I’ve noticed that spending time at The Maker Cafe – whether for a quick latte or a leisurely lunch – always leaves me feeling a touch more elevated, elegant, and aesthetically nourished. I find myself stepping back out onto Warren Street with a graceful stride. The Maker is expert at serving fantasy (along with a good latte) and creating a felt experience.
The felt experience The Maker is creating through the month of February is a concept called The Lover Cafe. The joy and romance of the space has been dialed up, bringing bright, whimsical pastries and a Lover’s Latte dotted with rose petals to the menu. A writer’s desk is stationed off to the side, and features a vintage Remington typewriter, colored pencils and creamy letterhead. Guests are invited to compose love letters to their beloveds, which The Maker WILL MAIL OUT using the equally vintage United States Postal Service.
The thought of finding a tangible love letter tucked into my mailbox with the usual bills and flyers makes my heart feel sweet and tender, so I decide to mail one to my mom, my friends, and my romantic partner (because love comes in many forms).
The writer’s desk also features the newest Maker fragrance, The Lover, which just launched and is the cause for this hullabaloo. I find all of The Maker fragrances lovely in their own right, but this heady mix of fig, jasmine, oud, and vetiver is a genuine standout.
The Lover is billed as being “inspired by true intimacy”, and one spritz communicates why. The scent is woody, sophisticated, androgynous. I imagine it finding it’s audience among early adherents of Le Labo’s Santal 33 who moved on before peak saturation and are looking for their next scent experience. From my side of things, THIS scent experience is akin to being nuzzled; by someone sexy and down to earth who is wearing long fiber cashmere. I close my eyes and inhale deeply to let my imagination confirm the details. Yep. This is indeed the fantasy of The Lover scent— which The Maker expertly serves.
As I slide back into my seat, I keep stealing inhales of my wrist. I sip the last of my Lover’s Latte and mentally compose the love notes I plan to type. The scent of The Lover mellows on my skin into something layered and comforting (like true intimacy, indeed), and I swear that I’m feeling a touch more amorous and bright by the time that I step back onto Warren Street, smiling at strangers in the bleakest days of winter. They smile back. Probably because I smell fantastic. (And maybe they want to be nuzzled.)
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