MATTEO ROSSATTO
The rigour of haute cuisine, the warmth of memory
1994
Disciplined - Contemporary
MATTEO ROSSATTO
The rigour of haute cuisine, the warmth of memory
1994
Disciplined - Contemporary
MATTEO ROSSATTO
The rigour of haute cuisine, the warmth of memory
1994
Disciplined - Contemporary
CURRICULUM VITAE
Born in Turin in 1994, Matteo Rossatto arrived at the culinary craft from the Piemontese province, which early on taught him the grace of pragmatism: there, between the local culinary institute and his first hours in the laboratory, he understood that he was not merely choosing a "common" trade, but destiny. Not the easiest path, but the most necessary.
His passage through ALMA — the high academy of Italian cuisine — marked his first true threshold: discipline transformed into language, technique ceased to be a sterile obsession and began to elevate into a form of thought. Upon the Amalfi Coast, he met his first maestro, Michele Deleo, and absorbed his primary ethos: reverence for the raw ingredient, rigor, and devotion to the culinary gesture — that invisible grace which sustains the whole.
Then came the intense season spent at La Madonnina del Pescatore with Moreno Cedroni: the cadence of haute cuisine, clarity under pressure, and the realization that "the highest level" does not signify spectacle, but constancy. Immediately thereafter, he joined the brigade of Carlo Cracco, who became a true mentor to him: a guide in his choices and, above all, in the architecture of a vision. In Milan, he also passed through Trippa with Diego Rossi, a decisive experience that grounded his identity and substance: less rhetoric, and more truth upon the plate.
His journey led him to Giancarlo Perbellini, first at the Milanese bistro and later at the gastronomic temple in Verona: here he refined precision, contemporary sensitivity, and that sense of measure which distinguishes a mere "technician" from a true chef. An innate desire to challenge himself propelled him beyond borders: in Monte Carlo, at Le Louis XV – Alain Ducasse, he encountered the ideal of absolute excellence as a system, as a daily liturgy, as a profound responsibility.
Returning for a time to Italy, he chose to deepen his mastery of leavening through a specialized course at ALMA alongside Ezio Marinato: for even bread, in truth, is a silent testament to "the art of care." Yet France beckoned once more: he entered the house of Georges Blanc, rising from sous-chef to chef de cuisine over the span of four years. It was there that he was "definitively" forged, both as a professional and as a man: through leadership, trust, and structure. Blanc, to him, was far more than a maestro — almost a second father.
Yet the final step remained: to measure himself against the thrill of creation, bearing the solemn responsibility of building from nothing. Thus, he relocated to Paris to inaugurate, alongside Martino Ruggieri, the restaurant in the heart of the city, at the Palais Royal, where he continues to labor today.
Today, the cuisine of Matteo Rossatto stands as an overt bridge: Italian roots, French technique, and a poetic search for identity. He carries within himself the legacy of his masters — discipline, precision, substance — yet he looks ahead with a serene, quiet ambition: to soon write a chapter entirely his own, without pretense, with the same solemn devotion that guided every step of his odyssey.
dialogues
Chef, what are the first memories of pasta from your childhood in Turin? A shape, a sauce, a domestic gesture that even today dictates your rhythm when conceiving a dish?
My earliest memory bound to pasta belongs to those Sundays spent crafting fresh pasta alongside my grandmother—tagliatelle, to be precise. A simple ritual, repeated through time, woven from gestures, laughter, flour, and hands working in unison. My grandmother was like a second mother to me, and those moments in the kitchen forged my understanding of food. They are the guiding principles that still govern my craft today.
From your path at ALMA to the kitchens of De Leo, Cracco, Rossi, and Perbellini: how did your philosophy of pasta mature during those years? Is there a technical or ethical lesson on pasta that you still carry with you daily?
ALMA bestowed upon me method and precision, yet it was through my internship that I had the privilege of working alongside Michele Deleo, who remains one of my greatest mentors. Under his guidance, I learned how vital it is to treat pasta with reverence, refining every detail from the physical gesture to the selection of ingredients. That experience, combined with the teachings of ALMA, truly defined my culinary approach and my vision of pasta.
