Let’s be honest: nobody buys their first gin because of the liquid. They buy it because of the bottle.

And here’s my confession: I don’t even drink alcohol but I’d still be tempted to buy a bottle of gin purely for the design. That’s the power of branding.

You can perfect your craft, balance your botanicals, even snag a medal or two, but on a crowded shelf, what gets someone to reach for your gin isn’t the recipe. It’s the glass it lives in. The bottle is your first handshake, your opening line, your story distilled before the cork even pops.

The Psychology of a Bottle

A great bottle does more than look good it makes you feel something. Prestige. Playfulness. Rebellion. Refinement. That moment the reach, the touch, the turn of the label is where branding meets desire.

Take Circus Gin, designed by Studio Unbound. Instead of another “botanical garden in a bottle,” it went full spectacle: bold red enamel stripes like a circus tent, a peaked crown like a stage prop, and a label styled as a vintage ticket. It’s disruptive, playful, and still premium. The design doesn’t whisper “gin with rosemary.” It shouts: you’re here for a show.

When Pretty Isn’t Enough

The craft gin boom has been both a blessing and a curse. Ten years ago, a leafy illustration was enough to signal “artisanal.” Today, there are thousands of gins fighting for attention, and most of them look the same.

Which means packaging isn’t decoration it’s differentiation.
Done well, a bottle can:

✔ Tell your brand’s story in an instant
✔ Create an emotional connection that keeps people loyal
✔ Command attention on a crowded back bar or retail shelf
✔ Justify a premium price before anyone even tastes it

And crucially, design also dictates how people use your gin. A squat, rustic bottle feels perfect for a Sunday G&T at home. A tall, sculptural one belongs on a cocktail bar, lit up like an object of desire. The form itself decides the setting.

Designs That Stop You in Your Tracks

Some bottles are more than packaging they’re theatre, sculpture, or lifestyle objects in their own right. They stop you mid-scroll or mid-shelf, and you remember them long after the first sip. Here are a few I love.

• Adamus Gin: Minimalist and faceted, with a wooden cap and clean geometry. Luxury here comes from restraint it’s purity bottled.

• Gin David: A full bust of Michelangelo’s David, frosted to mimic Carrara marble. Less bottle, more collectible art piece.

• Basalt Volcanic Rock Gin: Heavy, textured, black matte glass that feels carved from lava. Brutal, bold, and elemental.

• One Key Gin: A cobalt-blue block with no cap opened only by a hidden key in the base. Packaging as ritual.

• Studer Swiss Gold Gin: A clear globe encasing a glass Swiss mountain, with gold flakes shimmering inside. Storytelling you can drink.

• Dr. Squid Gin: A copper canister embossed with a squid, housing gin that pours black before turning pink. Theatrical, Instagram-bait genius.

• Procera Green Dot: Hand-blown glass finished with a wax seal and leather cord, celebrating Kenyan juniper with artisanal honesty.

• Tasmaniac Distillers Gin: Apothecary-style, simple and rugged, carrying Tasmania’s sense of place in its understated form.

• Papa Salt Gin: Minimal, frosted, and approachable—lifestyle branding over prestige. A gin made for summer tables, not gilded bars.

• Gin 44°N: Faceted cobalt glass and gold accents, echoing a perfume flacon. Couture gin that feels more Dior than distillery.

Ten very different bottles, one truth: the liquid matters, but the vessel makes you fall in love.

More Than a Vessel

The best bottles don’t just hold liquid they hold meaning. They create that little spark of desire: I want to touch this. I want this on my bar cart. I want to be seen drinking this.

And here’s the truth: if your bottle doesn’t make someone want to pick it up, why would they believe what’s inside is worth drinking?

The Takeaway

Gin may be about craft, but branding is about seduction. The future belongs to the bottles that dare to be different not just pretty, not just premium, but unforgettable.

So tell me: which bottles have made you stop, stare, and buy before you even tasted what was inside?

À bientôt,
Mary

What started as a single gelato store in Darlinghurst has grown into something much bigger: an Australian institution with lines out the door, limited-edition flavours selling out in minutes, and a cult following that treats a scoop of Gelato Messina like a ticket to the in-crowd.

Messina is proof that in hospitality, the product is only half the story. Plenty of shops make excellent gelato. Few make people feel this level of attachment..

It’s Not Just the Gelato

Yes, their flavours are creative. Yes, their ingredients are top-tier. Yes, they’re obsessive enough to make their own chocolate and run their own dairy farm. But craft alone doesn’t create a cult.

The real alchemy lies in how Messina wraps the product in a complete brand world. One that’s playful, obsessive, and distinctly its own.

The Full-Sensory Set

Walking into a Messina store isn’t a transactional moment, it’s an entry point into their universe. Retro-inspired colours pulse against cheeky chalkboard flavour names. Quirky illustrated wallpaper lines the walls. Neon signs glow like a wink from across the room. The music feels intentional, just cool enough to notice, but not trying too hard.

Even the way staff hand over your cone feels like part of the choreography.

Every detail is considered because every detail is a brand signal. And those signals, layered over time, build the kind of emotional connection most businesses would kill for.

Branding That Winks at You

Messina’s flavour names aren’t just cute they’re branding shorthand. Dr. Evil’s Magic Mushroom. Robert Brownie Jr. Pavlova the Great. Each one taps into nostalgia, pop culture, or humour. You’re not just ordering gelato you’re part of an inside joke.

And this is the genius: it’s not fluff. Behind the playful exterior is serious integrity. Messina doesn’t cut corners, and they make their process visible. That transparency turns customers into advocates. They’re not just fans of the taste they’re fans of the ethos.

Lessons Other Brands Should Steal

For brands in hospitality, Messina is a masterclass:

1. Keep Them Guessing
Limited-time drops, unpredictable collaborations (HBO’s True Blood, Uber’s Ice Cream on Demand) and seasonal menus mean you never know exactly what’s next but you know you don’t want to miss it.

