'It’s harder with someone who says yes to everything’: What it's like having a bespoke scent made by one of London's oldest perfumers

My perfumer, Anna, is one of three who work at Floris, one of the world’s oldest and most distinguished perfumers. She is a scent sensei; an Olympic-level smeller. She tells me if a colleague came into the store wearing a scent that wasn’t Floris she’d nose it out straight away. Sniffer dogs fear her.

I am visiting the shop on Jermyn Street to have a bespoke scent made. I first heard about this service because my Dad’s girlfriend gave it to him as a present. He came back on the train from London, the heart and home of Floris since 1730, reeking of ‘Mojo 61’ — the name of his signature scent — and self confidence.

Anna began by telling me a bit about the centuries-old perfumery. It was founded by Juan Famenias Floris who moved over from Menorca and began selling combs, shaving products and perfumes with his wife Elizabeth in 1730, in the shop which used to double as the family home and remains Floris’ headquarters today. It is still run by their descendents, now in their ninth generation (although their surname has changed to Bodenham). ‘It’s a lovely thing, because we only have this one store, so although we’re a large brand, we are not diluted. It all has to come from here,’ Anna says.

In 1820, Floris received a Royal Warrant (which went on to become one of many) as Smooth Pointed Comb Maker to George IV. Their interest in creating perfumes gradually grew and in 1863 Florence Nightingale penned a letter to one ‘Mr Floris’, thanking him for the ‘beautiful sweet-swelling nosegays’. Sir Winston Churchill purchased fragrances from the company in 1934 (including a bottle of the brand’s Special No. 127 Eau de Toilette, which is a ‘refreshing citrus blend of bergamot and orange’, if you wanted to know what he smelt like). Marilyn Monroe also shopped at Floris and Ian Fleming was a regular customer, and even wrote about the perfumer in his 1995 novel Moonraker. He was partial to No.89 Eau de Toilette, another citrusy medley.

‘One of the greatest privileges for me is that we have these fragrances that go back 200 years, and it gives you an idea what was going on in that time. Not just: these are the facts, but really: these are the feelings,’ says Anna. ‘Perfumes reflect the zeitgeist of the time.’ She thinks a couple of years ago the trend was for very lactone (milky and creamy) and comforting scents ‘for an anxious time where people needed things that were quite reassuring’. Now she thinks people are more drawn to gourmand scents, ‘really sugary: salted caramel, coffee, rich, deep, all these things’.

We are sitting in the perfumery, which is where the artisans at Floris have always created their scents. It is a dark wood-panelled room with navy curtains and seat cushions and a grand yet well-loved wooden desk that divides myself and Anna. This is where she will do her work. There is a sense of majesty about the room, and magic too, as vials of potion-like scents line the glass-fronted cabinet behind her. ‘We are going to be making a custom fragrance, around your skin,’ Anna tells me, explaining how scent changes when it’s applied to flesh. I hadn’t put any perfume on that morning; Anna congratulates me on this.

Many perfumers have a background in chemistry, but Anna studied the science of the senses and, after finding that she had a particular interest in olfactory, went on to study perfumery and psychotherapy. ‘I’ve been trying to mold the two together ever since,’ she says. She asks me what I typically wear. My answer (‘Um, there’s a dark blue one that was a gift. And Jo Malone something, maybe nectarine? And a large body spray from The Body Shop which I sometimes use. Something in the peachy family, I think’) doesn’t deter her. ‘Is it floral?’ she asks, of my primary perfume. I nod. ‘Woody?’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘It’s strong.’

‘This is where we’re going to get into interesting territory,’ Anna says with a smile, ‘because language in smell is tricky … I had a woman just this morning who had mentioned the word fresh three or four times, and I realised quite quickly that what she was noticing as fresh is not at all what I would have introduced as fresh, if she left me to our own devices. It's really important that I understand what you mean, and the best way to do that is when we're smelling together.’

She goes on to say, very kindly, that it’s not an issue that I can’t remember the scents I already have, as we are going to create something unique. ‘I tend to go for things that are kind of like autumn colours,’ I offer, keen to be understood. ‘Woody and grounded, not super sweet, quite rich, but not overpowering. Like a stone fruit.’ I elaborate. ‘But NOT cinnamon. And I like the idea of a sort of androgynous smell.’

