Mr Nuit takes influence from Armani's Eau De Nuit: an oriental fougere with dominant notes of iris, tonka and heliotrope. A soft but sensual fragrance, perfect for a date or formal night-out.
Paris, 2013. A young, clean-cut Frenchman by the name of Claude has just woken up for work on a cold and misty November morning. He’s tall and mysterious looking with short, dark hair and sharp features. His eyes are narrow and playful; his lips small but full.
Claude leads a humble day job at Du Pain et des Idées – one of Paris’s finest bakeries – and, by night is a poet, with a regular Monday set at Au Chat Noir – a lively street corner bar in Rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud. He lives in a smart studio apartment in nearby Rue de Vaucouleurs, which he shares with his cat, Mia.
The time is 8:30am and Claude wastes no time in jumping in the shower, where he gently scrubs his skin using a pink pepper and bergamot soap. Following a wash and a dry, he then puts on a black shirt and a pair of black trousers. The all-black look suits Claude well and gives him an air of mystery and sophistication.
With breakfast out the way and Mia fed, Claude departs for work. Today is just like any other day at Du Pain et des Idées, with customers arriving by the dozens in search of local taste sensations. Almond croissants are among one of the first items to go and give the bakery a comforting frangipane aroma that clings to Claude’s clothes and follows him throughout the day.
Claude’s warm disposition is well suited to the bakery. Regular customers often remark at what a great listener he is, and how teasingly he upsells the baked goods on offer. Just his smile alone is enough to entice people through the door.
Whenever a quiet moment arises at the bakery, Claude takes the time to work on his poetry. His latest offering, Midnight Bird – which he’ll be showcasing that evening – is a collection of five poems that centre on his own experience of being a night owl and what that means in practice.
Claude is what you might call a nocturnal animal. Early mornings are his worst nightmare and dark evenings are his best friend. As soon as the sun sets, Claude's spirit comes alive, and with it, a creative expression that few can harness, let alone make a living out of. Tonight’s gig is set to be one of his most important yet and he can’t afford to fluff it up.
The time is now 9pm, and, having returned home, eaten and napped, Claude is ready to leave for Au Chat Noir, this time in a black polo neck and a pair of smart jeans. The bar is a short walk from his home, and, with time to spare before his set, Claude uses the opportunity to rehearse his lines one last time.
As he arrives at the bar, he is greeted by a pleasing waft of amber and cedar, which he traces to a scented candle in the corner of the room. The smell puts him instantly at ease. With his poems memorised and vocal cords primed, Claude makes his way onto the stage, the eager crowd hungry and waiting. Hungry and waiting for Mr Nuit: the man of the night.
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