2. Design the Experience, Not Just the Logo
Messina’s identity doesn’t stop at the sign out front. It’s in the packaging, the playlist, the banter at the counter. All of it shapes the memory.

3. Show Your Work
Messina owns its craft and shares it openly. They don’t just tell you they care they prove it in everything from their dairy to their chocolate-making.

4. Use Social Media as a Narrative
Their Instagram isn’t a gallery, it’s an unfolding story. Every flavour drop is a plot twist. Every behind-the-scenes moment makes you feel closer to the brand.

From Scoop to Icon

What Messina has built is more than a gelato brand: it’s a movement. You don’t just buy from them; you belong with them. You’re part of their inside jokes, their seasonal rituals, their hype cycles. And that belonging? That’s the real currency of modern branding.

Because the truth is, the best brands aren’t about the product alone. They’re about the world you build around it a world people want to enter, explore, and return to, again and again. It’s why someone will queue in the rain for a scoop, book a table months in advance, or cross the city for “their” place.

So next time you think about your own brand, zoom out for a moment. Are you just serving the thing you sell… or are you creating the experience people want to keep living in?

And here’s the twist: that experience doesn’t have to be loud, or quirky, or even “fun” in the way Messina is. It just has to be unmistakably yours. It has to feel like stepping into a space or an idea that only you could have made.

Because the best brands live beyond the moment.
You carry them with you, and they pull you back for more.

À bientôt,
Mary

Five years ago, I became the unlikely co-founder of a pastry business.

Me someone with no real background in hospitality. No serious passion for food (at least not then), and barely two years into running my own freelance design studio. French by birth, sure, so maybe pastries were always in my blood. But I didn’t grow up dreaming of opening a café or a restaurant. I didn’t have a grand hospitality plan. I just fell into it—alongside my fiancé—and we started something.

Today, that something is a pastry shop on the east coast of Australia, in the center of a small coastal town. We’ve been open for two and a half years now. And while it takes up a huge amount of my time, energy, and headspace: t’s also shaped how I see the world. Especially as a brand designer.

I don’t look at hospitality the same way anymore.

I notice the menu layout. The quality of the greeting. The music. The chairs. The smell. The dust in the counter. The way the food is plated. The details that feel intentional or not. And of course, the branding. To which I now pay double the attention.

In fact, I probably judge a bit too much. I’ve found myself in situations where I chose a restaurant purely based on how strong and beautiful their brand identity looked. Without even checking the menu.

We live in a time where image often comes first even before taste or quality. That applies to restaurants too. Branding can elevate, seduce, and persuade. But it can also mislead.

Not long ago, I passed by a new fine dining spot and instantly fell in love… with the branding.

Before even stepping inside, I was intrigued. The whole identity felt intimate, confident, and quietly luxurious. The aesthetic was dark and cinematic, with a coastal edge not breezy or beachy, but tactile and grounded.

Think: deep burgundy walls, raw concrete, black and white accents, touches of red. A bold, unfussy logo that felt architectural and assertive. The use of blur, grain, and negative space suggested mystery, restraint, exclusivity. It all spoke to craft, to refinement, to something serious.

And I bought it. Without looking at the menu, we booked.

Through the window I saw the chef working behind the counter. A few tables were already full. The place looked alive and focused. Beautiful, Tasty, Intriguing. Let’s go, I said.

We were seated at a beautiful marble counter, right in front of the small open kitchen. Pots were on the stove. Fish were hanging, drying. Meat was cooking over charcoal. The juice from the meat was dripping onto the flames. It warm the room for fews second, It smelled incredible. I was excited.

Then the waiter handed us the menu a small white A5 card. À la carte on one side, set menu on the other. But the layout was confusing. I couldn’t tell if we had to choose between them, or mix. A small thing, but it threw me off.

And then… I started to feel cold.

The heater was blowing air across the top of the room, not where we were seated. The marble counter looked amazing, but it pulled cold air to my legs. Maybe I’m picky. But when I go to a restaurant like this, I want to feel good. Comfortable. Warm. Present.

Then came the food.

The plates were beautiful. The presentation was on point delicate portions, extra herbs, edible flowers. All fitting for the positioning. And yes, it tasted good. But not exquisite. Not as good as the brand had led me to believe. And I think that’s where my experience dropped.

We paid the (quite elevated) bill. And I’m always happy to pay for a great dinner. But this time, I didn’t feel like I’d had a great one. I felt like I’d had an okay one, in a beautiful space.

On the way home, we talked about it.

What if the restaurant had called itself modern Australian instead of fine dining? Would my expectations have been lower and my experience better? From a branding point of view, I think yes. The positioning, the identity, the whole atmosphere it created a promise. It told a story. And it set the bar very high.

Too high, maybe.

That’s what branding does. It frames the experience before it begins. It makes you feel something before you taste anything. It can elevate something simple into something unforgettable. But it can also make something good feel like a letdown.

It’s a fine line: the space between branding and experience. When they align, it’s magic. But when they don’t? It’s hard to unfeel the gap.

Maybe it’s a matter of timing. Maybe it’s about not dressing the dish before it’s seasoned. Maybe you don’t need to push the story too far before the product is ready to carry it. Because hype has weight. And when the storytelling is heavier than the substance, you can feel it in the room, in the bite, in the aftertaste.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a beautiful identity. I love bold typography, good lighting, mystery, restraint, confidence. But now, I also crave truth. (and like eating a good dinner). I want a brand that feels honest to what’s on the plate, not just the mood board.

As a designer, this experience reminded me: great branding shouldn’t overcompensate. It should reflect. It should amplify what’s already there. Not promise something that isn’t.

Because if the brand looks better than the food… people will notice.
And they’ll remember.

Bon Appétit, À bientôt!
Mary

I'm the kind of person who bring home, the greasy patterned tissue paper, the cool coaster, the pen to sign the addition, the super cute matchboxes, the branded postcard on the top of the counter and don’t get me started on hotel stationery. Basically everything on brand when I leave the place.

