There is a certain corner of the internet, a hushed, minimalist, beige-toned space, where rational thought goes to die. It’s here, between an ad for a $900 cashmere sweater and a tutorial on how to look “effortlessly chic,” that I first saw it. The Candle. It wasn’t just a candle; it was the candle. It sat in a stark, weighty glass vessel, adorned with nothing but a cream-colored label and a name that seemed designed to be mispronounced: “Maison de la Prétention.” The price tag? A cool $80.
My current candle, purchased from a supermarket aisle, is called “Cozy Apple Pie.” It cost $12 and it smells, predictably, like a warm apple pie. But according to the description, this $80 marvel offered something more. It wasn’t a scent; it was an experience. It promised an “olfactory journey.” It was, and I quote, “A transportive aroma that evokes the precise moment twilight falls upon a forgotten Nordic library, with top notes of crackling firewood, a heart of ancient leather-bound books, and a base of quiet, lingering melancholy.”
I had so many questions. What does quiet melancholy smell like? A bit dusty? Slightly damp? And can a block of wax truly transport me to a Nordic library, or will it just make my apartment, which currently smells faintly of last night’s tacos, smell like an expensive fire? There was only one way to find out. I clicked “add to cart,” took a deep breath, and prepared to embark on my $80 journey.
The Ritual of Arrival: Unpacking an $80 Block of Wax
A week later, a heavy, cube-shaped box arrived. The unboxing of a luxury product is a crucial part of the experience, a ritual designed to reassure you that you haven’t just made a terrible financial decision. The box for “Crépuscule d’Hiver” (Winter Twilight) did not disappoint. It was made of thick, textured cardstock that felt important in my hands.
Lifting the lid revealed not a candle, but a perfectly folded piece of black tissue paper, sealed with a branded sticker. Peeling it back felt like an archaeological dig. Beneath it lay a small, embossed card detailing the brand’s “philosophy” on the “art of scent terroir.” Finally, nestled in a custom-fit recess, was the candle itself.
It was heavy. The glass was thick, the label was beautifully typeset, and the wax was a serene, creamy white. I held it up to my nose for a pre-burn sniff. It smelled… nice. It was complex, certainly. It was woody and a little smoky, but in a very clean, deliberate way. I couldn’t definitively identify “ancient leather-bound books,” but I could maybe get a hint of “very expensive new textbook.” So far, so good. The product felt substantial. It felt luxurious. But the journey had not yet begun.
Lighting the Wick of Truth: What Does Melancholy Actually Smell Like?
For two full days, the candle sat on my coffee table, unlit. This is “candle anxiety,” the fear of actually using the precious object you spent an absurd amount of money on. What if I didn’t like it? What if I burned it for an hour and then decided I’d rather have the $80?
Finally, I summoned the courage. With the reverence usually reserved for lighting an Olympic torch, I lit the wick. A small, elegant flame sprang to life. I sat back and waited for my transportation to the Nordic library.
After about twenty minutes, a scent began to fill the room. And I must admit, it was a fantastic scent. It was subtle, sophisticated, and deeply pleasant. It was the olfactory equivalent of an expensive, dark gray cashmere sweater. It smelled clean, warm, and vaguely mysterious. It smelled rich.
But was I on an olfactory journey? I closed my eyes. I tried to conjure the image of a forgotten Nordic library. I pictured fjords, roaring fires, and handsome, bearded librarians named Lars. I opened my eyes. I was still in my living room. I could see a pile of laundry I needed to fold and could still smell the lingering ghost of those tacos. The candle hadn’t transformed my reality, but it had given it a very pleasant, very expensive-smelling overlay. The “quiet, lingering melancholy” note, I decided, smells a lot like sandalwood.
The Economics of Scent: An $80 Journey vs. A $10 Trip
Here is where a skeptic’s brain kicks into high gear. Let’s do the “scents-ibility” math. The Maison de la Prétention website promises a 60-hour burn time. At a price of $80, that comes out to approximately $1.33 per hour of olfactory journeying.
For $80, I could also buy:
- A fantastic dinner for two at my favorite local restaurant.
- Nearly a year’s subscription to a premium streaming service.
- A round-trip bus ticket to a nearby city for an actual journey.
- Eight of my beloved “Cozy Apple Pie” candles from the supermarket.
The question is no longer “does it smell good?” The question is “does it smell $70 better than its cheaper cousin?” The luxury candle’s “throw”—the distance its scent travels—was decent, but not life-changing. It filled my living room, but it didn’t greet me at the front door. It was a localized pocket of extreme luxury in a sea of normal-smelling air.
And then there’s the placebo effect. Did my apartment feel more sophisticated because of the unique blend of essential oils, or because my brain knew that the source of the smell was an $80 status symbol sitting on my coffee table? Was I enjoying the aroma of “ancient books,” or was I enjoying the idea of myself as the kind of person who casually burns an $80 candle on a Tuesday night? This, I suspect, is the true secret ingredient.
The Verdict: Was the Olfactory Journey Worth the Price of Admission?
After a week with “Crépuscule d’Hiver,” I have reached a conclusion. The olfactory journey it promised was, for the most part, a marketing fantasy. It did not transport my soul to Scandinavia. It did not fill me with a sense of poetic, lingering melancholy.
What it did was make my apartment smell really, really nice. It made it smell like a fancy hotel lobby or the home of someone who has their life far more together than I do. The candle itself is a beautiful object, a small piece of minimalist sculpture that elevates a coffee table.
An $80 candle is not about scent alone. It is a multi-layered product. You’re paying for the story, the heavy glass, the chic packaging, the status of the brand name, and the feeling of indulgence it gives you. It’s an act of self-care, a tiny, accessible piece of a world of luxury that is mostly inaccessible. It’s less of a journey and more of a luxury staycation for your nostrils.
I will enjoy this candle down to the last drop of its melancholic wax. But when it’s gone, I can’t say I’ll be booking another trip with Maison de la Prétention. My next olfactory journey will be to the “Fall Harvest” section of my local grocery store. The destination is just as pleasant, and thankfully, the ticket is a lot cheaper.
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