Arriving in Vonnas, in the "village" of Georges Blanc, means entering the very heart of classical French gastronomy. How did Italian pasta find its place in such an identity-rich sanctuary, dominated by Bresse poultry, jus, and grand sauces?
My journey under Georges Blanc completely transformed my approach to sauces and, consequently, to pasta itself. I learned to view the sauce not merely as a condiment, but as the supreme protagonist of the dish, capable of imparting structure, equilibrium, and character. Today, when I compose a pasta dish, I always contemplate how the sauce can elevate the raw material without eclipsing it, harmonizing textures and flavors. Every embellishment is born with a singular, noble purpose: to honor the pasta and express the dish in its grand entirety.
You handle olive oil and Mediterranean salinity with the same natural grace as French butter and reductions. When envisioning a pasta dish, from which side do you begin: the selection of the semolina and shape, or the construction of the sauce "à la française"?
To me, pasta begins its journey long before it meets the boiling water. I recall the Sundays with my grandmother preparing gnocchi: even then, I understood that every single element possesses weight. Today, when choosing grains, semolina, bronze dies, or drying times, every step resonates in the final creation and must converse with my vision of the dish. When I cook, I seek above all things tenacity, so the pasta may carry the sauce, followed by absorbency and aromatic purity, thus bringing balance, harmony, and depth to the plate. These are the nuances that elevate a simple pasta to a memorable masterpiece.
Which dried pasta shapes and producers do you feel closest to your culinary sensibility today? And which Piedmontese fresh pastas—tajarin, plin, thin lasagna—do you deem most suited to converse with the rich jus and preparations of French gastronomy?
When an inspiration is born, much depends on the dish and the season, yet I often begin with fresh egg pasta. It possesses a warmth, a tenderness, and a versatility that allow me to shape flavors and textures with immediate intimacy. In contrast, dried durum wheat pasta steps onto the stage when I seek structure and character, particularly for more intense ragùs or preparations demanding absolute precision in cooking. At this moment, the shapes I feel most intimately connected to are tagliatelle, ravioli, and potato gnocchi. They are forms that invite me to play with fillings, textures, and sauces without ever losing the singular essence of the dish.
In a prestigious menu, often punctuated by numerous courses, pasta risks being relegated to a "comforting interlude" rather than an authorial statement. Where do you position it within a tasting menu? And what criteria do you employ to balance portion, flavor intensity, and the dish's narrative role?
For me, pasta is never merely a "haven of comfort": in the realm of fine dining, it is a canvas upon which to articulate technique, balance, and artistry. Whenever it graces the menu, it must possess a precise purpose. It is not a matter of placing it out of mere indulgence or nostalgia, but of understanding what story it can tell, how it intertwines with the ingredients, and what memory it leaves upon the palate. My primary guide is harmony within the dish and the menu. If the pasta can convey intensity, poise, and character while retaining its essential lightness, then it has earned its place. It must be an absolute moment of pleasure, yet engineered with the same rigor and devotion as any other creation on the menu.
You have worked with an almost entirely Italian brigade within an iconic house of French gastronomy. In daily practice, how does this culinary bilingualism translate onto the pasta plate? Could you share a dish wherein you feel you have discovered a true "common dialect" between Italy and France?
Today, at Maison Ruggieri, to conceive a pasta dish is to wed rigor with weightlessness. Everything is transformed: the rhythm of the service; the grammar of sauces, which holds a sacred role here in France; the pursuit of texture, where each element must speak without burdening the palate; and the method of building richness and depth, always respecting equilibrium and harmony. The Parisian patron holds a silent expectation: they adore Italian cuisine when executed with absolute mastery, and they equally appreciate French culinary art reinterpreted with Italian ingredients or techniques. Learning to decode this subtle sensibility is one of the most exhilarating challenges of my craft here, for it demands creating dishes that speak eloquently without force, surprise without excess, and recount an authentic heritage.