Why?

First, I keep it as a souvenir. It’s a tangible piece of paper that makes me smile and remember the place, the moment, when I look at it. It’s sometimes useful like my cool pen from Agnes Restaurant that I asked the waiter if I could keep (she came back to give me a second one…) and sometimes just pretty. And that’s enough.

That’s my second reason. I’m also a bit of a creator/collator. As a brand designer, I always have an eye for the tiny details that make me love a brand or a place even more. Since it’s my job to create brand experiences, I’ve ended up with a full collection boxes inside boxes of coasters, pamphlets, matches, envelopes, notebooks. Technically, they’re samples. But if I’m honest, I love them too much to call them that. If you know what I mean.

I remember 8 years ago, in a bar in Sydney. I’ve forgotten the name, but kept the coaster. It was pink, with a blank space to write your name and a question underneath: “How are you feeling?”, you just had to tick it. These coasters were everywhere. People wrote notes, exchanged numbers. They even decorated the backyard caravan with them. That coaster became more than a coaster. It was a tool for interaction, a conversation starter, a souvenir and part of the entire experience. I still think about how many stories were scribbled on that square pink coaster. Maybe I’m overthinking it. But here I am, eight years later, still talking about it.

So it got me thinking — as a designer, and as a guest — about how brands create those moments on purpose. And how these tiny, take-home details can become a quiet but powerful way to measure brand desire.

Why These Tiny Objects Matter

Branded objects: coasters, chopstick wrappers, matchbooks, napkins, receipts might seem like extras. They are financially are, as a busy owner they have a price, but under the eyes (and hands) of a guest, they can become emotional anchors. And under the eyes of a brand designer, they’re one of the most overlooked tools in hospitality branding. Here’s what they really do:

They make the moment tactile.

You’re no longer just remembering the meal, you’re remembering the pen that signed the bill, the coaster under your drink, the patterned paper that wrapped your sandwich. These little objects have a way of lingering. And in a world where everything is digital, where we swipe more than we touch, they matter more than ever.

Branded collateral becomes a kind of resistance. A small rebellion against the frictionless. It reintroduces texture, weight, and sensation back into a world that’s increasingly flat and screen-based. These things bring you back to your senses, literally. Because here’s the truth: you can’t feel texture on Instagram. You can scroll through a restaurant’s feed, zoom in on their latest menu, watch all their reels but you still won’t know what their napkin feels like in your hand.

You won’t feel the grain of a thick postcard, the softness of embossed tissue, or the satisfying click of a good pen. But your body remembers. Touch is one of the most underrated, underdesigned senses in branding and yet, it’s the one that can make something stick. That’s the real power of texture: it leaves a residue. It lingers in your fingertips, and from there, travels to your mind.

In a scroll-first world, these physical details the thickness of the paper, the choice of stock, the weight of the takeaway bag carry more meaning than ever. These are not just design decisions. They’re memory-making tools. They shape how people feel about your brand long after the meal is over.

And when someone tucks a coaster into their bag or pockets a matchbox from the counter, it’s not just because they liked the food. It’s because they want to take a little piece of the experience with them. That’s when you know you’ve done something right. You’ve moved from function to feeling.
From service to story. From space to memory.

They keep the story going

Most hospitality experiences are built to end. You arrive, you eat, you pay, you leave. But the brands that linger are the ones that understand how to stretch that moment beyond the exit. And often, it’s the smallest things that do the heaviest lifting. A postcard you pin to your wall. A menu you fold into your journal. A receipt you keep, not for accounting but because it looked too good to throw away.

These details become bookmarks. They carry the feeling of a place long after the table’s been cleared. You might not remember the exact dish you ordered, or the name of your waiter, or what the music was playing but you remember the napkin you folded into your book. You remember the matchbox with the cheeky line. You remember the brand that made you want to keep something, not out of need, but because you felt something.

These pieces carry emotional residue. They extend the brand’s life without needing a follow-up email or an ad retarget. They create quiet echoes — moments where the memory resurfaces unexpectedly. In branding, that’s the gold. Because it means you’ve gone beyond the transaction. You’ve become a reference point. A feeling. A story worth repeating. In other words: they extend your brand’s life beyond the bill.

The Takeaway? Brand the Takeaway.

If someone is willing to steal your coaster, your napkin, your sugar packet you’ve done something right. You’ve made them feel. You’ve crossed the line from service to story. From function to affection. From transaction to intimacy.

So here’s the question again: Would they they keep the coaster?
And if not what would make them want to?

À bientôt!
Mary

Sustainability has become the hospitality world’s favourite buzzword printed on menus, whispered into brand decks, and sprinkled across mission statements like parsley. But let’s be clear: in 2025, sustainability isn’t a marketing trend. It’s the baseline. And if your brand isn’t there yet, you're already playing catch-up.

Consumers today are savvy. They’re not just scanning for flavour; they’re scanning for values. Where was it grown? How was it packaged? Did this dish come with a side of integrity or just a recyclable sticker? In a crowded, copycat market, purpose-led brands are the ones people remember and return to.

But doing sustainability well requires more than a recycled paper menu and a “low food miles” caption. It requires clarity, consistency, and courage.

So, how do you design a hospitality brand that feels as good as it tastes and actually lives up to the values it promotes?

Let’s break it down.

First Principles: What Sustainable Brands Actually Do

A truly sustainable brand isn’t built from slogans or certifications. It’s built from decisions (small ones, daily ones) that reflect a deeper intention. These brands consider the lifecycle of everything they touch, from what gets plated to what gets composted, from what’s sourced to what’s left out.

It starts with ingredients. Choosing local and seasonal produce isn’t just a nod to environmental impact it also makes your food better. The story is richer, the flavours are fuller, and the connection to place becomes tangible. A tomato in July from a farm 20 minutes away isn’t just sustainable it’s a sensory experience.

