When did you realize that gastronomy would become your eloquence? Is there a place, a gesture, a scent bound to the lagoon or the Venetian table that you still recognize today as the genesis of your journey?

If I must retrace my memories to the moment when, for the first time, I felt the calling of this craft, I return to when I was thirteen. It was akin to a spiritual epiphany, amidst the 'fire and smoke' of the wood-burning hearths in the home where I lived and those of my aunts, my grandmother’s sisters.
Those were winter days dense with fog and frost, where the scent of ash and coal mingled with the damp air. I recall the soups, the ‘bisati ai ferri’ — grilled eels — and then, in summer, the sultry heat, the cicadas, the sand of the fields and the sea. The fire remained alight, yet the flavors shifted.
Those sensations and that warmth have never abandoned me, just as I have never been left by the sea salt that merges with the lagoon, my adopted home. A salinity not unlike that which saturated the streets during the sultry August afternoons in Rosolina, the land that raised me.
One might say I was baptized by fire and salt: two elements, moreover, indispensable to my craft.

Your cuisine appears to arise from a continuous dialogue between water, wild herbs, lagoon fish, and Venetian memory. Within this landscape, what place does pasta occupy? Is it more of a root, a technical instrument, or a realm of creative freedom?

Each time I present a new seasonal composition, pasta becomes a subject of study. And I pursue this in an almost obsessive manner.
My objective is to fashion a harmony between that which is bound to tradition — and thus the necessity of adapting those flavors that evoke old Venetian recipes — and, simultaneously, the liberty of granting myself a creative space.
Pasta thus becomes a realm of freedom: a blank canvas upon which to express my personal vision of this lagoon that inspires me so deeply, regardless of whether I choose to employ dry, fresh, or filled pasta.

“Your” salt marsh herbs — samphire, obione, golden samphire, sea fennel, sea lavender, and others — bring water, sapidity, fiber, and seasonality. When such a living ingredient enters the realm of pasta, how does it alter the conception of a dough, a filling, or a condiment?

The marine, sapid, and balsamic notes entirely shift the gustatory approach. Despite years of research and trial, the salt marsh herbs remain for me a source of continuous revelation. I am ever seeking new inspirations to introduce them into the world of pasta.
Not being an extremist of flavors, in the finished dish I desire harmony and, above all, something immensely pleasing, epicurean. Consequently, I endeavor to accompany the brackish or balsamic impact of the herbs with a protein or aromatic counterpart to balance its intensity.
This is precisely what I achieved, for instance, with the Spaghettini cooked in carrot juice, sea fennel pesto, droplets of licorice, and local scallops.

When working with lagoon herbs of such delicacy, do you prefer to employ them fresh, dried, in extracts, chlorophyl, powder, or another form? And which technical method, in your view, remains most faithful to the untamed character of the salt marsh?

I believe it is beyond doubt that utilizing cold-pressed extracts of herbs gathered within the preceding twenty-four hours allows one to fully savor every aromatic nuance of the plant and, by extension, capture the very essence of the salt marsh.
If I may also utilize their young shoots, I succeed in expanding the gustatory experience even further. Yet, we must remember that salt marsh herbs possess their own lifecycle, which must be revered to elicit the absolute best from the plant itself and to avoid disrupting the delicate equilibrium of the marshes.
Employing the gathered plants in their entirety is a gesture of reverence toward nature. Dehydrating the fibers and grinding them into powder allows me to evoke almost the same flavors even when fresh herbs are unavailable.
After years of experimentation and refinement, I can now prepare doughs by blending flour and semolina with both cold-pressed herb extracts and dehydrated powdered fibers, achieving exquisite results.

On the menu at Algiubagiò, there is the “Linguine gratinate alla Buranea: fresh green pasta with lagoon herbs, filled with linguine alla Buranea and gratinée, with a velouté of lagoon fish and mollusks.” How was this dish conceived, which seems to transform a Venetian echo into a contemporary manifestation?

The Linguine gratinate alla Buranea are born from the convergence of three cultures of gratinée pasta.
The first is the green pasta sheet, which recalls the classic green lasagne of Emilia. In my rendition, however, in place of spinach, I employ the powder and extract of lagoon herbs. This egg pasta sheet envelops the linguine, giving the dish a form reminiscent of a maki roll.
The second is the traditional Buranea: a gratin with fish and mussels, béchamel, and fettuccine. It is the cornerstone of the dish, yet I present it in a lightened interpretation, altering the pasta shape.
The third is the Linguine gratinate alla Pelestrinotta, where the gratinée pasta is prepared with semolina linguine, fish broth, béchamel, mussels, clams, shrimp, and langoustine.
From the fusion of these three inspirations, my dish is born: a first course essentially of the sea, possessing profound and indulgent marine notes. I eschew dairy, utilizing only fish broth. For the pasta, I employ egg linguine; the green lasagna serves as the vessel; the gratin finish is achieved with fried breadcrumbs. Adorning the creation are the Mitilla mussels of Pellestrina and minced samphire.

