Chanel Coromandel is the fragrance that finally scooped me up in a butterfly net and dragged me off to the funny farm of perfume obsession.
Here’s how it happened: I was wandering the mean streets of Rodeo Drive last summer, when I stumbled into the refrigerated poshness of the Chanel Boutique. Facing down the original ten Les Exclusifs in their jumbo bottles, I was stirred by their solemn grandeur the way the apes in 2001: A Space Odyssey were moved to chimpy frenzy by the mysterious black monolith.
I didn’t like it. Or did I? I needed to go back for another sniff. Before long, I was paying regular visits to the Chanel Boutique, to confirm just how much I didn’t like Coromandel.
Yep, as always, there’d be that dirty-faced Patchouli & Spice Man, brutally pulling the pretty Vanilla & Amber Lady into an uninvited embrace.
“Get off of me, you brute!” Vanilla & Amber Lady would cry, pounding her dainty fists on his chest.
Patchouli & Spice Man would smirk at her not-quite-believable attempts to extricate herself.
“You want me to let you go? Is that it?” he’d murmur, softly touching her chin, tilting her face closer to his.
Vanilla & Amber Lady would hesitate. “Well...maybe....”
Cue passionate kiss -- and there I was -- caught up in the sexy conflict and drama of Coromandel.