Revisiting Ankhara.

On occasion, I will extend a second chance to a fragrance that didn't exactly rock my world the first time. On occasion, I will then find myself stunned at some new dimension of beauty heretofore unappreciated, and I will be forced to completely reevaluate my earlier opinion.

This is not one of those occasions.

Ankhara is a mirage of the East writ in dollops of whipped cream and jam. If that sounds like the dessert known as trifle (or better yet fool), the parallel is quite appropriate. Its notes list (coffee, fig, frangipani, pomegranate, leather!) led this perfumista to imagine a fetching bit of fragrant drama, infused with smoke and honey and grenadine. To get plain old puddin' instead is a keen letdown.

Perhaps the Soivohles which preceded Ankhara spoiled me-- expressed as they were in Liz Zorn's bold, adventurous style. Even if Ankhara's story were different, I expected to hear it told in more or less the same voice. I admit I approached it with open arms and inflated hopes; I suppose I talked myself into a frenzy even before that sample vial crossed my threshold. The rest is history. And history, of course, repeats itself.

At least Ankhara's second chance was a thoroughly informed one; I did not expect much, and as a result, I did not lose much. Ankhara remains what it was on all previous wearings: a nice fragrance, nothing extraordinary. Three stars: just desserts.