Then there’s waste. Brands that think about sustainability reimagine waste as part of the creative process. Whether it’s nose-to-tail cooking, reusing trimmings for staff meals, or turning day-old pastries into new desserts, waste becomes another design constraint and an opportunity to innovate.

Packaging is another battleground. A beautifully branded pastry box doesn’t mean much if it lingers in landfill for 400 years. Compostable, biodegradable, and recyclable materials should be the rule, not the exception. And if you’re using premium materials, make sure they’re doing more than looking good.

Most importantly, sustainable brands are transparent. They’re not afraid to show the work in progress the changes being trialed, the supply chain struggles, the ongoing decisions that shape their impact. They don’t pretend to be perfect, but they make it easy for customers to understand what they stand for, and why.

Good Practice Only Becomes Good Branding When You Talk About It Well

Doing the work is essential. But communicating it? That’s where the branding muscle really kicks in. Because no matter how many internal decisions you make, they won’t strengthen your brand if no one understands or feels them.

Start with transparency. Be generous with detail. Instead of vague terms like “eco-friendly,” explain how your ingredients are sourced, what you’re doing with your offcuts, or why you chose one supplier over another. Customers crave specifics not just stories, but substance.

That said, stories matter. Humans don’t remember spreadsheets; they remember the cherry farmer who drops off his harvest at dawn, or the pastry chef who spent three months finding the perfect compostable box. This is the emotional layer that transforms information into connection. It’s not about romanticising it’s about humanising your choices.

Your digital presence is a stage for this. Social media shouldn’t just be a highlight reel it should be a living, breathing behind-the-scenes. Share the process, the pitfalls, the messy bits. Show the team experimenting with new packaging, or a failed test batch that led to something better. When customers see you trying really trying, they root for you. They become part of the journey.

And yes, certifications and labels help, but they’re just one part of the picture. The story around the stamp is just as important as the stamp itself. If you’re going to invest in Fair Trade, organic, B Corp tell people what that means to your business. Why did you pursue it? What changed after you did? Otherwise, it’s just another logo in the footer.

Design Sustainability Into the Brand.
Not Just the Operations.

Here’s the part often missed: sustainability isn’t just operational. It’s emotional. And it’s visual. When done well, it becomes part of your aesthetic and your atmosphere not just a bullet point in your brand values.

This means choosing colours, textures, typography, and tone that reflect a sense of care, balance, and connection to nature. It means designing spaces that feel considered. Packaging that feels light. Messaging that feels honest. If your visuals are all noise and gloss, but your values are rooted in restraint and responsibility, the disconnect will show.

Sustainability isn’t beige. It’s not boring. And it’s definitely not just about being “clean” or “minimal.” It can be rich, textured, expressive as long as the expression is honest.

Progress, Not Perfection

Let’s be real. You’re not going to get it right all the time. There will be compromise, inconsistency, tension between cost and values. But sustainability isn’t about getting it perfect on day one it’s about building a culture that wants to do better every day.

The brands that stand out aren’t the ones who claim perfection. They’re the ones who are brave enough to share the behind-the-scenes, stay accountable, and invite their community into the process.

Every thoughtful decision whether it’s switching your flour supplier or rethinking your cake box becomes a small but mighty brand move. And when those choices are communicated well, they don’t just build trust. They build loyalty.

So the question becomes:
What’s one sustainable decision your brand can commit to this month and how will you share it?

Because in today’s food world, doing good isn’t extra. It’s expected. And how you show up in that space clearly, creatively, consistently is what sets you apart.


À bientôt!
Mary

From the moment someone walks through the door, your brand is already at work or already falling short. Before the menu, before the greeting, before a single bite, your space is making the first move. And in hospitality, that move needs to land.

Every surface, scent, and flicker of light carries meaning. The way sunlight hits the table. The materials under their fingertips. The way they’re welcomed or not. These aren’t just aesthetic choices; they’re brand signals. They tell people who you are: thoughtful or rushed, consistent or chaotic.

Too many businesses treat space like a backdrop, something styled for photos. But your environment is your most immediate, most immersive form of branding. And in a world of limited attention, you’re not just trying to be noticed you’re trying to be remembered.

And memory? It’s emotional. Spatial. Sensory. Your space is already telling a story. The question is: does it say what you want it to?

Don’t Just Fill a Room. Build a Feeling.

Space is strategy. When done right, it doesn’t just decorate the experience, it defines it. Branding in hospitality isn’t just visual. It’s visceral. It makes people feel something before they even know why. When space is done well, it becomes memory. Mood. A reason to return. And yes, the opposite is true too.

So don’t let your space sit still. Refresh the layout. Shift the energy. Let the season change the scent or the sound. Because the best brands don’t just look good, they feel like something. And that feeling starts here, in the room.

The atmosphere doesn’t just support your brand it is your brand.

Four Anchors of a Branded Space

1. Atmosphere & Ambience

Once your guest steps inside, they shouldn’t be questioning where they are they should feel it. Atmosphere isn’t about decoration, it’s about direction. It shapes perception faster than any logo ever will. The colour temperature of the light. The weight of the chair. The way sound moves through the space. All of these details create a kind of sensory architecture that directs how people behave and how long they stay. This is where tone is set and in hospitality, tone is everything. A considered space doesn’t just feel good, it guides, supports, and strengthens the brand’s position.

Ace Hotel Kyoto — Designed by Kengo Kuma, this space bridges Japanese minimalism and mid-century Americana. Cedarwood walls, earthy tones, soft jazz, and perfect shadows. It feels intentional, warm, and creatively charged.

Café Kitsuné, Paris — A lifestyle brand disguised as a café. Curated playlists, stone textures, branded ceramics — every sensory cue reinforces the story. Nothing is loud, but everything is speaking.

