At the elegant address of 10 rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin in Paris, the perfume house of Bichara Malhame once cultivated an atmosphere of theatrical luxury and exotic mystique. Founded in 1896, the company emerged from the ambitions of Malhame, a native of Beirut who proudly styled himself “Le Parfumeur Syrien” — The Syrian Perfumer. His earliest operations were established not in Paris but in the Norman cities of Rouen and Dieppe, where he began producing aromatic cosmetics inspired by Eastern beauty traditions. From the very beginning, Bichara framed his creations with dramatic language and imagery. His fragrances were promoted as “parfums enivrants,” intoxicating perfumes capable of transporting the wearer into a dreamlike world of sensual scent.
The success of Bichara’s enterprise, however, began not with perfume but with a humble yet transformative beauty product. In 1899, he introduced Extrait de Henné Bichara, a hair dye based on henna that quickly became a sensation. Henna had long been used throughout the Middle East and North Africa as a natural cosmetic, but Bichara elevated it into a fashionable Parisian product. The extraordinary popularity of this dye generated the financial foundation that allowed him to expand into luxury perfumery. From that point onward, Bichara carefully cultivated an aura of opulence around his brand, presenting his boutique as a place where the mystique of the Orient met the elegance of Parisian society.
His advertising embraced this exotic identity with striking confidence. One famous slogan proclaimed: “Allah est grand et Bichara est son parfumeur”—loosely translated as “God is great, and Bichara is His perfumer.” Though playful and theatrical, the phrase captured the bold spirit of a man who understood the power of spectacle in marketing. Bichara’s shop windows, press campaigns, and product packaging all reinforced this image of Eastern luxury filtered through French sophistication.
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Beyond perfumes, Bichara developed a wide range of beauty preparations. His Le Henné Bichara continued to be celebrated as a superior henna treatment for the hair. For the eyes he created cosmetics that echoed the ancient traditions of Middle Eastern adornment. Around 1913, the company introduced Mokoheul, a form of kohl eyeliner, which remained extremely popular well into the 1920s. Another eye cosmetic, Cillana, appeared in advertisements of the same period. These products were promoted not merely as makeup but as preparations for “charme, beauté, santé des yeux”—charm, beauty, and the health of the eyes. The house also produced Eau des Roses Syrie, a rosewater preparation intended to brighten and refresh the complexion, as well as Firouza Bichara, a nail polish presented in an elegant turned wooden box, a charming example of the elaborate packaging typical of the era.
The early twentieth century saw Bichara’s reputation grow dramatically thanks to the patronage of celebrities and intellectuals. Among his most famous admirers was the legendary French actress Sarah Bernhardt, who publicly endorsed his perfumes and reportedly considered them among her favorites. The house attracted an extraordinary clientele drawn from the artistic elite of the time. The playwright Edmond Rostand, author of Cyrano de Bergerac, famously described Bichara as “the poet of perfume.” Other patrons included the composer Gabriel Fauré, the flamboyant Italian writer Gabriele d'Annunzio, and the celebrated stage actor Édouard de Max. Such associations strengthened the brand’s aura of sophistication and artistic prestige.
Bichara’s influence extended beyond Parisian salons into the courts of Europe and the Middle East. The company reportedly supplied perfumes to the royal court of Egypt, and by the early 1920s advertisements proudly declared Bichara to be an official supplier to the courts of Spain, Egypt, Bulgaria, and even to the hereditary princess of Monaco. During this period the brand expanded internationally, opening a luxurious fashion boutique in London where it introduced the concept of “couture-made perfumes,” fragrances presented with the same sense of individuality and refinement associated with haute couture garments.
The company’s visual identity also evolved over time. Early labels on Bichara products depicted a dramatic allegory: the perfumer himself seizing the mythological figure Fortune by the hair, accompanied by the inscription “Comment Bichara saisit la fortune”—“How Bichara seizes fortune.” The image was both humorous and symbolic, acknowledging that his initial success had come from the wildly profitable henna hair treatment. In the 1920s, the label designs were modernized by the artist F. L. Schied, who rendered them in the sleek geometric language of Art Deco, reflecting the changing tastes of the interwar era.
Bichara’s flair for self-mythology even appeared in the design of certain perfume bottles. Some flacons, produced with stoppers by Baccarat, featured a stopper sculpted in the likeness of Bichara himself—depicted not as a modern perfumer but as an Egyptian pharaoh, a playful nod to the ancient roots of perfumery and to the Oriental imagery that defined his brand.
When Bichara Malhame died in 1930, leadership of the company passed to his daughter Rose Malhame. Although the firm continued producing perfumes and cosmetics for several decades, the grandeur and theatrical presentation that had characterized its golden years gradually faded. Later creations, such as the oddly titled Handle with Care in 1945, suggested a shift away from the lavish exoticism that once defined the brand. Nevertheless, the house survived into the 1950s, leaving behind a fascinating chapter in perfume history—a story of a Beirut-born entrepreneur who transformed a henna hair dye into an international luxury brand and earned the affectionate title “poet of perfume.”
Her father had practiced this art at the turn of the twentieth century. A trained chemist of Syrian descent who settled in Paris around 1895, Bichara became renowned for composing personal perfumes for many of the era’s most celebrated cultural figures. Among them were the legendary actress Sarah Bernhardt, the luminous ballerina Anna Pavlova, the Russian operatic bass Feodor Chaliapin, the flamboyant writer Gabriele d'Annunzio, and the novelist Colette. Each of these clients received a fragrance composed specifically for them—a formula meant to harmonize with their personality as naturally as a favorite melody or a distinctive style of dress.
