An independant publication on the cultural life of fragrance.
OCT 21 2026
WHERE TUBEROSE BLOOMS IN BITUMEN
I will admit, between countless new releases hoping to capitalize off seemingly infinite consumer interest in small-batch niche perfumery, it takes quite a lot for a fragrance to truly grab my attention these days. I no longer think that – for better or worse – it is enough for a new perfume to simply smell good. It must also carry a convincing visual language, and tell a story that feels approachable, compelling, and unique. Just because I haven’t been publicly writing about much perfume for the last few months does not mean I have not been wearing it. In fact, I wear it compulsively. Having perfected my fragrance wardrobe, it’s pretty difficult for something new to tear me away from my longstanding and passionate love affair with some of my all-time favorite fragrances. WHERE TUBEROSE BLOOMS IN BITUMEN
BY LAUREN LEXA BROWN & AUDREY ROBINOVITZ
Our take on Serviette’s sold-out treasure.
That said, before I was even able to get my nose on the new limited release from Trey Taylor of Serviette, I was intrigued. Like pretty much everything he’s released, the promotional material was impeccably organized, and the concept extremely specific and clear. I think more fragrance releases ought to come with a publicized lookbook, and Taylor delivers.
The center of his new perfume “Immacula” is tension: between sensual pleasure and societal expectation, between religious repression and unbridled freedom, between deliberate familiarity and exciting danger. As an unabashed Type-A Christian girl pervert, I was intrigued. Immacula seems to playfully cast its notes as characters, drawing on 20th-century fashion photography and the populated chaos of the city center. On skin, these distinct figures shuffle themselves into a different game of Clue for every wearer. The perfume’s opening is punishingly fast-paced, butting an expertly-realized fantasy accord of “Ionized Steam,” set against invigorating citrus notes of ginger and pomelo. The effect is somewhere between iconic Comme des Garcons’ releases like Soda and Garage, and more seminal takes on Grand Bal white florals like Carnal Flower or even Serge Lutens’ Tubereuse Criminelle. Naturally, at the heart of Immacula is tuberose: that creamy-milky-fruity-stuffy-sweet little white flower that must currently be holding at least 20% of the world upon its tiny shoulders.
Tuberose perfumes were among the first smells to truly enchant me with perfume as an art form, and the note remains in my eyes one of the most undeniably joyful smells in the world. Serviette’s take on tuberose is perhaps a touch less wet and lactonic, skewing more towards Dominique Ropion’s dry and brutalist take on the floral absolute realized in Regime des Fleurs’ Toor Toor. Somehow the floral note here feels sharpened, as if metallic and wielded against your tender neck. Moving into the heart of this fragrance, white florals blend with a mineralic, hot-asphalt accord. The combined effect splays tuberose against the sights and smells of the city. I think of Le Labo’s somewhat lackluster New York City Exclusive, Tubereuse 40, which smells neither like tuberose nor like New York City. Immacula smells like both. This is a white floral fragrance for a Hitchcock heroine. Immacula mixes the sacred and the profane into an extremely wearable yet sensual and experimental scent profile. I plan to wear my bottle to the very last drop.
From the sweltering heat of the asphalt and swooning tuberose, we settle down into a base of davana and oakwood. While it’s not uncommon to have woods and herbs as base notes, the selection of the wood can make or break a fragrance. Davana, a fruity, boozy tea-like plant harnesses the aching desperation for the saccharine brought on by the candied ginger and pomelo oil at the top. If New York had an official tea, Immacula would be it. Davana is also considered a chameleon note, meaning its scent can vary drastically depending on each person's skin chemistry. On my skin, it leans sweeter, like a thick, honeyed fruit wine made of stewed apricots and plums.
The inclusion of davana also holds an anisic quality, and with the industrial top notes, it reminds me of a flavored cigarette. There’s a sort of ancient ritual at play here–the ceremonial nature of davana, an ingredient historically offered to Hindu deities, and its medicinal qualities. The base notes hold the depth of incense without containing smoke as a note. The hot asphalt accord is likely what brings the dry, herbal leaves to flame. As Audrey mentioned, this is a mineralic fragrance. This is very distinct from your traditional fragrance family groupings–it’s not amber, woody, or chypre; it is simply mineralic. Like lightning hitting a city sidewalk, ozone mixing with heavy metals, resulting in a sticky, petroleum syrup. The bitumen in the center of Immacula.
The earthy oakwood bottom adds wilderness to the formula, reminding us that nature still exists if you look closely at the concrete jungle that is NYC. Immacula tells the story of finding identity through trial and error, emphasizing that our taste is built around our lived experiences and doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. I can see a busy businesswoman dashing down the streets of Manhattan in the ‘80s, dodging street vendors and steaming grates. She is going to be late for her first day at Vogue! After years of embarrassing missteps, she has finally left the hot concrete behind for a career that’s electrifying like pomelo oil, and she can finally accept that her tastes will be challenged by future experiences. Trauma really does build character.
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