SpiceLines

Lyn Harris is a perfumer, a maker of mostly light, flowery fragrances that on the surface seem quintessentially English. After a few moments on your skin, however, some rather exotic notes may emerge. Citron Citron is zingy and fresh, but there are stealthy whiffs of Moroccan cedar and green cardamom around the edges. Noix de Tubereuse, “sourced from one of of the last remaining tuberose fields in Grasse,” comes on all powdery and old fashioned—then the warm scent of amber kicks in.

Wearing these perfumes is like looking at yourself in a splotched antique mirror where silver is wearing away. Your reflection seems watery and pale; at second glance,it becomes oddly alluring.

But Serendipity and I are here for tea. No cucumber sandwiches or scones slathered with clotted cream, though. Tea at Miller Harris comes with flowers.

More teatime flowers: the banquettes are covered with Harris' sunny floral fabric, while the icing on the cupcakes is flavored with rose.

It’s very quiet as we take one of the black tables near the back of this chic parfumerie. Sitting on a banquette upholstered in Harris’ signature fabric—citron yellow “sketched” with drawings of dahlias and other flowers (the same that you see on her packaging)—is like being on the shady side of a sunlit garden. With glittering bottles of perfume to one side and stacks of Marie Claire on the other, it’s girly heaven.

A thin, friendly man brings us two pots: I’m having The Petales, a blend of Ceylon and oolong teas scented with the same Turkish rose absolute and Madagascar vanilla Harris uses in her perfumes. I adore it, but it’s not for anyone who doesn’t love the flavor of rosewater. Serendipity’s choice is Bigarade, a more straightforward second flush Assam with a touch of Brazilian orange flower oil and vanilla.

We sink into blissful silence, sipping tea, admiring but not really wanting to try the pretty rose cupcakes on a glass stand opposite us. It’s almost like having a cup of tea at home—if you had fragile, very modern china in hues of mauve and green, black glass walls etched with exotic flowers, and could eavesdrop on naughty neighborhood gossip at the next table.

And if, after tea, you could drift through the salon trying on one enticing scent after another. Among them is L’Air de Rien, a bespoke perfume Harris created for Jane Birkin: the iconic 1960’s model, actress (Blow Up) and chanteuse ( “Je t’aime ….moi non plus”) who inspired Hermes to create the very desirable, wildly expensive, now classic Birkin bag.

Harris says that Birkin was seeking a fragrance that would remind her of her life in France: “something chic, original ethereal and airy, like an aura around the body.” Now L’Air de Rien loosely translates as “the scent of nothing” and indeed, when I sprayed a little on my wrists, rubbing them together—the saleswoman very pleasantly said, “Oh, never do that. Everyone does, but it bruises the fragrance.”—it had a lovely but nebulous scent that evaporated into ….nothing I could put my finger on. Vaguely alluring, but not exactly the “exquisite oriental fragrance of amber, vanilla, neroli, oak moss and sensual musks” described on the packaging.

So last Tuesday, when I unwrapped Serendipity’s birthday present to find a bottle of L’Air de Rien, you can imagine my surprise: It was rich and spicy, with the warm clove fragrance of cottage garden pinks—B would say Sweet William—so English, but then came that sneaky amber and musk. It's my new favorite perfume.

So what happened? It’s a mystery, certainly a delightful one. Maybe you have the answer?

A few weeks ago these lavender crocuses were swirling through the grass in Berkeley Square, the earliest harbingers of spring.