There is perhaps no destination more devoted to quality men’s furnishings as London. Hat shops, tailors, producers of toiletries, barbers, all at the apex of their craft, are to be found on these ancient streets. And there is no street as dedicated to such finery than Jermyn Street in the St. James section of Westminster, just next to Piccadilly. This street is home to some of the world’s most discerning menswear creators, including Thomas Pink, Turnbull & Asser, Hawes & Curtis. Its residents have been both famous and infamous, from Isaac Newton and the Duke of Marlborough, to the eccentric esoteric occultist Aleister Crowley. As if to remind passersby of the importance of men’s fashion, the most important contributor to men’s fashion of the Regency period, Beau Brummel, stands by cast in bronze, to always serve as an example of what men should wear.
It was with great excitement that I made my way to the first of my two destinations for the day. To me,
Geo. F. Trumper is a name synonymous with old school British men’s grooming. First and foremost, Trumper is a barber. It has been so for over a hundred years in both its Mayfair location and here, just a short few steps off Jermyn Street on Duke of York Street. A few years back, I was fortunate to smell a few of Trumper’s scents for
an article I was writing about men’s grooming in different parts of the world. I knew that at some point in time I’d have to visit, and I was finally on the threshold.
As soon as you cross through the heavy doors and up the few red carpeted steps, you’re met with the glowing smiles of impeccably dressed and smiling staff, who are waiting to take you to your hair cutting appointment, or are willing to show you any of a number of their endless array of grooming products. The smell of the shop is something to behold—a time capsule of wood, resinous oils and citrus, flowers and peels—an apothecary, an ambery pharmacy promising a departure from the everyday into something sublime and wondrous. You begin to understand how the notion of the well-dressed dandy came to exist, with fresh violets in his buttonhole, smelling like moss-and-roses. There was a time (and
Trumper will tell you that it still exists) when men cared deeply about the scent behind everything that touched their skin. Be it facial soap, shaving soap, cologne or pomade, quality should be everywhere, and in this well-polished hall of wood and glass, it’s alive and well.
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The sheer number of products that Trumper produces is staggering. Some of them are classics—
Wild Fern,
Skye,
Ajaccio Violets Cologne,
Spanish Leather,
Extract of Limes,
Milk of Flowers. Their names seem almost arcane and lovely in their slight obscurity, as if preserved by time for a future in a living museum. Trumper makes no attempt to put these aromatic wonders into sleek and minimal packages, but instead uses simple, slightly baroque frosted bottles with crown-shaped caps. All the colognes and eau de toilettes are sensory delights, full of lavender, roses, cloves, carnations, orange flowers, rosemary, and lily of the valley. They could easily be worn by women but maintain a distinctly masculine aspect that charms and smiles. These are the scents our fathers wore, and the scents that many of us crave today, as we look for something that seems authentic, closer to a cultural guidepost that we’ve lost along the way.
I stride across the room to see a rather important-looking political type enter. He’s here for a haircut, and obviously he’s been here many times before. He pulls out a paper, makes a phone call as he waits. The chatter, the scents, even the shuffling of the newspaper seems all too fitting. Opening a wooden shaving soapbox I’m instantly seduced by the rich, lathery rose-scented concoction in front of me. I begin to wonder if I should return to the use of a single-edged razor and a leather strap. Any man walking this revered hall would be seduced into the most old fashioned shaving techniques in order to enjoy these creature comforts. After making a few purchases, I’m completely convinced why
Trumper has remained an institution, and keeps calling to future generations yet to come. This is a place for the senses to be completely indulged.
Just a short walk down Jermyn Street, past more incredible men’s tailors and an historic cheese shop, lays the understated elegance known as
Floris. This British perfumer is one of the soft-spoken heroes of fragrance, its voice sometimes lost in the hustle and bustle of quickly fleeting fashions, but a stalwart, stoic contributor who has produced timeless classics. Floris has always fascinated me because of its understated presentation, soothing elegance. The perfumes themselves are utterly elegant, covering a vast spectrum of olfactory territory, from exquisitely feminine to sharply citrus and masculine. Their specialties are roses, in bouquets with other flowers, or single roses such as
White Rose (1800),
China Rose (2000),
Snow Rose(2009). The bouquet scents are full, rapturous but clean and distinguished:
Wedding Bouquet (2011),
Edwardian Bouquet (1901),
Florissa (1978),
Madonna of the Almonds(2009),
Zinnia (1860, relaunched 1990). The perfumes, equally spaced over genders and millennia, are held in perfectly proportioned bottles that taper slightly at the bottom, housed in simple boxes, each with the standard Floris crests and unmistakable sans serif gold logo. Looking at these timeless capsules, they seem as if they could appear in any age, on any dresser, in almost any part of the world. The first time I saw a Floris bottle was years ago, one of which belonged to my good friend, the novelist James Wylie. It was a bottle of
Santal, the men’s scent from 2002. James’ has impeccable taste, and a particular love of men’s goods from England—it only makes sense that he’d choose Floris as his ideal perfumer. Floris is the oldest English retailer of toiletries and accessories; second oldest in the entire world, having been founded in 1730.
