I bought a bottle of Petit Fracas on a whim last week, having no idea what it smelled like. I needed to feel something. Perfume-buying indiscretion used to be common for me, now it’s rare enough to be notable.

I tried loads of perfume samples in 2022 — they ranged from ho-hum to what-the-fuck. I’ve been disenchanted with perfume for the past year. Between moving all my bottles and witnessing perfumery’s decline into a vulgar free-for-all propelled by deception and delusion, buying perfume these days feels about as good as setting a pile of cash on fire.

I love original Fracas, so I was always going to have strong feelings about a flanker. I can really only love or hate it. It must be genius or it shouldn’t exist at all. I’ve been intrigued and repulsed by this perfume since it was released in 2012. Would it make me swoon, or would I hurl it across the room in a fit of rage? I was afraid to find out. Until now.

Perfume Review

The first 15 minutes of Petit Fracas are solid 1980’s Aussie Mega Hairspray. Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam started playing on the stereo. I had a strange, nostalgic longing to wear lace. Grape kool-aid lemon blossom hyacinth, with a dimethyl ether aura. This was fun for a second, then triggered a flare of Gen X ennui. Big whoop. I don’t want to smell like this.

Fortunately it gets more intriguing.

Tuberose shows up and, boy, is she creamy. Plump white flowers glistening with pearls of thick, fatty milk, and oh-so-salty. It’s palpably warm and intensifies to become steamy and carnal. As it pushes out from under the fruity floral top notes it smells like a post-coital shower, washing your fertile lady-garden with a pear & freesia soap bar. It’s a juxtaposition of darling and raunchy that I find quite alluring.

As Petit Fracas progresses, both the filth and the fruit recede. What’s left is mostly sweet white florals reminiscent of gardenia. Lemon-kissed, milky-apricot, rhubarb-tinged, coconut-dusted orange blossoms. It dips in and out of hyacinths and bubblegum jasmine suspended in concord grape jelly. But always underneath there’s a sexy, fleshy tuberose — balmy, unctuous and alkaline.

Many hours later, Petit Fracas is a posy bouquet of dewy green almond-ish tuberose and velvety sweet peas, sparsely freckled with bitter cocoa. Piguet describes the perfume using words like whimsy; this is the first moment in the wear that I can connect to their narrative. The opening was too absurd to be whimsical, then a bawdy, voluptuous tuberose sets the mood for most of the wear.

Saying Petit Fracas is whimsical is like saying Hentai is whimsical. Petit Fracas is cute. When I say “cute,” I’m usually referring to something both very girly and very horny. Petit Fracas reminds me a bit of Janis telling Cady “you smell like a baby prostitute.” It dresses the audacious sexuality of original Fracas in a booty-hugging luxe brand Lurex tracksuit.

Final Thoughts

Reimagining Fracas, an iconic creation of perfume-goddess Germaine Cellier, seemed like sacrilege. It must have been daunting, and I’m impressed with how Aurelien Guichard achieved it. (That’s high praise, it’s been a long time since anything impressed me). It’s not simply “Fracas Lite” or “Fracas Gourmand.” Many people would have done “Fracas Vanille,” I’m grateful that didn’t happen. Petit Fracas is a debauched fruity white floral, but where original Fracas was Film Noir, Petit Fracas is The Blockbuster Age.

Petit Fracas will never take the place of the original in my heart. But if you have the audacity to wear Fracas, Petit Fracas is like changing from evening gown to cocktail dress, and I begrudgingly admit that I like it. It’s more playful than the original, but the sultry tuberose underpinning keeps it true to the spirit of Fracas.