Every Easter, my mother baked. I was always underfoot, wanting to help, really just waiting to lick the whisk. Butter, sugar, eggs, fresh vanilla bean steeped in warm milk. Not the finished cake. Just that, quiet, raw, and already perfect. GÂTEAU DES ANGES is my attempt to bottle it.
A flormand fragrance, floral vanilla at its heart, but vanilla as it was meant to be. Subtle. Sophisticated.