Now you prepare for a new chapter between Puglia and Paris alongside Martino Ruggieri: what destiny do you envision for pasta in this upcoming venture? Will it lean toward the robust durum wheats and solar flavors of the South, or remain closer to the weightlessness and precision of Parisian menus?
At Maison Ruggieri, we do not practice strictly Italian or French cooking; we simply create beautiful, indulgent, "gourmand" cuisine. We dedicate ourselves to grand sauces and masterly cooking techniques, and through this, we achieve pasta dishes of profound flavor, character, and harmony—fully aligned with the vision of Martino Ruggieri, without ever compromising the truth and power of the ingredients.
When you are off duty, cooking for yourself or close friends, what is the pasta dish you feel is most intimately your own? Is it still the simple taste of childhood, or has it transformed after so many journeys and Michelin-starred kitchens?
When I cook for myself or a few intimate friends, the dish that most frequently summons me is spaghetti al pomodoro. It masquerades as simple, yet it remains one of the most challenging culinary feats to poise: the tomato, the oil, the salt, and the al dente cooking of the pasta must perform a flawless ballet. For me, it also holds a sacred emotional resonance: it invokes the memory of coming home from school to share a plate with my grandmother. Today, I prepare it often for friends, for my family, and for my fiancée, who treasures it deeply—especially being French, as it unveils to her the soul of authentic Italian flavor.
If you were to choose a single pasta dish as the signature of your legacy—the one by which you would wish to be remembered in ten or twenty years—what would grace the plate? What memories, what techniques, and what ingredients would be indispensable?
If I had to select a single pasta dish to define my legacy, it would be a creation that unites memory, technique, and pure, unadorned flavor. I would adorn it with simple yet deeply poetic ingredients: artisanal fresh pasta, a sauce that pays homage to it without overshadowing its grace, and whispers of flavor that invoke my origins—an exquisite olive oil, a sun-ripened tomato, fresh herbs, or a velvety cheese to impart creaminess. It would embody the masterly techniques garnered along my journey, from the halls of ALMA to the legendary kitchens, to my collaborations with chefs Michele Deleo and Georges Blanc: precision of cooking, harmony of flavors, structural texture, and meticulous attention to detail. And, naturally, memory: the warmth of my childhood kitchens, of Sundays with my grandmother, and the dishes I serve today to my loved ones. It would be a dish that speaks of my soul, my history, and my philosophy of gastronomy—simple, yet capable of evoking profound emotion.
CURRICULUM VITAE
Born in Turin in 1994, Matteo Rossatto arrived at the culinary craft from the Piemontese province, which early on taught him the grace of pragmatism: there, between the local culinary institute and his first hours in the laboratory, he understood that he was not merely choosing a "common" trade, but destiny. Not the easiest path, but the most necessary.
His passage through ALMA — the high academy of Italian cuisine — marked his first true threshold: discipline transformed into language, technique ceased to be a sterile obsession and began to elevate into a form of thought. Upon the Amalfi Coast, he met his first maestro, Michele Deleo, and absorbed his primary ethos: reverence for the raw ingredient, rigor, and devotion to the culinary gesture — that invisible grace which sustains the whole.
Then came the intense season spent at La Madonnina del Pescatore with Moreno Cedroni: the cadence of haute cuisine, clarity under pressure, and the realization that "the highest level" does not signify spectacle, but constancy. Immediately thereafter, he joined the brigade of Carlo Cracco, who became a true mentor to him: a guide in his choices and, above all, in the architecture of a vision. In Milan, he also passed through Trippa with Diego Rossi, a decisive experience that grounded his identity and substance: less rhetoric, and more truth upon the plate.
His journey led him to Giancarlo Perbellini, first at the Milanese bistro and later at the gastronomic temple in Verona: here he refined precision, contemporary sensitivity, and that sense of measure which distinguishes a mere "technician" from a true chef. An innate desire to challenge himself propelled him beyond borders: in Monte Carlo, at Le Louis XV – Alain Ducasse, he encountered the ideal of absolute excellence as a system, as a daily liturgy, as a profound responsibility.
