Chef, Dina bears in her very name a familial, almost domestic origin. When did you realize that pasta could be a conduit of memory—something that consoles, indeed, but that can also disconcert, interrogate, and displace?

I believe I understood this when I ceased viewing memory as a museum and began to live it as a raw material. In my youth, I did not hold it in high affection, and perhaps for this very reason, I was led to gaze upon it with a more critical eye. Pasta is arguably the most shared lexicon of Italian cuisine: everyone possesses a memory of it, yet precisely because of this, every dish becomes a dialogue with something that already dwells within the one who eats. I am not interested in merely reproducing that memory; I seek to enter into a relationship with it. At times I accompany it, at others I provoke crisis. Pasta possesses this extraordinary power to reassure, yet it can also demand that you contemplate it from an entirely different perspective. I always say that water and flour are a blank canvas upon which to write. What finer canvas could there be for exploring new horizons?

In your culinary expression, instinct and construction, childhood and intellect, the folk gesture and the contemporary short-circuit coexist. Is pasta, for you, born of the gut or the mind? Or does it become truly compelling precisely when these two realms cease to be sundered?

For me, there is no culinary art of the mind and culinary art of the gut. There is only a culinary art of profound value. That said, I believe that food in general, and thus pasta, can primarily evoke connotations of carnal pleasure. This holds true in the vast majority of instances, thus satisfying the visceral joy of the gut. In rare moments, one might partake with a singular love that elevates the soul. In those instances, either the mind or the heart will hold sway, depending on how one wishes to perceive it. This being said, there are rare occasions when gut and soul may fuse, and I find a beautiful nobility in that scarcity.

In a plate of pasta, how vital is the bite? Can mastication serve as a narrative, almost as a means of compelling the diner to linger within the dish, rather than traversing it too swiftly?

The bite is the very essence of pasta. The ergonomics, the elemental components, and the cooking itself profoundly alter that which we consume. These are deeply nuanced variables, yet people rarely listen to them. We ought to cultivate a culture around what structure signifies, and what it means to alter a bite. At Dina, the bite holds sacred value. I hope those who sit at our table come to realize this.

Pasta is frequently associated with notions of hearth, comfort, and familiarity. Yet at Dina, even that which seems familiar can become oblique, unexpected, and even startling. Are you more interested in confirming a memory, or in gracefully sabotaging it?

I shall answer with utmost candour: I do not ask myself such questions. I simply strive to serve something in which I believe and which I deem to hold great value for myself and, I hope, for the guest. Each visitor will, in turn, find something different within it, yet there is undoubtedly a pursuit of that which is beautiful in the broadest sense.

The menu features creations such as Risone, oyster and bay leaf, Spaghettino and meatball, and Casoncelli with Grana Padano cream. How, for you, is a pasta dish conceived?

Each dish is born of a different genesis. Sometimes from an image, at others from a texture, and at others still from an inquiry or a singular ingredient. Rarely do I begin with a recipe itself; I seek to capture an artistic intention. Pasta is an extraordinary medium because it can alter its identity without ever forfeiting its true nature. It is an open structure, capable of embracing vastly diverse concepts.

The Spaghettino with meatball evokes an almost cinematic, pop, and affectionate imagery, yet it also risks falling into the trap of mere nostalgia. How does one work with such a recognizable icon without lapsing into facile pastiche?

The spaghettino with meatball is born from meticulous work surrounding culinary fats and the study of historical recipes (specifically, the "spaghettino legato" of Nino Bergese).

I had in my repertoire Dina's meatball—extolled by many as "the finest of my life"—which consequently replaced the tongue present in the dish of the aforementioned Bergese. Furthermore, I employ a spaghettino that possesses less mass than other shapes and, consequently, a greater surface area: this allows a magnificent amount of sauce to cling to it. In truth, this signature spaghetto of Dina has these unique characteristics: though it is not strictly devoid of fat (far from it!), the part that seems most "substantial"—the gelatinous collagen of the meat glaze with which it is tossed—is actually the leanest element. And it is this very essence that lingers, gently coating the palate, once the spaghettino has been savoured.

The casoncello belongs to the sentimental geography of Lombardy. What does it mean to touch a shape so steeped in identity: to shield it, betray it, lighten it, or propel it elsewhere?

I believe we honor tradition by continuously questioning it: if you guard it too fiercely, it becomes a monument; if you betray it merely for the sake of doing so, it lapses into a mere exercise in style. I prefer to listen to it. The casoncello carries centuries of collective memory. I simply attempt to write a new sentence in that chronicle, without pretending to rewrite it entirely. For nearly a decade, I have served my interpretation of the casoncello in my native Brescia, blending a touch of Bergamo and Emilia. Today, the question remains whether my casoncello with Grana Padano cream is traditional or not, considering its pasta dough features a remarkably rich ratio of egg yolks, and a filling of cuts far removed from local heritage. Perhaps Dina has woven it into a new tradition?

Is there a pasta from your childhood, or from your personal history, that still clings to you today like an aroma, a gesture, or a texture? And how much of this finds its way, perhaps non-literally, into the kitchen of Dina?

Indeed, there are many, but if I must choose one, it is unquestionably the simple pasta in bianco—dressed with that classic triad of olive oil, butter, and Grana Padano! I used to consume it in abundance. Looking back, this was a pasta that truly awakened my deepest cravings. Perhaps because, in the end, I would sweep the plate clean with an almost ungenerous amount of bread.

In the CIAO menu, the guest does not read a list, but rather surrenders to a journey. How important is it for you to divest the guest of the preliminary control of the written word, offering instead the raw, unadorned experience of the dish, even when it comes to pasta?

"CIAO" is a word rich with diverse meanings, and it was a monumental menu; however, today, it has reached the end of its path. I believe the guest should be guided into something of profound beauty. Assuredly, words can be powerful, and they can forge prejudices and expectations. That being said, I do not possess a definitive answer to this question. What is certain is that upon our reopening at the end of August, all will become clear to those who experience Dina at the table.

Looking to the horizon, what manner of pasta do you envision for Dina? A pasta more radical, more essential, more emotive, more liberated? Or one capable of returning to an apparent simplicity, yet with a profound universe of thought concealed beneath the surface?

I desire a pasta that grows ever more free. Liberated from the necessity to astonish, free from the obligation of being recognizable, and even free from the very concept of innovation. I long for a pasta that feels inevitable. "Apparently simple," as Romito would say, yet harboring immense research without ever flaunting it. Though I do hope that our complexities can one day be revealed without seeming ostentatious or tedious, but rather useful and vibrant for those curious about the bite, the raw material, and the soul of taste.