Caramel Black Tea: All the velvet of a memory
Because each creation captures a suspended moment, Caramel imagines itself as a hushed ballad from the 90s, a soft song infused in the shadow of a student studio, somewhere between two revisions, two daydreams.
Caramel tea is created with a base of well-balanced black teas from China and Ceylon. Its infusion reveals a warm, deep, and reassuring mahogany color. The liqueur is silky and enveloping, unfolding a warm aromatic richness on the palate. From the first sips, the melting notes of caramel assert themselves elegantly, without being overly sweet, evoking in turn the indulgence of dulce de leche and the regressive sweetness of sweetened condensed milk, tender memories of childhood desserts.
October under the roofs
It was October, in Paris, in a student room with yellowed wallpaper, somewhere in the 5th arrondissement. They were both in modern literature, sitting on the floor on an old floral rug, between piles of dog-eared Folio books, fluorescent highlighters, and a Discman plugged into small, crackling speakers. Their favorite song, "Caramel" by Suzanne Vega, was playing on repeat.
Midterms were approaching, but time seemed to drag. They reviewed their coursework in hushed voices, exchanged wry smiles, and shared a cup of black tea brewed in a chipped old teapot. The caramel hung in the air, sweet and reassuring, like an oversized sweater borrowed from the other. Nothing extraordinary. Just the simple magic of an afternoon of studying together.
Whispers and dissertations
With each sip, memories awaken. The caramel evokes the soft candies we bought after school, the impromptu snacks of sliced bread and jam, and the evenings spent copying our index cards by hand, for lack of a printer. The black tea, deep and enveloping, recalls the silent hours spent side by side, between dissertations on Racine or Barthes. And always, that music, in the background—Suzanne Vega, The Cranberries, a hint of Portishead. No Wi-Fi, no distractions, just the murmur of hot tea and dreams of literature. There's no rush. Everything is there. The 20th century slowly drawing to a close.
A promise of sweetness, transmitted without noise
Today, they still live in Paris. They're married, a little less bohemian, a little more organized—but in their kitchen, among the tea caddies lined up on the shelf, there's still the one from Le Caramel. Every morning, they prepare a pot of it, the same recipe, the same aroma, which their children now recognize as the taste of family breakfast.
Between toast, schoolbags to pack, and hair to style, they share this sweet ritual, this legacy of their twenties. A sip, a knowing glance, and everything comes back: dreams of letters, pages read aloud, timid beginnings and hazy tomorrows.
Caramel is that invisible link between eras, that thread woven with tenderness, soft music, and sweet memories. A tea for those who grew up without ceasing to dream.
