They said it was a joke. A cologne bottled like a toilet and christened Pinnace, as if a perfume could escape ridicule by sailing under a name better suited for a sinking ship. But the first man who wore it—Frankie Dobbins, a retired mortician with a limp and no sense of irony—entered a deli in Queens and left with three phone numbers and a free pastrami. The smell, they said, was unnerving. Not because it was bad. Because it was beautiful. A haunting kind of beautiful, like jasmine blooming ...