A backstreet Absinthe bar in Paris, a place of scandal; all low-lights, dark leathers and emerald velvets, curls of smoke hanging in the air.

The herbaceous scent rising as water is slowly poured over the Absinthe, drip by drip. Earthy leathers are pierced with spicy saffron: the warmth of the fire beside the armchair in the corner. Exotic spices linger over dark woods. It's a place you can't help but want to come back to.