About 1,000 jasmine flowers and a dozen roses go into a single bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume.
n late spring, the bees arrive at Joseph Mul’s fields near Pégomas, France, at around nine-thirty each morning. The unmarked fifty acres border a gravel path, which veers off a country road that cuts through a sheltered valley. To the northeast, one can make out the dark-blue mounds of the pre-Alps. A tickly breeze blows in from the Mediterranean, a few miles to the east. For non-pollinators, the site is almost impossible to find.
The species is prized for its clear, sweet, honeyed scent. If it were a musical instrument, it might be a flute. It is so distinctive that Joseph Mul, whose great-grandfather started the farm in the early nineteen-hundreds, can identify a rose grown in Pégomas with his eyes closed. “You can compare it to wine,” he said recently. “A Burgundy from anywhere else isn’t a Burgundy.”
One early morning last May, Mul was standing in the middle of his pink rows, their fragrance intensifying as the sun ascended. Grabbing a blossom by the calyx, he demonstrated the proper way to cull a rose. “One finger over, one finger under,” he said. “Then twist! You can hear the snap.”When the roses bloom, the entire fifty acres must be harvested in two weeks.
Once the roses have been harvested, their oils must be extracted quickly, before they start to ferment. “Put one in your fist,” Mul said, wrapping his weathered brown hand around mine. “Even after two or three minutes, it’s not going to have the same smell.” He was right: the rose had become slightly more peppery. Three to five hundred roses make a kilo. Thefilled sacks of ten kilos apiece and loaded them onto a flatbed truck. Within the hour, they were delivered to an on-site factory.
This was the concrete-making phase. A worker used a pitchfork to even out the piles as Vieille pumped in two thousand litres of hexane, a colorless liquid solvent, heated it to sixty-eight degrees Celsius, and then reopened the vat. The flowers had gone from pink to brown. The air smelled of burned toast. The factory floor looked like a wedding processional had just passed through.There were more steps, but, in the end, each thirty-millilitre bottle of Chanel No.
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