Floris is a dark, deeply hued and timbered suite of rooms in Jermyn Street with an expansive showroom, historic consultation room in the back, and to my great surprise, an almost completely intact office and workroom at the very rear of the building. This workroom, which served for nearly 200 years as the actual mixing factory of Floris’ scents, is only shown to visitors on request, so I was incredibly lucky to be made aware of its existence and shown around. I was greeted by its exceptional staff, who went out of their way to tell me Floris’ history and point out some cornerstones in its story.
Juan Floris was originally from Menorca (of the Balearic Islands, now part of Spain), and arrived in England to make his living, first as a maker of combs and as a barber. The business continued in the family, as it still does today, and it was in 1820 that Floris was granted its first Royal Warrant. It has received sixteen more during its history, and still operates under two today. The credentials are staggering. In addition to all the royal credence, the Floris archives hold inquiries, thank-you letters, and receipts from remarkable historic figures including Mary Shelley and Florence Nightingale. Famously there is a receipt signed by Marilyn Monroe in payment for Floris’ legendary Rose Geranium bath oil.
A member of Floris’ staff begins to take me around the store and tell me some of the wondrous history. “He arrived first as a barber and a comb-maker. Then he learned how to blend perfumes, and then he began making his perfumes right here. Up until the late 1960s, we were still making those perfumes right here in rooms of the basement of Floris. And then at the end of the 60s they moved to a proper factory.”
It is at this point that I’m asked if I would like to see the “secret” back rooms of the shop. How could one refuse such a chance? I’m led through a locked door, a red-carpeted hall, and into a thrilling space that clearly time forgot. We are walking back in time—but by how many years? Fifty? One hundred, two hundred?
"This is the room where it all started—and we are using it now because we have an in-house perfumer. This archive shows you all the accounts from Sir Charles, to the kings and queens, and all the accounts in between. And here you can see all the actual recipes." He points to large ancient volumes that are opened on a vast table. Pointing over at some exquisitely carved combs and brushes, he says, "and of course at that time, so many of the toilet items were made of actual ivory. And if you look at these walls," he points to the deep mahogany-paneled walls of the room, "you'll see the fittings and actual shelves that were purchased by Floris from Queen Victoria's Great Exhibition at The Crystal Palace in 1851."
The room is nothing short of spectacular, flooded as it is with the enchanting glow of dim sunshine from its skylight, falling gently over the leather-bound books, velvet rugs and reflecting glassily on the cabinets. And to think, that in-house perfuming still happens here, to this day—it gives one an incredible sense of continuity.
To step back into the main chamber and sniff at the
Floris perfumes is yet another escape in the time machine. Decades rise and fall from one perfume to the next, from all the categories. Floris’ perfumes fall more or less into gendered and unisex scents, with a few special lines. And though you can occasionally tell one of the older perfumes by its distinctly “yesteryear” sensibility, it’s hard to distinguish what was made two centuries ago or just a few years past.
White Rose is a full, blushing-pink white floral that is at turns dry and then juicy, but always blossoming forward like a bouquet just days before its peak of ripeness. I’m surprised to learn later that it’s one of the older Floris perfumes because it strikes me as perfectly modern in its voluptuous, fleshy quality. I am completely taken by my first whiff of the legendary Rose Geranium. Wanting to know what it was that drew Ms. Monroe so strongly to this bright green oil, I can’t see how anyone could turn away. It’s everything that rose geranium should be—green, red, pink, earthy, dewy, fresh, bright, with just a hint of melancholic rapture. The scent is no longer made as a perfume, but sold as bath oil and soap, but the scent is strong and intoxicating. Any bath filled with this would probably perfume an entire house.
It all makes heaps of sense to remember that Floris scored big points in the niche market with their recent perfumes from their oud collection, particularly
Honey Oud. This perfume is like a magic potion, so ripe with opulence and genuine honey hues and vapors. Along with
Leather Oud, the latest Floris works have received well-deserved high praise, and prove once again that time-tested companies who have stuck with tradition can still evolve, still innovate and yet retain their character.
After enjoying the beauties
Lavender and
Limes (both from the early nineteenth century) I realize I’ve spent ages inside the warm and cozy interior of
Floris, and it’s time for me to re-engage with the London streets. Can you imagine, all the men and women who walked through this very same doorway since 1730? It’s fascinating to behold, as much as it is to smell nearly the same perfumes that were worn at that time.
Ajaccio Violets and Milk of Flowers: Geo. F. Trumper. All other images: John Biebel