Returning for a time to Italy, he chose to deepen his mastery of leavening through a specialized course at ALMA alongside Ezio Marinato: for even bread, in truth, is a silent testament to "the art of care." Yet France beckoned once more: he entered the house of Georges Blanc, rising from sous-chef to chef de cuisine over the span of four years. It was there that he was "definitively" forged, both as a professional and as a man: through leadership, trust, and structure. Blanc, to him, was far more than a maestro — almost a second father.
Yet the final step remained: to measure himself against the thrill of creation, bearing the solemn responsibility of building from nothing. Thus, he relocated to Paris to inaugurate, alongside Martino Ruggieri, the restaurant in the heart of the city, at the Palais Royal, where he continues to labor today.
Today, the cuisine of Matteo Rossatto stands as an overt bridge: Italian roots, French technique, and a poetic search for identity. He carries within himself the legacy of his masters — discipline, precision, substance — yet he looks ahead with a serene, quiet ambition: to soon write a chapter entirely his own, without pretense, with the same solemn devotion that guided every step of his odyssey.
dialogues
Chef, what are the first memories of pasta from your childhood in Turin? A shape, a sauce, a domestic gesture that even today dictates your rhythm when conceiving a dish?
My earliest memory bound to pasta belongs to those Sundays spent crafting fresh pasta alongside my grandmother—tagliatelle, to be precise. A simple ritual, repeated through time, woven from gestures, laughter, flour, and hands working in unison. My grandmother was like a second mother to me, and those moments in the kitchen forged my understanding of food. They are the guiding principles that still govern my craft today.
From your path at ALMA to the kitchens of De Leo, Cracco, Rossi, and Perbellini: how did your philosophy of pasta mature during those years? Is there a technical or ethical lesson on pasta that you still carry with you daily?
ALMA bestowed upon me method and precision, yet it was through my internship that I had the privilege of working alongside Michele Deleo, who remains one of my greatest mentors. Under his guidance, I learned how vital it is to treat pasta with reverence, refining every detail from the physical gesture to the selection of ingredients. That experience, combined with the teachings of ALMA, truly defined my culinary approach and my vision of pasta.
Arriving in Vonnas, in the "village" of Georges Blanc, means entering the very heart of classical French gastronomy. How did Italian pasta find its place in such an identity-rich sanctuary, dominated by Bresse poultry, jus, and grand sauces?
My journey under Georges Blanc completely transformed my approach to sauces and, consequently, to pasta itself. I learned to view the sauce not merely as a condiment, but as the supreme protagonist of the dish, capable of imparting structure, equilibrium, and character. Today, when I compose a pasta dish, I always contemplate how the sauce can elevate the raw material without eclipsing it, harmonizing textures and flavors. Every embellishment is born with a singular, noble purpose: to honor the pasta and express the dish in its grand entirety.
You handle olive oil and Mediterranean salinity with the same natural grace as French butter and reductions. When envisioning a pasta dish, from which side do you begin: the selection of the semolina and shape, or the construction of the sauce "à la française"?
To me, pasta begins its journey long before it meets the boiling water. I recall the Sundays with my grandmother preparing gnocchi: even then, I understood that every single element possesses weight. Today, when choosing grains, semolina, bronze dies, or drying times, every step resonates in the final creation and must converse with my vision of the dish. When I cook, I seek above all things tenacity, so the pasta may carry the sauce, followed by absorbency and aromatic purity, thus bringing balance, harmony, and depth to the plate. These are the nuances that elevate a simple pasta to a memorable masterpiece.
Which dried pasta shapes and producers do you feel closest to your culinary sensibility today? And which Piedmontese fresh pastas—tajarin, plin, thin lasagna—do you deem most suited to converse with the rich jus and preparations of French gastronomy?
When an inspiration is born, much depends on the dish and the season, yet I often begin with fresh egg pasta. It possesses a warmth, a tenderness, and a versatility that allow me to shape flavors and textures with immediate intimacy. In contrast, dried durum wheat pasta steps onto the stage when I seek structure and character, particularly for more intense ragùs or preparations demanding absolute precision in cooking. At this moment, the shapes I feel most intimately connected to are tagliatelle, ravioli, and potato gnocchi. They are forms that invite me to play with fillings, textures, and sauces without ever losing the singular essence of the dish.
