You once described yourself as “a discreet chef.” What does that say about you beyond the kitchen?

Being discreet reflects who I am as a person. I try to move gently — with people, with nature, even when facing difficulties. For me, discretion is a way of finding balance in life. It allows space for listening, observing, and understanding before acting.

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You grew up in Parabita, left very young, and travelled far. When you return today, what still feels familiar — and what has changed?

In a small town like Parabita, not much changes in four or five years, so many things still feel deeply familiar. I’m especially drawn to the quiet, overlooked places — those hidden corners that, in moments of solitude, restore something inside me.
What has changed, surprisingly, is the people. I sense a growing openness to new ideas and creative energy, which isn’t always common in small communities. That shift gives me hope.

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Is there a smell, a colour, or a moment from your childhood that still follows you into the kitchen?

My obsession with eating. I’ve always loved food, at any time of day. Over the years, I’ve learned how to eat better, but the act of eating remains a form of training for my palate. For someone who wants to make others happy through food, the palate is everything.

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After working in highly structured, demanding kitchens, what did you have to “unlearn” to cook more freely?

Perfection. In certain kitchens, perfection is everything — but I’ve learned that imperfection and lightness can lead to extraordinary results. Letting go of rigidity opened space for creativity and instinct.

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You speak often about simplicity. Was that something you had to fight for, or did it come naturally?

I’ve always been a simple person, attached to small things and small gestures. Staying simple is actually the hardest thing — especially when the world around you tries to define you differently. For me, simplicity is both a personal value and a lifelong goal.

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For Palazzo Piccinno, you worked on a breakfast menu. How did cooking for the morning change your approach to food?

Breakfast is the first moment of the day — it sets the tone. That responsibility requires creativity, but also restraint. The cuisines I trained in tend to be rich and intense; breakfast demands lightness, balance, and variety. It’s a different kind of generosity.

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Living abroad today, how do you maintain your connection with Parabita? What do you miss most?

My family and the people I love are still there — that makes staying connected easy. Any excuse is good to check in on my town. What I miss most is the warmth and authenticity of Salento. Not every place carries that kind of human heat.

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If you hadn’t become a chef, where do you think your curiosity would have taken you?

I’ve rediscovered a love for art over time. I might have become a small artisan — something manual, practical, old-fashioned. Maybe a carpenter. I’m drawn to work that involves the hands, the body, and real materials.