Mall Memories

This is the first story in Scent Access Memory aka SAM, a 12-part editorial series with Are.na about scent and memory, culminating in a bespoke perfume launch with UFO Parfums. 

To kick us off, Terry Nguyen writes about bottling up her mall-rat years.

When the retail apocalypse finally comes for my humble hometown mall, my one wish is for Auntie Anne’s to be spared. My hope is, in the mixed-use residential complex that will inevitably replace Main Place Mall, Auntie Anne’s will survive. The aroma of brown butter, sugar, and cinnamon is as irresistible as it is timeless. 

The allure is purely olfactory, of course. Auntie Anne’s pretzels always smell better than they taste, though I succumb to the temptation every time. Upon entering the mall, it envelops my nostrils like a warm hug. The kiosk’s glowing sign imbues a warmth upon the surrounding commercial environment, softening the cool-toned lighting, glass displays, and ceramic tiles. A fixture of American malls since the ‘90s, Auntie Anne’s beckons you to idle and indulge. Stay awhile, the scent says. Smell the pretzels.

This past December, I walked into a luxury Southern California mall that smells like a fancy hotel lobby. My parents often took me there as a child to see the Christmas lights, but the linen-fresh scent evoked nothing in my memory. The commercial fragrance was unfamiliar and consistently fresh (I suspected nebulizing diffusers were planted throughout), without any hint of bleach or food court grease puncturing the sterile bergamot. Indeed, South Coast Plaza is not a “regular” suburban mall (though it is squarely located in the Orange County suburbs) but a “global shopping destination” with over 200 designer stores and boutiques. Instead of a food court, it boasts an artisanal churro stand, European-style bakeries, and white tablecloth restaurants, which are completely inodorous to passersby. 

There is no obvious olfactory persuasion at play to convince shoppers to eat and linger at South Coast Plaza. The designer-clad clientele has money to spend and is intent on spending it. An Auntie Anne’s or a Cinnabon or a Mrs. Fields might be welcomed by the kids, but I suspect the middle-class nature of these sugary sweets wouldn’t sit right with the health-conscious elite. They prefer the deodorizing essence of a juice bar.

South Coast Plaza will, without a doubt, survive the retail apocalypse. Walking around its shiny, spotless floors, I passed by Forever 21, Victoria’s Secret, Bath and Body Works, and Abercrombie & Fitch, retailers that defined my teenage mall-rat years. Yet I felt oddly detached towards their presence, as if the Abercrombie & Fitch was a Rehearsal-like simulation and not the real thing: The wood-paneled storefront revealed a bright interior, from which I could not get a whiff of A&F’s late-aughts signature musk. After a quick Google search, I learned the store had replaced its iconic “Fierce” cologne with a gender-neutral, white bergamot fragrance. Without Fierce’s intoxicating fumes, my fondness for A&F, or a past version of the brand, had dissipated.