Tradition
Today, by chance, I overheard a conversation between two young men who were mockingly retelling a story from their group of friends. One of their friends, they said, is trying to live differently — a bit outside their usual patterns — and in doing so probably annoys the rest of the group. What amused them most was the fact that he drinks matcha every morning instead of coffee. “I’m sure his grandpa and grandma drank that too,” they joked, emphasizing the irony.
The tone was derisive, full of sarcasm, and they continued by insisting that the best and most “proper” way is to eat and drink what our ancestors did — because that is our tradition.
Meanwhile, both of them were dressed in Adidas sneakers and Nike tracksuits.
That contrast, almost grotesque, reminded me of my own work.
A large part of what I do is simply talking with guests. Through stories about ingredients, places, and ways of life, I try to convey the spirit of the time and the people I grew up with. I often mention my grandmother, grandfather, mother, father — and in their gestures, words, and recipes, I find the path to the plate I serve today.
I used to say to guests, with a smile:
“Here, you’ll taste a bit of my grandmother too.”
Because if my grandmother woke up today and looked at the plates I present to people, she would probably pat me on the shoulder but also say:
“My dear boy, what on earth have you done?”
And that — exactly that — is the point.
My dishes do not try to be replicas of old recipes, but reflections of respect for them.
In how I handle an ingredient, in the desire to prepare something good for someone, in the willingness to spend time in the kitchen — that is where the heritage of our grandmothers lives.
Old is not always automatically better.
Value doesn’t lie in blind repetition, but in respect — for what was passed down, and for the person being served.
Those are the true recipes of our grandmothers: not only in the measurements and ingredients, but in the gesture, the intention, the respect.
The tone was derisive, full of sarcasm, and they continued by insisting that the best and most “proper” way is to eat and drink what our ancestors did — because that is our tradition.
Meanwhile, both of them were dressed in Adidas sneakers and Nike tracksuits.
That contrast, almost grotesque, reminded me of my own work.
A large part of what I do is simply talking with guests. Through stories about ingredients, places, and ways of life, I try to convey the spirit of the time and the people I grew up with. I often mention my grandmother, grandfather, mother, father — and in their gestures, words, and recipes, I find the path to the plate I serve today.
I used to say to guests, with a smile:
“Here, you’ll taste a bit of my grandmother too.”
Because if my grandmother woke up today and looked at the plates I present to people, she would probably pat me on the shoulder but also say:
“My dear boy, what on earth have you done?”
And that — exactly that — is the point.
My dishes do not try to be replicas of old recipes, but reflections of respect for them.
In how I handle an ingredient, in the desire to prepare something good for someone, in the willingness to spend time in the kitchen — that is where the heritage of our grandmothers lives.
Old is not always automatically better.
Value doesn’t lie in blind repetition, but in respect — for what was passed down, and for the person being served.
Those are the true recipes of our grandmothers: not only in the measurements and ingredients, but in the gesture, the intention, the respect.