“CHEESE! Worlds greatest creation!”
“Treat your hotdog with respect! French’s the Must in Mustard.”
….
That’s the confident copy smattered across one of the vintage ads I’ve had my nose buried in for the past two days.
Why?
Because I’m on the hunt for words that leave us satiated.
Words that hit that corner of the brain where serotonin and soul meet.
That quiet, persistent hunger we all carry—for something in our day to feel good, real, and full.
Technically, my job is about fulfilling a brief. But most days, in my small world, it feels more like studying the psychology of what makes a moment stick.
What makes us want—to buy, to become, to soften.
To step into who we imagine we could be.
Every product is a mirror.
Every tagline a tiny whisper: you could be this.
Which is why, when I wander through the streets of SoHo for lunch with my stunningly talented designer work-homies, it’s not the meetings that move me.
It’s the copy on a store window. The color of a logo.
The font choice on a paper menu.
We are enveloped by branding—logos, tourists, color palettes, streetwear, storefronts.
Walking through SoHo at lunchtime can feel like stepping into a million giant thought bubbles.
But instead of absorbing them all at once, we choose just one.
Usually a boutique café or tucked-away lunch spot we each quietly consider ours.
Something that hits that perfect balance of food flair and design aesthetic. A safe little envelope. A soft place to land.
These places are like love letters hidden in plain sight.
They don’t shout.
They glow.
What other generations and creative cultures did so well—better, maybe, than we do now—is they let things breathe.
They trusted the human brain to notice the flavors. The textures. The negative space.
Like 1980s print ads that felt like short stories.
Like copy that made room for longing.
Think: dusty yellow walls. Couples in gloriously mismatched French stripes.
Smoked trout with bright cherry tomatoes and a whisper of tangy goat cheese.
Fresh-squeezed orange juice that tastes like a buttery-soft morning.
A menu that reads like poetry: creamy, toasted, wild, robust, charred, silky.
All of it lights up my brain.
All of it makes me want to talk.
These are the conversations that don’t quite happen in offices.
That weekends don’t always offer.
The kind of midweek moments that remind you—you have time.
You’re creative.
You can still be surprised.
You should photograph this.
There is a quiet, glorious kind of rebellion in a slow lunch on a workday.
Where nothing is urgent.
And everything is interesting.
One day, I’d love to surprise my friends with a party in one of these places—a tucked-away restaurant on a too-busy New York street.
A wedding?
A birthday?
A celebration of juicy love and simple good food that captures exactly how it feels to be here.
Until then, my creatives and I will keep wandering—from pitch meetings to spots that inspire reframing.
That make me want to run my fingers over typography, to fall into the invitation of a menu.
To imagine what I could write that might make you smile today.
A tagline that makes the week just a little more sparkly.
Because when creativity hits just right—it adds texture to your day.