She nods her head, and begins to pluck down a few bottles. ‘We begin by choosing a foundation. Citrus, floral, woody or amber. We are going to go through these together and you must say if there’s something that you like. Only say if it’s something you’d wear, because there will be plenty of fragrances that you like but which are not for you,’ she says, sagely. ‘Then we will whittle that selection down, however big it is, to just two. We will test them on your hand and choose one, and build everything else from there.’ Herein begins a process of fervent sniffing. I do it blind, Anna keeping the labels of the scents hidden from me so I can’t be influenced by what I think I’ll like. ‘People think something's masculine or feminine based on the picture of the lady or the man on the box,’ she says.

Turns out, I am very good at knowing what I don’t like. ‘Too manly,’ I say to one. ‘Too powderly for me, like an old person’s blusher compact,’ I deem another. ‘God no, that’s like Marzipan,’ is a further remark. ‘That’s a bit of me,’ I say, finally, to a scent Anna afterwards informs me was created for Queen Victoria’s wedding day. Clearly I have a right regal hooter.

I wonder if I’m being too definitive. ‘No,’ Anna says. ‘It’s harder with someone who says yes to everything.’ The process is long and we get to chatting as we smell, about our upbringings, our careers, our love lives, gender and what our patronus’ would be if we were in Harry Potter (Anna’s would be a dolphin). You couldn’t be in this kind of job if you weren’t curious about people.

Before we slim my selection of base scents down to two, she advises I take a ‘nose break’, as I am beginning to be overwhelmed by the scent of the alcohol in each vial, rather than the scent itself. To remedy this, she suggests more alcohol, of a different kind, and fetches some Champagne. ‘The bubbles help,’ she says. ‘Although the same effect could be achieved with sparkling water.’ I opt for Champagne, keen to get the authentic Floris experience. She sprays the final two scents on the backs of my hands and I smell, deciding on the left one. It’s warm and sunshiny.

‘Now for the fun part — the accords,’ Anna says. ‘This is where we get to characterize your scent even more, giving it even more personality and individuality. I will show you a selection that could potentially work but it’s always going to be led by you.’ We begin again, sniffing our way ever closer to our goal: Eau de Lotte. She shows me one that’s an instant hit. ‘That’s really interesting,’ I say.

‘That’s fig,’ Anna replies. My mother has always loved figs and we have a fig tree at our family home. It can’t be a coincidence. Olfactory is one of the strongest triggers of memory there is. Anna asks me to smell a vial which contains musk. ‘It’s a really interesting one, some people can smell it and some people can't.’ I can, but am indifferent. ‘Do you think you're looking for something a bit more complicated?’ Anna asks. I say yes. She then suggests a smell that I immediately identify as lavender and deem ‘too granny’. Cardamon, however, is an instant hit. It smells tasty, like the feeling of getting a bit drunk at a bougie bar. Anna suddenly, and alarmingly insightfully, observes: ‘I'm starting to notice that you're drawn to fragrances that are a little bit bizarre and weird, but actually the ones that you would wear on yourself are perhaps a little bit more, just calmer.’ It’s starting to feel a bit like therapy. She gets me to sniff my own unscented skin between each scent, so that my nose doesn’t get too confused. Eventually we get there.

She blends the mixture, muttering quietly as she does so about the various quantities of each scent, and spraying it on patches on my arms, hands and wrists so that we can both smell it on me, at various stages during the process. We add a few drops of vanilla, then of smoke, then frankincense and myrrh, and finally cassis for a kick. After several rounds, and when I almost don’t have any arm left to sniff, we are there. She asks me to name my creation. The base is jasmine, and it is heavily imbued with fig. Combined with the fact that making it together felt like a sort of spirited dance, or searching for a missing jigsaw piece, I go for ‘Jig’. It is a punchy, sweet, playful word — exactly how it smells.

It’s a wonderful experience, so it’s no surprise it’s ‘98% gifted’ according to Anna’s estimation. ‘Usually for anniversaries, weddings or birthdays.’ My brain is swimming with things I wish I had asked, and Champagne, and my nose heady with Jig, but I manage to sneak in one final question as Anna is bottling our creation in a classy bottle with a golden lid. I am desperate to know what her signature scent is. Is she woody and earthy? Floral and light? Bizarre — like some of the scents I turned down earlier? Or something else entirely. ‘I haven’t made one,’ she says with a shrug. ‘None of the perfumers have.’

‘Why?’ I implore, utterly baffled by her answer.

‘Because I think we wouldn’t know where to stop.’

An appointment for one at Floris costs £750 and lasts for approximately two hours, or you can opt to go with a loved one for £1,250. This session lasts three hours. For more information visit Floris's website.