2. Interaction as Invitation

Design is not just visual, it’s social. The way a space invites you to participate says everything about the brand behind it. Are you being welcomed into the experience, or positioned as a passive observer? Strategic layouts like bar seats, open kitchens, or communal tables aren’t just functional, they’re behavioural tools. They shape how people connect, how long they stay, how loyal they become. A branded space should feel like a conversation, not a broadcast. Because when people feel like part of the scene, they make it part of their life.

Nonna of the World, NY — Real grandmothers from every country across the globe are invited and hired as chefs to cook. Now closed, but still unforgettable. This space celebrated global grandmothers through food, culture, and design. Watch the Netflix film “Nonna’s Kitchen”, it’s a beautiful example of how mood, meaning, and memory intertwine.

Chef’s Tables (e.g. Gordon Ramsay, Alinea) — These aren’t just meals, they’re performances where the guest becomes part of the act. The traditional boundaries between guest and kitchen dissolve. You’re no longer a customer watching from the sidelines you’re in the inner circle. The chef becomes the storyteller.

3. Local Cues & Cultural Context

Branding without context is forgettable. Great spaces are anchored in their surroundings they feel like they belong. That doesn’t mean cliché decor or token nods. It means building with intention: native materials, local producers, regionally specific storytelling. The more rooted the space, the more magnetic the experience. This is especially true in hospitality, where trust is built through authenticity. A strong brand doesn’t float it’s grounded. It knows where it is and why that matters.

Ett Hem, Stockholm — Designed to feel lived-in, not staged. Nordic tactility, Swedish food culture, and quiet restraint give the brand lasting depth. The branding is so consistent, it disappears nothing is overt, but everything aligns. It feels more like entering a philosophy than a hotel. (Check out their website I love the illustrations)

Eataly — Not just a grocery store, a cultural amplifier. Each corner is choreographed to create a sense of movement, appetite, and Italian identity. The brand stretches across signage, storytelling, and spatial rhythm but never breaks. It turns commerce into culture with total clarity.

4. Storytelling Through Detail

When a brand is strong, you can feel it in the smallest things. Not just the signage or the plates — but in the matchbooks, the lighting dimmer, the font on the receipt. These micro-moments are where the story gets sticky. This is where good design becomes good business. Because when the story is clear, the guest doesn’t need to be told — they remember. They repeat. They share. This is what turns a physical space into a marketing engine. It’s not about adding more — it’s about tightening the signal until everything aligns.

Hotel Il Pellicano, Tuscany — Every element, from beach umbrellas to printed ephemera, feels like part of the same cinematic scene. A masterclass in tone. The story is told in textures and time: sun-faded stripes, vintage matchbooks, handwritten notes. It feels like stepping into a love letter to Italian summers. (Look at their gallery here)

Noma, Copenhagen — Here, story and setting are inseparable. Space and food operate as one system. The message is clear, precise, and unforgettable. Nature is the narrator: every object, ingredient, and surface chosen to support that voice. Even silence, here, feels like part of the script.

The best branded spaces don’t just tell a story they give people a role within it. When space is built with strategic clarity, it doesn't just express the brand it activates it. It encourages certain behaviours, elevates perception, and moves the brand from something you encounter to something you live inside. That’s the opportunity. Not just to create places that serve, but places that speak fluently, intentionally, and without saying a word.

À bientôt!
Mary

Remember when butter was just... butter? A silent fridge resident. A pale slab in a plastic tub. Functional, sure, but forgettable. You used it because you needed to, not because you noticed it. It was never part of the story.

And then came Pepe Saya, and butter got interesting.

It got heritage. It got soul. It got a face.
Suddenly, butter wasn’t just something you smeared on toast, it was a small act of reverence. A cult product wrapped in foil and story.

So how did a humble pantry item become a national treasure?
Not by accident. This is branding done right.

1. Craft comes first (and people feel it)

Pepe Saya doesn’t just sell butter, they bottle up the energy of a market morning, the patience of hand-churning, the pride of a farmer.

What started as a quiet stall at Sydney’s Carriageworks has become a symbol of Australian food craftsmanship. There’s no mass-produced mystery here, just cream, cultures, and care. Their story is grounded in place, process, and the people behind it. That matters. Especially now.

From sourcing milk directly from local farmers to collaborating with Amish dairies in Pennsylvania, the message is clear: good things take time. And values.

2. Packaging that actually says something

Most butter packaging looks like it gave up before it began. But Pepe Saya put a face on it. Literally.

The caricature of “Pepe” isn’t just quirky. It’s intentional. It gives the brand warmth, familiarity, and personality in a category that’s famously flat. Combine that with the signature round pat, wrapped in foil like it was made to be gifted, and you’ve got a product that looks and feels like it matters.

This is butter you notice on the shelf, on the plate, and in the memory.
And that’s rare.

3. Transparency is the new luxury

In a world of “trust me” marketing, Pepe Saya opens the doors.

They show the churn. They show the cultures. They show the people behind the process. Not to brag—but to invite. There’s power in pulling back the curtain, in letting people feel close to the making. It’s intimate, it’s honest, and it’s sticky in the best way.

The result? A brand people believe in. Not because it shouts, but because it shares.

4. Education is part of the experience

Pepe Saya doesn’t just sell butter, they teach people how to taste it.

Their farmers market team talks flakiness, fermentation, and flavour like it’s gospel (because it kind of is). Their pop-ups are part masterclass, part movement. And their online content makes it easy for everyone, from chefs to curious home cooks to go deeper.

This is brand-building as hospitality. Inviting people into the knowledge, not gatekeeping it.

5. Slow burn, big impact

Instead of pushing, they partnered. With chefs. With Qantas. With the kind of brands that signal quality by association.

That quiet confidence paid off. Neil Perry was an early believer. Then came kitchens, restaurants, and finally homes, all wanting a taste of what felt different. It wasn’t hype. It was conviction.

And suddenly, a little round pat of butter became shorthand for craftsmanship and care.

They didn’t rebrand butter.
They redefined it.

