Chef Perdomo, your initial professional encounter with Italian gastronomy occurred in Uruguay, at an establishment dedicated to the art of fresh pasta. What visual, aroma, or singular gesture from that kitchen do you still carry within you?

I harbor exquisite memories because, as is always the case with lived experience, the mind preserves and crystallizes the finest moments of that past with luminous clarity. This is not to deny that I endured periods of intense pressure and rigorous learning, which today possess a sweet resonance; indeed, it is precisely thanks to those moments—when one had to begin from nothingness and absorb everything—that I stand here today.

Upon your arrival in Milan in 2001, you entered Pont de Ferr, embarking on an internal exploration of Italian tradition. What did pasta reveal to you about our philosophy of culinary creation and the shared ritual of the table?

When I arrived in Italy, I had to dismantle all my preconceived knowledge and begin entirely anew. It was no effortless task; my only companion was my technical proficiency as a cook—at the time, I spoke no Italian—and I soon realized even that was of limited use. Italian gastronomy is utterly distinct from any other culinary architecture: it possesses an infinite tapestry of products and recipes, a millennial tradition that shifts dramatically within leagues, from region to region. It was there that I understood pasta, for example, had absolutely nothing to do with what I had previously conceived as a fine plate of pasta!

Today, how do these dual perspectives coexist—the gaze of the outsider and that of one who has fully embraced and internalized Italian cuisine—when you seek to reinterpret a dish woven with memory?

Today, they coexist in harmonious dialogue, though the journey to understand and reconcile both realities was long. The desire to transgress boundaries and shatter established paradigms—which I possess—is a privilege reserved only for those who have first mastered and deeply understood those very paradigms. It is there that the artistry begins: if you wish to deconstruct a traditional creation that has evoked deep emotion for a thousand years, you must first possess the mastery to execute it flawlessly, and only then dare to cast upon it a novel gaze.
This does not mean tradition must remain static; evolution is imperative. Yet tradition must be revered and understood; only then can one comprehend how to "play" with the rules and transfigure it. The ultimate offering must be a new reality of something that already exists. It is an exquisite game, but only when conducted with reverence and profound consciousness.

The guiding ethos of Contraste is "To resemble no one, not even ourselves." How do you apply this principle to pasta—a medium steeped in cultural identity—without reducing it to a mere vehicle for creative vanity?

I always maintain that the concept of "creativity" would not exist without the prior existence of "necessity." I believe that any living being, when placed in a sphere of comfort, remains intellectually dormant. Thus, I firmly believe we must strive to cultivate our own necessities, be they of any nature: artistic expression, the pursuit of form, the desire to break with the past, or the yearning for a pristine perspective.
However, it must be something in which we believe deeply and wish to present to the world at all costs, persisting, regardless of the outcome, in forging a new path. This is my enduring spirit: I hold the past and its traditions in the highest reverence, but I desire to perceive the world through my own eyes and trace my own path. This inevitably compels me to constantly reshape even that which I once held as absolute certainty.

You have conceptualized various "pasta non-pasta" creations, from the Bolognese Donut to your interpretation of pasta and peas. What core essence must endure—flavor, gesture, structure, or memory—for a dish, though radically transfigured, to remain authentically pasta?

I believe most passionately that its identity is paramount. Naturally, memory and, consequently, the sense of belonging within the diner savoring the dish play a vital role. Yet, when I attempt to modify or present a new incarnation of a traditional dish, I must first master its classic form, and only then do I seek to imbue it with my personal philosophy.
It is an endeavor far deeper than mere novelty, for it must possess a rigorous logic within the complex and articulated narrative of the tasting menu.

When you construct a pasta dish, what is your true point of departure: the shape, the mastication, the capacity to cradle the sauce, or a memory? And which of these elements is absolutely non-negotiable?

