The salad, my writing and my favorite playground… and your treasure hunt.
An innocent simplicity, a youthful sense of precision, and a touch of audacity.
In its freedom lives everything about the way I cook, the way I approach my work as a chef: an attention to the body, to others, to the product, and to the moment. It nourishes without ever weighing down.
A salad must feel alive, present, joyful and, like a poem, it should reflect the one who receives it.
It is at its core that everything circulates, in quiet vibrations, in shifting geometries… ribbons, laces, rounds, fine slices, delicate herbs, crisp leaves, tender shoots, gentler pieces… a dressing that slips through, that wraps, that binds without ever becoming heavy.
There must be surprises… always.
Moments of roundness, touches of acidity, and that subtle, smiling kind of madness.
Something that keeps you engaged, that never lets you settle.
Then it crunches, it yields, it melts, it awakens.
It moves through the mouth, then through the body, leaving something clear, something light.
An evidence
Faustine
