Cooking Is in My Blood
Part 1 — First and Foremost, My Father
When people ask me how I first became involved in cooking, I realise there isn't one particular moment I can point to.
Cooking has always been part of my life, long before it became my profession.
My first encounter with the restaurant world happened when I was very young.
My father was still a young man, probably not even thirty, when he decided to open a restaurant of his own in Chamois, a small mountain village in Italy's Aosta Valley.
The restaurant was located high up in the mountains, in an area accessible by cable car and chairlift.
His older brother, my uncle, already had a separate restaurant. The world of restaurants and hospitality was therefore already part of our family life.
Unfortunately, shortly after opening, my father had a serious skiing accident. He broke both legs and was forced to give up his project, while my uncle continued running his own restaurant for many years.
It was my first introduction to a world I would gradually come to know much better: professional kitchens, restaurant service, timing, organisation and all the work that goes on behind the scenes.
At home, however, our cooking was based on simplicity, care and respect.
We were a family in which my father was the only one earning a living, so running the household meant making thoughtful choices, including when it came to food.
I remember my mother preparing eggs with peas, thin slices of breaded meat from the leg, and choosing the more affordable shoulder ham instead of the more expensive ham.
These were the dishes of our everyday life, simple food without excess, where every ingredient had its own value.
Bread was always on the table. It was never thrown away or wasted. Respecting bread was part of our upbringing, even before it was part of our eating habits.
But there was another side to our family life.
When we went out to eat, my father would take us to some of the best pizzerias he knew in Turin.
Going out for pizza was a real ritual.
Everyone had their own pizza, even us children. We ate it with a knife and fork, and my parents would often order a starter as well.
Eating out was an occasion my father valued greatly.
He had enormous respect for food and for the people who prepared it.
I believe that an important part of my approach to cooking began right there: with respect.
Respect for ingredients, for the work involved, and for the food on our plates.
At the time, I had no idea that one day I would have a restaurant of my own.
Later would come the hotels in Bolzano, my mother's Artusi cookbook, my travels and many other experiences.
But that is another part of the story.
Susanna Crepaldi
To be continued...
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