This is what happens when a product is wrapped in story, shaped by values, and delivered with charm. It’s proof that even the most ordinary thing can become extraordinary—if you treat it like it matters.

Because branding isn’t just about aesthetics or marketing.
It’s about belief. And when your audience feels what you believe, that’s when the magic happens.

So whether you’re building butter, bread, or a new brand, don’t rush the story.
Shape it with your hands. Infuse it with your values.
And let it rise.

À bientôt!
Mary

Since opening a pastry shop, there’s one thing I do more than ever: check every new bakery, cake shop, and dessert brand that opens in my neighborhood, across Australia, and beyond. I track what launches, how it’s received, and how fast it goes viral. (I spy on them, basically.)

That’s how I came across Brooki, a cookie brand created by Brooke Bellamy, a pastry chef and content creator with over one million followers on TikTok and Instagram. Her cookies ship globally. Her fans are obsessed. Her shop is wrapped in a line most weekends.

And yes, I had to try.
Even though I’m not a cookie girl (never have been).
Strictly professional curiosity.

The cookie? Fine. Sweet. Soft. Nothing mind-blowing.
But Brooki does stick, and not because of the product.

Maybe it’s the name, which, let’s be honest, is genius. If my name was Brooke and I owned a cookie brand? Same. Done deal.

But what really sticks is the pink.

The Pink Takeover

Everything about Brooki is pink. The packaging, her book, her apron, her car, the walls, the oven mitts. All pink. It’s a full visual world, and she owns it.

But she’s not the only one.

I’ve lost count of how many bakeries and cookie brands are now wrapped in pink. It’s become the dominant aesthetic for desserts: pink foil stickers, pink bold sans fonts, pink boxes with soft-baked cookies tucked inside.
Sweet, indulgent, Instagram-ready.

So what’s going on?
Why is pink the default for cookies, cupcakes, donuts, and every soft treat in between?

Let’s break it down.

TikTok Core + Y2K Softness

Pink isn’t just trendin, it’s engineered for the algorithm.
It pops on screen. It flatters hands, food, and faces. It cuts through a crowded feed and makes people stop scrolling.

But the appeal goes deeper.

It taps into aspirational nostalgia, that jelly sandal, glossy diary, Paris Hilton, strawberry Lip Smackers kind of girlhood. It’s bubblegum-coded dopamine, and pink is the shortcut. It signals fun, sweetness, a little escape.

In this context, pink does more than decorate a cookie.
It tells the story before the bite.

And in a content-first world, packaging isn’t just packaging, it’s set design. It’s the prop, the post, the visual punchline.

The Feminine Power Flip

Pink used to be avoided in branding. Too girly. Too soft. Too unserious. Now it’s the power move. Brooki Bakehouse doesn’t just use pink, it is pink. Walls, brand, merch, energy. Not as an accent, but as a headline. It doesn’t apologize for being feminine; it wins with it.

That’s the shift.
From softening the product to leading with it.

When used with intention, pink doesn’t feel delicate it feels direct.
Bold. Unmissable.

This isn’t pink as in “please the girls.”
It’s pink as in own the room.

Stakes, High Crave

Bakery treats aren’t essential, they’re emotional. No one needs a cookie, cupcake, or croissant. You want one. You crave one. And when the purchase is emotional, the branding has to be too. That’s where pink comes in , not always alone, but often leading.

Pink doesn’t just sell flavor. It sells mood.

It signals comfort, indulgence, playfulness. And in a world of impulse treats, mood is the whole game. That’s why so many bakery brands reach for pink. But the smart ones twist it.

Look at Butter Boy. Their palette blends pink with violet and red. It’s cheeky, not cutesy. Feminine, but with a wink. Sweet, but just strange enough to stick.

Or Alon Shalom ,a Tel Aviv bakery whose packaging explores four distinct shades of pink, each tied to a different baked item. It’s thoughtful, expressive, and strategic.

The pink isn’t random. It’s coded. It means something.That’s the power of pink when it’s done well. It’s not just a color, it’s an attitude.

The Saturation Point

But here’s the thing, it’s starting to blur. Once everyone goes pink, no one owns pink. The differentiation dissolves. You remember the cookie… but which one? Brooki? Mooki? The one with the pink sticker and the script font? What once felt like a bold choice now feels expected. And in branding, expected is the kiss of death.

Some developers say the pink wave might be peaking. That we’ve moved from strategy to saturation. So the real question becomes: Would Brookie still have a line out the door without Instagram? Would people still buy if the packaging didn’t pop?Are they coming for the cookie, or for the moment?

Pink can drive virality.
It can sell the first bite.
But can it carry the fifth, the return visit, the lifelong fan?

If the product doesn’t deliver, the pink box becomes just that a box.

And even the smartest branding can’t save a forgettable bite.

So What’s Next?

I’m not anti-pink. I’m anti-predictable.

Pink still has power, when it’s done with intention. When it’s earned. When it means something.

But we’ve hit the point where pink alone is no longer enough.

So if you’re building a bakery brand, ask yourself:

• What mood are you trying to create?

• What emotion does your packaging carry before the first bite?

• What color feels like your product, not just what looks good on camera?

Brooki owns her pink. That’s branding.
The rest? Time to find another flavor.

Bon Appétit, À bientôt!
Mary

There’s one dream project that’s been sitting quietly on my list for years: designing a cookbook.

I’ve never done one. But I’ve always wanted to.

I’ve been obsessed with cookbooks for as long as I can remember. Not just for the recipes (though I do love a good tart base), but for the object itself. Cookbooks are such beautiful things. Half instructive, half emotional. They’re full of knowledge, yes, but also full of pleasure. They teach, but they also invite.

They live on kitchen counters, open on dog-eared pages, splashed with sauce, passed down through families, abandoned at flea markets, rediscovered on shelves. They age beautifully. They hold stories.

Isn’t food, by definition, a kind of pleasure?

Cookbooks get that. They sit right at the intersection of form and function — both decorative and useful. Timeless, but tactile. That’s a dream design brief right there.

