Cassis and Its Hidden Perfumed History

Let me tell you a story about Blackcurrant. Not the kind spooned into jams or stirred into champagnes to make Kir Royales. This is a wilder, more electric blackcurrant; aromatic, alchemical, extraordinary. The kind that bruises the air when you brush past it. The kind that once slipped between the fingers of monks and apothecaries, perfumed royal gardens, and now, centuries later, finds itself bottled into perfumes that smell like memory and reinvention. If this sounds enticing, find out more in Cassis and its Hidden Perfumed History.

Once, Blackcurrant (or Cassis, as the French call it) was a secret tucked inside scrolls of medieval medicine. Ancient physicians praised it for its ‘curing powers’, prescribing it for fevers, inflammation, and even fatigue. In monasteries, its leaves and berries were steeped into dark, glinting tinctures, passed hand to hand like a whispered spell. In 16th-century France, Cassis was cultivated in cloisters and royal orchards, prized not just for its fruit but for its dusky and resinous scent, released literally when one brushes against a leaf.

Ribes Nigrum, Jerzy Opiola (9 May 2006), Wikimedia Commons

By the 1800s, Cassis had begun another life; this time as indulgence. In Dijon, distillers transformed it into Crème de Cassis, turning a once medicinal plant into something decadent. Mixed with champagne, it birthed the Kir Royale; folded into sweets, a flavor of quiet sophistication. Cassis had changed ‘clothes’, from healer to hedonist. And yet, in perfumery, it remained in the wings: too sharp, too wild, perhaps for the gentle floral compositions that dominated the time. It was the secret in the background, rarely the star of the show. 

Then, for a while, Cassis simply vanished. In the early 20th century, the United States banned Blackcurrant cultivation, blaming it for a disease that threatened white pine trees. Entire generations grew up without tasting it, without catching its wine-dark scent in the air. In Europe, it lingered quietly, used more often to bolster other notes than to speak for itself. Cassis was a ghost: present but unseen, essential yet overlooked.

Maison Louis Marie’s Antidris Cassis (Eau de Parfum)

Which is why Antidris Cassis, an Eau de Parfum by Maison Louis Marie, feels so quietly radical. Here, Cassis doesn’t hide. It bursts forward from the very first breath: lust, tart, electric; with Bergamot and Black Pepper crackling around its edges. It doesn’t ask for permission. It’s immediate, like the opening line of a novel you know will stay with you. A White Rose blooms at its heart, faint and papery like a forgotten letter, while Oak moss, Tonic and Musk anchor it to the skin in long, trailing sentences. 

This isn’t just a fragrance; it’s reclamation. Maison Louis Marie is a house steeped in botanical legacy. Its founder, Marie du Petit Thouars, traces her lineage to a botanist exiled during the French Revolution, Louis Marie Aubert du Petit Thouars, who spent a decade on the islands of Madagascar and Mauritius, gathering over 2,000 plant specimens to bring home to France.

That spirit of resilience, curiosity and quiet wonder, runs through every one of the brand’s creations. Antidris Cassis is crafted with clean, non-toxic ingredients, never tested on animals, and built to let nature its story without interference. 

And what a story Cassis tells when it’s finally allowed to. It doesn’t seduce with sugar or overwhelm with spice. It doesn’t shout. It intrigues, slowly, richly, like a plot that demands your patience and rewards it with depth. In Antidris Cassis, the blackcurrant is no longer a background hum. It’s the melody, the heartbeat, the ink on the page. 

After centuries of exile and obscurity, Cassis has found its voice. And in the right hands, it becomes something more than a mere note or flavor. It becomes literature; the kind you can wear on your skin.