Rose Malhame spoke about that period with a mixture of nostalgia and quiet pride. When visitors entered her Paris apartment, they stepped into a small sanctuary of the past. The rooms were filled with antique furniture, Persian carpets, Oriental shawls, and gleaming silver, objects that seemed to hold the memory of another age. Even more evocative was the lingering scent of the perfumes her father had created decades earlier. The air itself seemed infused with the echoes of that earlier Parisian elegance, untouched by the hurried modern world outside her windows.
To Rose, the culture of perfume in those days was profoundly different from the way fragrance was understood in the late twentieth century. Perfume was not primarily associated with seduction or overt sensuality. Instead, it was part of a refined appreciation of beauty. Elegant women might perfume their bed linens, wardrobes, and handkerchiefs, surrounding themselves with fragrance simply because they delighted in its presence. The scented handkerchief, discreetly raised to the nose, was once an everyday accessory—a small private luxury. Rose remarked wryly that modern women no longer carried handkerchiefs at all; they had replaced them with disposable tissues, a symbol to her of changing manners.
She described this earlier relationship to perfume as almost “narcissistic” or “psychic.” Fragrance was meant to enhance one’s sense of well-being, creating a state of serenity and pleasure. The names of Bichara’s perfumes reflected this philosophy. A fragrance called “Nirvana,” for example, suggested a dreamlike sense of bliss and self-abandonment—an emotional experience rather than a mere cosmetic accessory.
Rose also spoke candidly about the changing cultural attitudes of her time. With a gentle smile she suggested that the modern fixation on sexuality in perfume advertising seemed rather simplistic compared to the subtler elegance of earlier decades. People had the same passions, she acknowledged, but they expressed them with greater sophistication. Style itself meant something different then—it was a matter of grace, restraint, and personal taste.
Her apartment also preserved tangible memories of her father’s remarkable clientele. Photographs dedicated to him by famous artists lined the walls, many signed with affectionate inscriptions. The writer Colette, who admired Bichara deeply, even referred to him in one of her books as her “kind alchemist friend.” Among Rose’s most treasured possessions was the original perfume formula her father had composed specifically for Colette—designed, she said, to reflect the author’s witty and lively temperament. Colette had also relied on Bichara for her cosmetics, particularly the traditional kohl eyeliner he produced, which she used to accentuate her large expressive eyes.
By the 1970s, the Bichara perfumes were no longer widely sold in shops. Instead, a small circle of devoted clients continued to obtain them directly from Rose. Orders were prepared by a laboratory and shipped quietly to customers across Europe and overseas. Among these loyal admirers was the American actress Helen Hayes, who regularly requested bottles of Nirvana to be sent to her.
For Rose Malhame, perfume remained deeply personal—something that should resonate with the inner life of the wearer. “Perfume has to be in harmony with one’s state of mind,” she insisted. “It is a matter of taste.” Observing the cultural shifts around her, she believed there were signs that society might once again rediscover the virtues of quality, harmony, and elegance. Just as fashion and art occasionally returned to classical refinement, she hoped perfume too might someday return to a more gracious and romantic style of living—one scented with flowers.
The "Intoxicating Perfumes" of Bichara:
- 1913 Nirvana (still sold in 1939)
- 1913 Myrbaha
- 1913 Yahvahna
- 1913 Ambre (still sold in 1939)
- 1913 Nahila
- 1913 Violette Des Damas
- 1913 Ambre Egyptien
- 1913 Mokoheul (kohl eye makeup)
- 1913 Eau de Roses de Syrie (skin freshener)
- 1913 Roses de Syrie
- 1913 Eau d'Albanie
- 1913 Chypre de Limassol
- 1913 Syriana
- 1913 Therapia
- 1913 Emirah
- 1913 Fullah
- 1913 Leila
- 1913 Cillana
- 1913 Sakountala (still sold in 1939)
- 1917 Saisit la Fortune
- 1920 Bosphora
- 1920 Chypre (still sold in 1939)
- 1921 Cabiria
- 1921 Rose Dame
- 1921 Liliana
- 1922 Delices de Pera
- 1922 Gaudika
- 1928 Ramses II
- 1930s 8 Mai
- 1930s 3 Couleurs
- 1945 Handle With Care
- 1947 Viens
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One his finest perfume presentations was for the 1928 perfume Ramses II, in a tall, obelisk shaped bottle decorated with Egyptian hieroglyphs. The bottle was manufactured by the Cristalleries de Saint-Louis. This bottle is rarely found today and when it does surface, it commands high prices fit for a pharaoh himself. A recent auction estimate was $7,000-$10,500.
Another fine perfume presentation was for the perfume Myrbaha, launched in 1913, Baccarat bottle, frosted stopper in shape of pharaoh's head with grey patina. I have seen this bottle also used for Nirvana, Ambre, Yahvahna and Chypre perfumes. 5 7/8" tall. I have also had this stopper on a very rare pyramid shaped bottle before. Estimate: $1,000-$1,500. Price realized at auction: $1,200. The pharaoh's head stopper was most frequently seen on the bottle shape below, as well as the more rare pyramid shaped base.
The pyramid based bottle held Myrbaha perfume, and other scents too. I have had the fortune of owning this perfume bottle in the past and had sold it on ebay around 2002, later that year, it appeared in a well known auction house and sold for just $632. Another auction house sold this shape bottle for $4,125 with the perfume Syriana.