Regarding fresh pasta, is there a shape that you feel is intimately your own? A shape capable of cradling the sapidity of the lagoon, its botanical elements, the fish stock, the very voice of the water?

I cannot say if there is a single shape more congenial to me. I do know, however, that for a year, I kept on my menu extruded linguine made solely of flour and the extract of salt marsh herbs.
The balsamic quality of the herbs was balanced by a light broth of lagoon fish, artichoke hearts, and boiled, shelled lagoon shrimp. Garnishments of smaller fried shrimp lent a delightful and crispy note to the plate.
It was a harmonious ensemble, capable of fully expressing both the botanical, sapid elements and the delicate nature of the fish and crustaceans that the lagoon offers.

Salinity is one of the most intricate codes of your cuisine: it arises from the sea, the herbs, the algae, the fish, and sometimes the water itself. How do you technically govern this balance when constructing a first course?

The sea salt in Venice, ‘el salso,’ as they say here, is a natural element. It is found directly or indirectly in many preparations.
For example, one of the quintessentially Venetian pastas is Bigoi in salsa: a dish inherently sapid, yet balanced by the sweetness of onions.
For me, having made Venice my adopted city and now working in a restaurant overlooking the lagoon, salinity has always been an indispensable element. However, as I mentioned, I do not favor extremes. I apply my sensitivity to create balance and to “tame” the saline intensity.
I achieve this with vegetables, meats, mollusks, or even by playing with spices. This was the case, for example, with the Pennoni with red mullet broth infused with saffron, turnip greens, and roasted red mullet.

You have often exhibited an approach akin to that of a pastry chef: leavened creations, textures, precision. Has this sensitivity ever crossed into the world of fresh pasta, altering its structure or character?

Pastry is rigor, precision, and study. Yet, it also contains a generous measure of creativity, a penchant for play, for surprise, and for the pursuit of the unexpected.
I believe I apply this philosophy when composing a new dish: I deconstruct the elements, play with textures and temperatures, and recreate a sensation through unconventional means.
An illustrative example is when I utilized dry pasta, rehydrated and سپس cooked to over-tenderness with mussels and their liquor, blended until it became a smooth sauce with which I dressed purple potato and mussel gnocchi.
In that dish, pasta, potatoes, and mussels became something entirely different from what one might anticipate. The pasta served almost as an accompaniment to the potatoes, which were the true protagonist of the dish alongside the mussels.

In shaping the gastronomy of Algiubagiò, you chose a gradual transition, guiding your guests toward a Venice less predictable and more contemporary. Was there an experimentation with pasta or doughs that the clientele struggled to embrace, but which you still deem profound?

In over five years of devotion at Algiubagiò, only on a couple of occasions have guests not embraced our creations with enthusiasm.
Given that Venice is historically a crossroads of cultures and has always served as a bridge between Europe and the Orient, I had envisioned a filled pasta cooked by steaming, much like classic Chinese dumplings.
In this creation, the raviolo became a parcel of dough to which I had given the form and colors of bok choy, filled with shrimp 'alla busara'.
The dish was ultimately replaced to make way for a more approachable creation, yet the fusion of Eastern techniques and Venetian flavors remains, for me, a subject of ongoing study and refinement. Who knows: perhaps, as we refine it further and meet a clientele more inclined to avant-garde tasting, it may become another signature masterpiece.

Looking to the future, what do you envision for pasta in Italian haute cuisine? Will it remain a vessel of tradition and belonging, or will it become increasingly a language of research, capable of narrating fragile and shifting territories like the Venetian lagoon?

I believe pasta is woven into the personal and professional DNA of every Italian chef. Pasta is heritage, the foundation of each of us. Yet, research and experimentation are vital, as much for me as they are for my peers.
Living in an ecosystem as fragile and mutable as Venice and its lagoon compels me daily to confront change, to possess a gaze distinct from other territories, and to experience a nature unique in its existence.
Tradition is necessary to provide a solid foundation, yet in my cuisine, I also wish to convey that sense of wonder I experience day by day, which only Venice and its lagoon can bestow.
It is a truth understood only if one loses oneself among the narrow calli and learns to look level with the water, capturing its wonders. Much like the phenomenon of 'stravedo'—that atmospheric event of extraordinary refraction occurring on days of pristine clarity, which allows from the Venetian lagoon an incredibly near, breathtaking view of the Dolomites.