds, the clop of horse-drawn carriages and the intermittent screech of wheels.

We are here.

The London/Marrakech Express, Part One

It took seventeen hours and a plane, a train, and two automobiles, but Luca and I finally arrived in London late on the 18th of December. As our black cab whizzed us through the snowy streets, I tried to shake off the weariness from the flight. The city was in full pre-Christmas swing: shops were festively decorated, pubs and restaurants were filled with jolly revelers and well-dressed cosmopolites bustled along the pavement, arms laden with beribboned packages.

Upon arriving at The Gore Hotel, I was informed that The Divine Italian (who had arrived five days previously) had foregone our usual room for the Tudor Suite. My heart quickened -- I liked the sound of it and wondered if it would live up to its name.

Follow me and decide for yourself.

We climbed the first flight of stairs to a private staircase...

...which led to a private Hobbit-sized door...

...which led to a private foyer...

...which led to this.

(The Tudor Suite)

Piero, bless him, had made sure our entrance would be dramatic -- a fire was crackling in the huge stone fireplace, the candelabras were blazing and a bottle of champagne was chilling. For Luca, there was a basket of milk-chocolate Hobnobs, crisps and Ribena. We almost swooned with happiness.

The room was beyond all telling. I felt like I was at Sissinghurst or some medieval English estate instead of smack dab in the middle of South Kensington. In addition to the beamed ceiling and four-poster bed...

...there was an antique two-story minstrels gallery which housed the closets and bathroom (you can see the door leading to it on the left side of the photo).

Even the loo was no slouch in the style department. Just look at this gorgeous copper-clad shower.

After a celebratory toast, we all settled in on the massive Knole sofa and caught the last half of Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's (love him) "River Cottage" special. (Note: Cooking shows have an amazingly soporific effect on children.) At long last, I could finally feel my body uncramping from the confines of seat 44J.

Saturday, December 19th

As the late morning light crept in through the leaded windows, I reluctantly opened my jetlagged eyes and could swear this gilt-bewigged gentleman on the ceiling winked at me.

Turning to the window, I noticed the gorgeous stained glass designs depicting Queen Elizabeth I and the warships that Sir Francis Drake circumnavigated the globe in 1577. History was everywhere in this room.

But there was no time to rhapsodize. Over on the other side of the room, a creature was stirring.

And hell hath no whine like an eight year old with an empty stomach.

We performed our ablutions and quickly hailed a cab to Maiden Lane in Covent Garden where we had a reservation waiting for us at Rules, one of my favorite restaurants.

Open since 1798, it serves traditional English cookery and classic game dishes. Over the years, its tables have been crowded with luminaries like Charles Dickens, W. M. Thackaray and H.G. Wells and it has been featured in the novels of Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene, Rosamond Lehmann and many more.

What keeps me coming back even more than this is that I just think there's no more beautiful place to be over Christmas.

I felt like I needed something hearty. The fish stew didn't disappoint.

Luca had been looking forward to this visit for months, ever since I started telling him about their World-Famous Sticky Toffee Pudding With a Side of Hot Custard, "the best dessert in the world, one that makes grown men cry and grown women go off their diets immediately."

When it arrived, it looked even more delicious than I remembered it. I felt a growing urge to devour it myself. Just one bite.

The dialogue in my head went something like this:

My Dark Side:

Must have the Precious. We wants it. We needs it. Myyy precioussss.

My Good Side:

No! Not this time. For heaven's sake, control yourself. This time it's for HIM.

How I didn't take a bite of it, I'll never know.

Then it was off to see an afternoon matinee of "Hairspray," starring my friend Belindawho is playing the part of Velma Von Tussle.

Of course, she was amazing and gave a sultry rockstar edge to the role of villainous Velma. Afterwards, we went backstage to congratulate her and say hello.

She had already whisked off her dress by the time we went in, so sorry, no photos. But here are her costumes for posterity.

Tidbit: this one weighs nearly twenty pounds. Who would have thought?