Where the Black Roses Grow

For a fragrance named after a part-submerged Turkish village where black roses grow along the banks of the Euphrates, I expected dank woods, rich florals, and a sense of the unknown. Halfeti delivers upon this, and more.

We enter the market at its busiest hour: row upon row of polished cedar stalls built around a lush grove of cypress trees. They sell everything from warm spices and zesty citrus to the town's signature roses. Overwhelmed by the sheer abundance, we hurriedly grab a small bouquet, a bag of sweet spice, and head towards a more secluded section.

Here, worn hides are flung over ancient oudwood benches, their damp yet smoky aroma a lingering testament to the floods they've survived. As we enter a quieter enclave, we see Turkish princes trying on waxed leather slippers, while their wives - perfumed with exotic rose-infused spices of the Levant - deliberate over cedar or sandalwood furnishings.

It's in this calmer, more luxurious air that we feel we've truly arrived in Halfeti. Away from the noise, into a world of deep wealth and understated elegance.

I love the maelstrom of Halfeti's opening - a gorgeously balanced chaos of sweetness, spice, and woods. But as it dries down, the way its dry, green facets interact with the dustier, animalic tones starts rubbing me the wrong way. I'm sensitive to saffron, and to me, it comes across as slightly playdough-rubbery. But that said, there's no denying it's a commanding scent, and one I've always enjoyed greatly on others.