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Bergamot, pink pepper, a green stem snapped in half.
One flower, opened slowly. Made in Grasse in batches of four hundred.
Bloom is made by Élodie Marchetti, who left a large fragrance house to make a single scent properly. She leases four hectares of May rose above Grasse and picks them herself in the first two weeks of May.
Nothing is launched to a calendar. N°7 took seven years and seven hundred trials, which is where the name comes from.
Bergamot, pink pepper, a green stem snapped in half.
Peony at seven in the morning. Rose absolute, barely.
White musk, cedar shavings, the inside of a linen cupboard.
Fifty millilitres in hand-blown glass. Refillable for life at any of our counters — bring the bottle, keep the cap.
A sample vial, posted in an envelope. Its price comes off your first bottle.
The hand-blown bottle, filled to the shoulder and numbered.
An aluminium flask to top up the bottle you already own.
“A stranger stopped me on the métro to ask what I was wearing. That has never happened to me before.”
“It smells like the first warm morning of the year. I rationed the sample for a month.”
“My mother wore one perfume her whole life. I think I have found mine.”
We grow, distil and blend. There is no ingredient in N°7 whose farm we cannot name.
No animal-derived materials, no synthetic musks, and eight weeks of maceration before bottling.
The bottle is made once. Every refill costs less than the last bottle and wastes almost nothing.
Eight to ten hours on most people. At 22% concentration, two sprays is plenty.
If it has been sprayed fewer than five times, within thirty days. That is why we suggest the sample first.
The full ingredient list is on every box. If you react to rose oxide or citral, test the sample on your wrist first.
At our counter in Le Marais, and at eleven stockists across Europe and Japan.
We write once the roses are in, and when a new batch is ready. Twice a year, perhaps three times.