Morgan Salmans: The Visionary Behind WeHo’s Queer-Owned Café, Drip & Dolce

Editor's Thoughts: In West Hollywood, where queer history and community pulse through every corner, Morgan Salmans stands out as a true Local Legend - a creator, a connector, and a visionary behind queer-owned café Drip & Dolce. Her journey spans far beyond café culture: it’s rooted in resilience, identity, and a lifelong belief in the power of gathering. Morgan’s story is one of turning pain into purpose, from navigating discrimination in corporate spaces to building the affirming environments she once needed herself. Today, her café isn’t just a business, it’s a love letter to the LGBTQ+ community, a space where queer joy is intentional, visible, and celebrated. Her voice, shaped by lived experience and unwavering courage, reminds us why representation matters and why safe, creative, community-driven spaces will always change lives.

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Morgan Salmans (she/her) is a Los Angeles based creative producer and the founder of Trifecta Hospitality Group, a collective of experience-driven brands spanning event production, hospitality, and café concepts. With a background built on community, storytelling, and hospitality, Morgan is known for creating immersive environment, from luxury brand activations to festivals and experiential café culture. As the force behind her brands, Morgan’s work reflects her belief that human connection is the heart of every great experience Local Legends "I grew up in California, raised by a single mother in a family of strong, outspoken women who believed deeply in showing up for each other, especially around a table full of food, stories, and laughter. That sense of connection and resilience became the foundation of who I am. My ancestry spans Norwegian farmers who settled in the Midwest to Italian, Spanish, Greek, and African roots on my paternal side. That cultural blend shaped my love for food, gathering, and the power of shared experience.

Can you tell us about the journey that brought you to the success you have today?

I came out almost 18 years ago, during a time when LGBTQ+ visibility in mainstream culture was more stigmatized and often portrayed through a limited, damaging lens. As a lesbian who presents as feminine, I was sometimes shielded from overt discrimination, but I witnessed firsthand the struggles my Bi-POC and gender-nonconforming friends faced. Those early experiences taught me about intersectionality long before I had a word for it, and they embedded in me a responsibility to create spaces where everyone feels seen and safe.

For years, I believed my path to making a difference was in mental health work. I earned my master’s degree in forensic psychology because I wanted to be a voice for people navigating trauma, crisis, and systems that often silence them. But as I progressed, I realized that my impact didn’t have to be confined to a therapy room. I could create spaces that nurtured belonging, joy, and connection, spaces where healing begins through community, creativity, and feeling welcomed exactly as you are.

Before becoming an entrepreneur, I spent many years building a company I thought I would retire from. I showed up with loyalty, heart, and a belief that hard work created safety. That belief shattered the day the company’s president looked at me and said, “gay people have mental illness.” That moment was a turning point. I realized the environment I was in was not only hostile, but it would never value me, or anyone like me. Working in a man’s world no one would have stood up for me. Not because they didn’t care, but because they were operating inside a system where silence was expected. Many of us know what it’s like to work in spaces that turn hostile overnight, where you suddenly understand that you’re utterly alone. That moment gave me clarity: if I wanted to feel safe, valued, and celebrated, I had to build the space myself.

Founding my companies has been the greatest gift of my life. Trifecta Hospitality Group, CaterHausLA, and now Drip & Dolce exist because I chose to create what I needed but couldn’t find—a place where identity, creativity, food, and community meet. My work blends immersive production, culinary storytelling, artistry, and human connection. And Drip & Dolce, is my love letter to the LGBTQ+ community. It’s a vivid, creative, playful space where queer joy isn’t an afterthought—it’s part of the DNA. It’s a place where people can gather, feel seen, feel celebrated, and be part of something bigger than themselves.

LGBTQ+ businesses are more than storefronts, we are safe spaces, cultural hubs, and lifelines. By building companies rooted in inclusivity, I hope to create jobs, mentorship, and inspiration for queer people who have been told, explicitly or implicitly, that they don’t belong in certain rooms. The truth is: we belong everywhere. And sometimes the most powerful act is creating the room yourself. My creative journey is ultimately a story of finding belonging and then turning that belonging outward, so others can feel it too. It’s about transforming pain into purpose, building spaces where identity is celebrated, and honoring the women who raised me, the community that shaped me, and the belief that creativity and connection can genuinely change lives

What was your coming out experience like? Do you remember any pivotal moments in discovering your identity?

My coming out experience was layered, emotional, and ultimately one of the most defining moments of my life. It happened more than 18 years ago, during a time when conversations around gay marriage were just beginning but legal recognition was still far away. It was a particularly hostile cultural moment, and one memory stands out vividly. I remember going to West Hollywood for the first time with my then-girlfriend. What should have been an affirming, exciting experience was overshadowed by a wall of hate. The Westboro Baptist Church was on the corner holding signs, shouting scriptures, waving Bibles. I grew up with faith, I knew the Bible front to back, and yet watching people use it as a weapon against strangers was both heartbreaking and eye-opening. That was the first time I truly saw how intense the hatred toward our community could be. And I remember thinking, One day, I hope I can stand up for this community in a way that matters. My own internal coming-out moment happened quietly. I was sharing an apartment with my best friend(who, 25 years later, is still my best friend.) I was lying in my room, staring at the ceiling fan, when something shifted inside me. I can’t fully explain it; sometimes I genuinely believe it was God or a higher power guiding me toward truth. The realization just washed over me: I like women. Or at least…I want to. I got up, walked into my best friend’s room, she was straightening her hair, and I said, “Hey, I have something to tell you. I think I might be bi.” She stopped and said, “Bi? Really?” I laughed and said, “Okay, maybe a lesbian. I don’t know.” She just smiled and replied, “Yeah, I know. Do we have any more pizza?” It still makes me laugh because everyone around me seemed to know long before I did. Not every conversation after that was as simple or supportive, but that moment was the beginning of everything. It was the day I chose to live authentically, even without knowing where that path would lead. I also want to acknowledge that not everyone’s journey looks like mine. Not everyone’s coming out is safe, easy, or met with laughter and leftover pizza. We hear campaigns say “It gets better,” and while that’s true, it doesn’t happen by accident. It gets better because we create spaces where people can show up fully as themselves. Because we share our stories. Because we build communities that offer resources, support, visibility, and joy. These conversations matter. Representation matters. Creating positive outlets and safe spaces for LGBTQ+ people, especially youth, matters deeply. For me, coming out wasn’t just a declaration of identity; it was a commitment to help make the world a little safer for the next person who finds themselves staring at a ceiling fan, wondering who they’re allowed to be.