I always find myself wandering to the food section in bookstores. Not just for ideas, but because the energy there is different. It’s vibrant. It reminds me of the art section. Or the kids’ books. Playful, honest, generous (a little messy in the best way). You can tell a team of people poured their hearts into every page.

And now, with my designer eyes sharper than ever (you know the type: the kind that twitches at extra kerning or misaligned margins), I find myself buying cookbooks just for the layout. The type choices. The grid. The paper stock. The foil stamping. The colour story. It’s pure joy.

(Yes, I did just buy one yesterday. Yes, it might’ve been for the layout. Yes, it might include Lebanese recipes I might actually try.)

What Makes a Great Cookbook?

From someone who reads them like design objects (and sometimes actually cooks from them).

Cookbooks aren’t just for cooking. They’re design pieces. Storybooks. Moodboards for the kitchen.

They live in sauce-splattered stacks, but also on coffee tables and gift lists. When they’re good, they’re more than useful - they’re emotional.

Here’s what I think makes a great one: the kind you keep reaching for, even if it’s just to flick through while the kettle’s boiling.

1. The Voice

The best cookbooks talk to you, not like a teacher, but like someone in the kitchen with you. They give you permission. They share memories. They make the food feel lived-in. You’re not just learning to cook, you’re learning how someone else lives, deep passion and skills.

Bayrut: Recipes from the Heart of a Lebanese City Kitchen by Hisham Assaad
I picked this up yesterday, and honestly, it was love at first sight. The colours and the cover drew me in, but the stories kept me there. It’s full of warmth, the kind of book that makes you want to cook for a table full of people. I’ve already decided I’m making Lebanese food all week. It reads like a memory.

2. The Cover

The cover is the first impression, and it counts (trust me). It tells you how it’s going to feel to cook from it. Moody and exact? Sunlit and casual? Tuesday night pasta or long Sunday roasts? Great covers don’t try to say too much. They commit to a mood and carry it through. The colour, the type, the paper, the spine, it all adds up. A great cookbook looks like the food inside tastes.

Simple by Ottolenghi
That lemon. A flat, bold yellow circle on soft white. No photo, no clutter, sometimes it can be as simple as just one colour and a title. I don’t even own this book, but somehow it feels like I do. I see it everywhere: bookshops, Airbnb kitchens, on people’s benches. It promises flavour without fuss. Mediterranean sunshine, but make it minimal. Unforgettable because it’s so restrained, a quiet icon in a loud category.

3. The Design

This is the layout. The grid. The fonts. The margins. The way your eyes move from ingredients to method without getting lost. Good design makes you feel calm. Capable. Like someone thought about your messy fingers and your short attention span. Every decision should make the recipe feel doable. If it looks beautiful sitting open on the bench? Even better.

Le Grand Manuel du Pâtissier by Melanie Dupuis
I own this one in both French and English (Patisserie at home), that’s how much I love it. I thought the French version would be enough (it’s mostly visual), but my fiancé, who’s a pastry chef and doesn’t speak French, asked for the English one too. So we’ve got both. Every step is broken down visually: ingredients, textures, layers. It’s like flipping through a pastry blueprint. This is design that teaches, even if you’re not a chef.

4. The Imagery

Photos and illustrations define how a cookbook feels. They don’t just show you food, they show you how it should feel to make it, serve it, and share it. Good imagery brings mood, emotion, and clarity. It can be simple, graphic, lush, or raw — but it has to feel intentional.

Let’s Eat France! by François-Régis Gaudry
This is one of my favourites (they have it for different country too). It’s a bit heavy (physically and visually), but I read it like a novel. Every page is different, maps, drawings, food photos, old textures. It captures the diversity of French food without ever feeling repetitive. It blends history, culture, and recipes in a way that feels rich, generous, and completely alive.

5. The Feel

Cookbooks are made to be handled. They’re propped open with spoons, flipped with floured fingers, left stacked on kitchen chairs and open by the stove. That means the physicality matters: the weight, the paper, the binding, how the spine behaves. The best ones are a pleasure to hold. You want to keep them close, not protect them from use.

Polpo by Russell Norman
I don’t own this one (yet), but every time I see it, I stop to touch it. The uncoated paper, the exposed spine, the raw edges, it’s designed to feel like a restaurant table. Even if you never make a dish, you want to keep it on your shelf. It’s a perfect example of how finish is the brand.

6. The Extras

Some cookbooks have a little twist. A surprise that doesn’t need to be there, but makes it better and who doesn’t love surprises? It might be how it’s packaged, a clever binding, an unexpected material, or something fun hidden inside. These extras don’t just add novelty, they create a sense of care. They make the book more memorable and more lovable.

India: The Cookbook by Pushpesh Pant
This one comes in a mini rice sack, and yes, it’s a little ridiculous but I absolutely LOVE IT. But it made me grin the first time I saw it. It feels like a gift. Like someone packed it just for you. You remember it before you even open it, and that’s the kind of joy that sticks (and good marketing as well).

And one day…

One day, I’ll design one.

Until then, I’ll keep collecting, stacking them high, flipping through them like treasure maps, and falling for every embossed cover and ribbon bookmark that crosses my path. I might even start a running list — the cookbooks I keep picking up, for the layout, the feeling, the flavour, or just because they look good next to a coffee.

Would you want to see that?

Bon Appétit, À bientôt!
Mary

This morning, I ordered shakshuka for breakfast, assuming it’d be mild and mellow. Instead, it’s slowly burning the outline of my lips like a delayed reaction from a bad idea. And honestly, I don’t know if I loved it or regretted it.

I’m not especially a fan of spicy. But every time I get a dish like this (usually by accident/either I miss the chili icon or overestimate my menu-reading skills), I’m reminded that spice is a very specific sensation.

It’s not just flavour, it’s tension.
It’s something that persists.
It says: pay attention.

