itron zest and bitter orange blossom rise first. Bright, delicate, and just slightly nostalgic, they evoke the crisp air outside a Paris café at dawn, where citrus groves and flower stalls seem to overlap.
A trace of ginger lingers in the air — not sharp, but soft and golden, like the warmth rising from a fresh croissant or the quiet energy of a city slowly waking.
Then comes rose. Not in bloom, but in breath. Whispers of petals and perfume rise from scarves, books, and passing strangers. It's a quiet elegance, softened by time.
A touch of coumarin finishes the scent, warm and faintly sweet, like powdered sugar on skin or steam curling off a morning cup.
Caffe Paris is a portrait of stillness in motion. A fragrance that lingers like conversation and leaves nothing unsaid.