Have you experienced any backlash, judgement, or “baggage” related to your identity? How did you navigate it and what did you learn from that experience?

Yes, I’ve experienced backlash and judgment related to my identity, some subtle, some painfully direct. And while we already talked about the corporate America experience, the truth is that it wasn’t the only environment where being openly queer came with real risk. For years, I worked for a company that sent me across the country—to Florida, Ohio, and other places where it didn’t always feel safe to be myself. There were entire stretches of time where I had to navigate the world differently, where I was constantly aware of who was around me, what I said, and how I presented. It was a quiet, persistent calculation—one that so many LGBTQ+ people know all too well.

One of the most defining and heartbreaking moments happened while I was out at a gay club in Tampa the same night the Pulse nightclub shooting occurred. We had friends and acquaintances in that community there. The fear, the chaos, the phone calls—it changed something in me. Nights out were never the same after that. Queer spaces, which had always been my refuge, suddenly felt fragile and exposed. That night underscored exactly how vulnerable our community can be, even in the spaces built for us. It’s a moment I carry with me, and it’s a moment that still fuels my commitment to creating safer spaces, physically, emotionally, and culturally. Spaces that extend beyond the communities we built, around the world. 

"Our identities are resilient.
And that resilience isn’t about being unhurt; it’s about rising again. It’s about creating the spaces we needed when the world didn’t offer them freely. "

Through all of it, though, I’ve always had an inner resilience that I believe comes from my childhood. I was raised by a single mother who taught me, in her own way, how to endure. Anytime I fell, even if blood was dripping down my knees, she’d simply say, “It’s okay, get up and brush it off.” At the time it felt almost too casual—like, Mom, I’m bleeding here—but looking back, I know she was shaping something powerful in me. She was teaching me to keep going. That strength has carried me through moments that broke me for a moment but never permanently. Every time I've been judged, dismissed, or afraid, I’ve gotten back up, brushed it off, and kept fighting for the next day. What I learned from all of this—traveling for work and pleasure, moving through unsafe environments, surviving moments of hatred or fear—is that our identities are resilient.
And that resilience isn’t about being unhurt; it’s about rising again. It’s about creating the spaces we needed when the world didn’t offer them freely.

That’s why I build the spaces I do now. It’s why community matters so deeply to me. And it’s why I will always stand up for who I am, and for others who are still finding the strength to stand up for themselves "Queer joy, to me, is the freedom to live fully and authentically without shrinking who I am. It’s the feeling of taking up space in a world that hasn’t always welcomed us, and doing so with confidence, love, and pride. Queer joy is community, the laughter, connection, and chosen family that form when you find people who see you exactly as you are. It’s the ease of being in spaces where you can finally exhale. It also shows up in the places I help build.

What does queer joy mean to you?

Queer joy is watching someone walk into Drip & Dolce or an event I’ve produced and instantly feel safe, seen, and celebrated. Joy has become a powerful form of resistance. It’s choosing love over fear and refusing to let the hardest moments define us.

Above all, queer joy is hope. It’s knowing that each story we share, each space we create, and each moment we show up authentically makes life a little easier for the next generation. It’s a bright, resilient force, one that reminds us that despite everything, we are still here, still thriving, and still joyful

"Be brave. Be honest. Be you."

What advice or encouragement would you give to someone navigating identity or self-expression?

Oh gosh, that’s tough, I would tell someone navigating their identity is this: your timeline is your own. There is no “right” way to discover who you are, and there is absolutely no expiration date on becoming yourself. Give yourself permission to explore, question, evolve, and change. You don’t owe anyone certainty while you’re still learning your own truth.

Why are safe spaces for our community important?

The people and environments around you matter. Community doesn’t just support you, it helps you recognize parts of yourself you might not have been able to name alone.

Have you ever faced a moment when life felt too heavy or overwhelming? How did you cope and take care of your mental health during that time?

There were moments when depression pulled me under—times when I felt completely alone at the bottom of what felt like a black hole. That kind of heaviness is real, and I’m not going to pretend it’s easy to climb out of. It isn’t. But I also learned that it is possible. Healing is possible. Finding your way back to yourself is possible. What made the biggest difference for me was community. Having even one person who checks in, who listens, who reminds you that you’re not alone—that matters more than people realize. Support doesn’t erase the pain, but it gives you a lifeline to hold onto while you find your footing again. And over time, with help, with connection, with allowing myself to feel what I needed to feel, I found my way back. Community truly saves us in ways we don’t always understand until we need it.

What advice would you give your younger self?

Two words: Dream Big! I think that is my best advice!

Follow Morgan Salmans:

Instagram: @moe_1006

Drip & Dolce: @dripanddolce

Trifecta Hospitality Group: @trifectahospitalitygroup

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