In hospitality, spice isn’t just about chili oil or pepper flakes. It’s an attitude. A sharp edge. It’s the kind of thing that starts a conversation or shuts one down. The bold choice that isn’t for everyone. And that’s exactly the point.

So here’s the real question:

Is your brand spicy?

I know what you’re thinking: I’m not a Mexican restaurant. I don’t sell chili sauce. There’s nothing red-hot in my branding, and flame graphics? Hard pass. That’s the easy definition of spicy. But it’s not what I’m talking about today. I’m talking about branding with presence. Bite. Something that doesn’t play it safe. Maybe it polarizes. Maybe it speaks louder than expected. But it never blends in.

In hospitality, “spicy” shows up in all kinds of ways: The unexpected playlist in a quiet dining room. A bold uniform choice. A no-substitutions policy on the menu. A design moment that dares to offend your great-aunt.

In branding? It’s a font that raises an eyebrow. A tagline with tension. A photograph that’s just a little too daring. A name that isn’t polite. & more.

It’s the part of your concept that makes people feel something even if they don’t know why.

Here are a few “spicy brands” I love (zero hot sauce involved).

Motel Mexicola
You don’t walk into Motel Mexicola, you get swallowed whole. Neon lights, table-dancing waiters, and tequila before you’re seated. It’s chaotic, theatrical, and unforgettable hospitality with zero restraint.

Liquid Death
It’s water, but it looks like it belongs on a heavy metal album cover. Tallboy cans. Gothic lettering. A mission to “murder your thirst.” It’s aggressive, ridiculous, and genius. Where most water brands whisper about purity, Liquid Death screams personality. You don’t forget it, even if you never crack a can.

Omsom
Bold Asian flavors in packaging that shouts. The box looks like a riot of neon and nostalgia, all caps, zero chill. No muted tones, no cultural dilution, just spice, pride, and unapologetic presence.

Hotel Amour
It’s a hotel, but make it NSFW. Erotic photography, suggestive furniture, and a Supérieure Room designed for mischief. Hotel Amour doesn’t whisper romance, it stares you down and dares you to flirt back.

Public Hotel
Luxury for all; but with an edge. A glowing red escalator, brutalist architecture, and copy that cuts like a knife. Even the key cards say: “We’re not for everyone. Just the right ones.”

Mary’s Newtown
Graffiti bathrooms. Loud punk music. Burgers that don’t apologise. The signage reads “No dickheads,” and their Instagram says, “Fuck coffee.” It’s the kind of brand that couldn’t care less if your mum approves and that’s exactly why it works. (look at their insta handle!)

No Normal Coffee
Coffee in a toothpaste tube, yes, seriously. The design is stark, minimal, and anti-aesthetic on purpose. It’s branding that flips the “coffee ritual” into a dare.

Figlio Bastardo
The name means “Bastard Son” and the branding wears it proudly. Think Catholic kitsch, altar-boy sketches, and packaging that feels half punk zine, half old-school deli. It’s irreverent, layered, and impossible to ignore.

Engine Gin
Looks like motor oil, drinks like top-shelf gin. The can design is loud, mechanical, and weirdly collectible, chrome typography meets racing stripes. It’s branding that shifts gin from dainty to dangerous.

These brands make you feel something.
That’s the burn. That’s the point.

So next time you’re building a concept, ask yourself:
– Where does the brand take a risk and mean it?
– What’s the detail that divides the room and makes it memorable?
– What’s the tension point that leaves a lasting impression?

Just like spice, you don’t need a lot.
But you need enough for someone to remember it.


Bon Appetit, À bientôt!
Mary

Welcome to BRANDING FOR LUNCH.
I’m Mary, a brand designer and co-founder of a contemporary pastry shop. I work at the intersection of food, design, and identity —and this space is where I get to explore all three, without a brief or a deadline.

I’ve been sitting on this idea for a while.
It started as a practical LinkedIn series on brand and hospitality, something neat, useful, and easy to publish. But what I really wanted was something more personal. More layered. A place to share what inspires me: the brands I admire, the stories I remember, the food, hotels, and restaurants that make me feel something I can’t always explain. The beauty. The tension. The detail that sticks.

This isn’t a branding tutorial (though I’m always happy to share what I know).
It’s a studio-side notebook. A place for design, desire, and decision-making in hospitality and beyond.

So what is BRANDING FOR LUNCH?

It’s a weekly words on how food, place, and design shape the way we eat, feel, gather, and connect — and how, together, those touchpoints shape culture.

From brand moments to beautiful spaces.
From founder stories to the details that make something unforgettable.
From the first impression to the feeling that lingers.

This newsletter is for people building cafés, restaurants, and boutique hotels; and for those who simply love food, beautiful spaces, and the feeling of a brand done right.
(Maybe you’re just hungry.)

What you will find:

– Strategy & storytelling from the world of hospitality branding
– Honest takes on brand building (what works, what doesn’t)
– Case studies & founder insights worth reading
– Creative inspiration across food, space, and design culture

About me

I was born on France’s Atlantic coast. Creativity has always been my language; from drawing and dance as a kid to six years in art school, where I studied both textile and graphic design. That dual path shaped how I work today: multidisciplinary, intuitive, and detail-obsessed.

Almost ten years ago, I moved to Australia for what was meant to be a one-year trip. It turned into a new life — a design studio (MARIUS MARIUS), a fiancé, and a pastry shop. Fun fact: I was never a big eater growing up (French pastries aside). But through my partner — a pastry chef — and my designer’s eye, I fell in love with hospitality as something far deeper than food.

I started to see things differently.

A croissant became a concept.
A restaurant became a narrative.
A hotel became a brand experience.

And now I can’t unsee it.

Why this, why now?

Because beautiful ideas deserve more space.
Because branding should feel, not just function.
Because culture is being shaped one plate, one place, one detail at a time.
And because I want to design a hotel one day (and I know I’m not the only one.)

Thanks for being here.
Bon Appetit, À bientôt!
Mary