Perfume Diary: Zap 'Em (RS)
I was wandering around Rite Aid the other day, doing my standard song and dance, the one where I enter with a strict mission (get in, get Scotch tape and Viva paper towels and Goody hair elastics, get the hell out) but then find myself caught in the Bermuda triangle that is browsing nail polish colors under the neurasthenic canopy of halogen lighting and tinny Top 40 songs. On this particular lackadaisical browse, I came across a half-off bin full of citronella candles, next to deflated beach balls and plastic adult sippy cups shaped like pineapples and watermelon slices. I don’t know why I decided to buy a candle; maybe it was the fact that the jam jar holding the wax was neon pink with a little umbrella coming out of it, and I am a sucker for garish tchotchkes in the tutti-fruitti family. Or maybe it was the smell, which was pungent and tangy, like sour gummies, or freshly emulsified lemon aioli. Once I sniffed, I felt a pang, all the summer afternoons of my youth zapping back into my mind like a mosquito flying into a blue light.
Citronella, which most people know from their youth as the scent most likely to ward off gnats and skeeters, is really just a kind of lemongrass, or cymbopogon, if we are getting technical. The citronella oil that goes into most candles and bug repellants contains several compounds (geraniol, citronellol, citronellal), but mainly it is distilled from the leaves and stems of grasses found mainly in Sri Lanka that cannot be eaten, not even by cows, who would rather starve than graze on it (this is an actual, serious problem on Asian cow farms, as cymbopogon is an invasive, unrelenting weed that takes over pastures and turns them into the sites of bovine eating disorders). Other sorts of lemongrass, the kind you find in Thai food and tummy tea and in various whimsical pastries on the Great British Baking Show (and which Paul Hollywood never fails to claim “overwhelms a dish”), are not only edible but sublime, a vegetal citrus kick that is unmistakable on the back of the tongue. But not cymbopogon nardus, which is the source of a lot of the oil (cut later with a lot of other chemicals) that finds its way into bug repellents and huge 5-wick candles that squat on patio furniture all summer long. You might be fooled, they almost smell the same. But citronella has a cheapness to it, a tacky sharpness that feels a bit like it is a wasp attacking your nose. Better lemongrass is almost creamy, it has a chiffon meringue quality to it, something toothsome underneath. I want to lick it, whereas with citronella I know I am not meant to be too close to it; it is a self-protective smell, a scent designed in a lab to ward off creepy crawlies and anything else that threatens to come too close. I think perhaps I was in a defensive mood when I bought the candle, my iridescent exoskeleton was on high alert. I tend to feel like this when seasons shift.
In perfumery, no one uses citronella. It’s not for wearing, it’s for repudiating. But edible lemongrass is another story. In summer, there is nothing so refreshing as good, old-fashioned, lip-puckering herbaceous lemongrass scent, which is exactly what Penhaligon’s Bayolea is. It falls somewhere between a cologne and an EDP, which means you can douse yourself in it, even on the sweatiest day, and still feel breezy. It’s lemongrass that is invitational, rather than meant as a kind of “keep out” sign that you hang on your body. There are days for that, of course. And that’s when you go to Rite Aid.