This article is taken from the July 2024 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

For much of the last century, Harrods held the Royal Warrant, the positionnement haut de gamme on Brompton Road and the reputation for supplying anything its customers might crave. Not for nothing did its founder choose the motto Omnia Omnibus Ubique (“all things for all people, everywhere”) a clarion call to chic shoppers.

In 1923 an eccentric Courtauld heiress desirous of a lemur went first not to London Zoo but to Harrod’s to purchase her exotic pet. “Mah-Jongg” her ring-tailed little menace lived happily, and in some style, with the Courtaulds, chewing the Howard furniture in Eltham Palace, for the next 15 years. 

As the swinging sixties swung to their cannabis-infused close, Harrods sold Christian the lion to the conservationist George Adamson for 250 Guineas — a princely sum for a king of the jungle. The cub would later be released to fend for itself amongst other wild beasts. Unlike so many human Christians placed in similar circumstances by the Romans, the lion survived.

But is there anything that the Knightsbridge emporium cannot find? Things that money, even Harrods money, cannot buy? Moon rock perhaps? No. Harrods boasts a suppliers list that is truly stellar. Not the NASA mission samples of course, they are the property of Uncle Sam, but over the years several fragments fallen from lunar meteors found their way to the “Phony Pharoah’s” stock depot. For Harrods, selling moon dust is hardly rocket science.

And yet, and yet. Perhaps there is something that not even this store can source — and not because it is out of this world. In fact, it is in Birmingham. It is something called Raffouche and it is very, very special. Since man first crawled from the swamp, he has sought to civilise himself, shedding his rough animal skins and their foul stench in favour of elegant silks and satins and the spritz of beautiful scents. I have written previously about clothes, couture and the captivating whiff of Creed, but in Raffouche the alchemists of enchantment have achieved perfection.

Raffouche is a perfume that is pulchritudinous and most precious. Its essential ingredients, and their story, make it so: oudh bark, peeled from rare Aquilaria trees that must first be wounded, then infected by insects for 30 years before the wood, sufficiently infused with insect-repelling resin, is ready for harvest. Each tree yielding a mere thimbleful of oil. 

Ambergris from the sperm whale, found floating in the ocean, is aged until its natural astringency has given way to sweetness. Musk is taken from the Siberian White deer that roam the taiga beyond the steppe. Each stag produces a mere 8ml of incense. These alone make Raffouche a rarity. 

But consider the other infusions. Damask roses, where one litre of rose water requires 5 million rose petals, each picked at sunrise to protect their fragrance, Indonesian Patchouli, or New Caledonian Sandalwood which is protected in its last remaining sanctuary. Raffouche is truly recherché and the quest for its constituents rather romantic.

But the derring-do of latter-day Quatermains in search of its materials is only half the Raffouche story. Science plays its part too. For its creators have gone where no other perfumiers have known to tread. Blending nano-technology, seamlessly and naturally with ancient ingredients, for there are no synthetics involved, the Raffouchiers have solved the mystery that has eluded everyone past, from Herodotus through Prester John, and perfected a fragrance that (nearly) never fades. And by simply gently tapping the wrist, the ear, or wherever is one’s chosen spray-spot, the wearer can reanimate the molecules to spring forth with a further fulsome shower of scent.

Raffouche is not available in any shop and certainly not online. It is known only by word of mouth and to those with the deepest pockets and the finest nose. A small ampule will cost a king’s ransom, which is why only kings, sultans and sheikhs wear it. Perhaps one day that will change. But for now, if you want to experience the Raffouche “scent soiree”, you have to know the right people and know how to find St. Paul’s Square. This time, Harrods cannot help.