Unequivocally, the memory that the dish awakens within me. This is indeed the non-negotiable element: that singular spark which, in a single bite, manages to summon and communicate a memory in its absolute entirety.
Even if the architecture, the form, the temperature, even if everything else were altered, it must touch a chord in the mind that ignites, as if by sorcery, that spark capable of recalling the past. And when that happens, it is sublime.

"Riflesso" (Reflection) reinterprets recognizable flavors through contemporary techniques; "Riflessioni" (Reflections), on the other hand, ventures into more abstract and unexpected territories.

Does pasta inevitably belong to the realm of memory, or can it also become a lexicon of the unknown?

Pasta belongs to memory because it has nourished generations as a humble offering which, through its widespread presence, graced every table and offered an infinite, boundless canvas for combinations of flavors and recipes.
Today, however, it also holds an elevated place in the grand ateliers of auteur cuisine, transcending its role of mere sustenance. Today, pasta conveys intellect and is evolving at a breathtaking pace. Thus, I believe its revolution cannot and must not compete with traditional pasta; they journey on two entirely parallel tracks. Yet, the selfsame pasta can perfectly articulate two completely contrasting spirits.

Playfulness and surprise have long been signatures of your culinary art. Yet, can theatrical effect become a limitation? Where lies the boundary between a brilliant concept and a morsel destined to linger forever in memory?

For me, play and surprise were a necessity; I possessed a visceral need to interpret gastronomy in that manner. They served to demonstrate that a foreigner could, through study, devotion, expertise, and knowledge, cook Italian cuisine, and that even in an osteria—where I began this style of cooking—one could dine with intellectual interest rather than merely seeking simple sustenance.
Therefore, I believe that if you play and seek to transfigure something, you must possess a fundamental reason, a necessity robust enough to sustain your failures. To seek one's own path is to embark upon a road fraught with setbacks. It is for this reason that it is vital to carry within you a powerful necessity, which will sustain and shelter you throughout the journey.

If you had to narrate your odyssey from Uruguay to Milan, and the artisan you are today, through a single pasta dish, what form would it take? And what flavor would be indispensable?

I envision it as a sort of pasta ribbon, akin to a sheet of lasagna, with varying thicknesses: beginning whisper-thin and concluding robustly, where every bite reveals a shifting landscape of flavor.
We are in a state of perpetual evolution, and our creations today serve to build tomorrow. Thus, I believe I would not be here speaking with you had I not embarked upon the path I chose; any alternative decision might have led me to a different destiny. Consequently, the pasta that represents me must be in constant evolution, yet whole, unified, and unbroken.

How do you envision the destiny of pasta within auteur cuisine: will it remain a domain of radical transformations, or is it destined to return to a pristine, new essentialism?

The possibilities that can be woven with pasta are endless. Naturally, the fruit of a new philosophical path can never be compared to the comforting pasta of a grandmother; that is self-evident.
I have always observed that there are certain crafted products—not raw ingredients—which we do not hesitate to "destroy" to birth another creation. Consider Parmigiano, for instance: it is an extraordinary creation of human hands, yet if we grate it to fashion a sauce, no one is scandalized. Or chocolate, another human marvel: if we melt it to create gelato, no one protests.
Yet, touch pasta, and it is deemed a transgression: it must only be parboiled and sauced. Thus, it becomes a vessel to elevate the sauce from plate to mouth—each time one of the wonders of the world—but when one attempts to manipulate the pasta itself, a mechanism of suspicion and defense is triggered to protect the product that saved us, that nourished us, and which, in the collective imagination, must remain untouched and revered.
So I ask myself: do we not apply these same considerations to Parmigiano, prosciutto, chocolate, and so many other artisanal wonders?
Therefore, I believe the future of pasta is dawning at this very moment, when we can—fortunately, I should add, for there are many less fortunate than we—allow ourselves to perceive pasta beyond the cinematic imagery of Totò in "Miseria e nobiltà," where they devoured 450 grams of pasta with their bare hands.
Ultimately, I believe we can pursue other paths with utmost reverence, offering this wondrous and unique medium—capable of uniting the world—new preparations and diverse perspectives.