In a prestigious menu, often punctuated by numerous courses, pasta risks being relegated to a "comforting interlude" rather than an authorial statement. Where do you position it within a tasting menu? And what criteria do you employ to balance portion, flavor intensity, and the dish's narrative role?
For me, pasta is never merely a "haven of comfort": in the realm of fine dining, it is a canvas upon which to articulate technique, balance, and artistry. Whenever it graces the menu, it must possess a precise purpose. It is not a matter of placing it out of mere indulgence or nostalgia, but of understanding what story it can tell, how it intertwines with the ingredients, and what memory it leaves upon the palate. My primary guide is harmony within the dish and the menu. If the pasta can convey intensity, poise, and character while retaining its essential lightness, then it has earned its place. It must be an absolute moment of pleasure, yet engineered with the same rigor and devotion as any other creation on the menu.
You have worked with an almost entirely Italian brigade within an iconic house of French gastronomy. In daily practice, how does this culinary bilingualism translate onto the pasta plate? Could you share a dish wherein you feel you have discovered a true "common dialect" between Italy and France?
Today, at Maison Ruggieri, to conceive a pasta dish is to wed rigor with weightlessness. Everything is transformed: the rhythm of the service; the grammar of sauces, which holds a sacred role here in France; the pursuit of texture, where each element must speak without burdening the palate; and the method of building richness and depth, always respecting equilibrium and harmony. The Parisian patron holds a silent expectation: they adore Italian cuisine when executed with absolute mastery, and they equally appreciate French culinary art reinterpreted with Italian ingredients or techniques. Learning to decode this subtle sensibility is one of the most exhilarating challenges of my craft here, for it demands creating dishes that speak eloquently without force, surprise without excess, and recount an authentic heritage.
Now you prepare for a new chapter between Puglia and Paris alongside Martino Ruggieri: what destiny do you envision for pasta in this upcoming venture? Will it lean toward the robust durum wheats and solar flavors of the South, or remain closer to the weightlessness and precision of Parisian menus?
At Maison Ruggieri, we do not practice strictly Italian or French cooking; we simply create beautiful, indulgent, "gourmand" cuisine. We dedicate ourselves to grand sauces and masterly cooking techniques, and through this, we achieve pasta dishes of profound flavor, character, and harmony—fully aligned with the vision of Martino Ruggieri, without ever compromising the truth and power of the ingredients.
When you are off duty, cooking for yourself or close friends, what is the pasta dish you feel is most intimately your own? Is it still the simple taste of childhood, or has it transformed after so many journeys and Michelin-starred kitchens?
When I cook for myself or a few intimate friends, the dish that most frequently summons me is spaghetti al pomodoro. It masquerades as simple, yet it remains one of the most challenging culinary feats to poise: the tomato, the oil, the salt, and the al dente cooking of the pasta must perform a flawless ballet. For me, it also holds a sacred emotional resonance: it invokes the memory of coming home from school to share a plate with my grandmother. Today, I prepare it often for friends, for my family, and for my fiancée, who treasures it deeply—especially being French, as it unveils to her the soul of authentic Italian flavor.
If you were to choose a single pasta dish as the signature of your legacy—the one by which you would wish to be remembered in ten or twenty years—what would grace the plate? What memories, what techniques, and what ingredients would be indispensable?
If I had to select a single pasta dish to define my legacy, it would be a creation that unites memory, technique, and pure, unadorned flavor. I would adorn it with simple yet deeply poetic ingredients: artisanal fresh pasta, a sauce that pays homage to it without overshadowing its grace, and whispers of flavor that invoke my origins—an exquisite olive oil, a sun-ripened tomato, fresh herbs, or a velvety cheese to impart creaminess. It would embody the masterly techniques garnered along my journey, from the halls of ALMA to the legendary kitchens, to my collaborations with chefs Michele Deleo and Georges Blanc: precision of cooking, harmony of flavors, structural texture, and meticulous attention to detail. And, naturally, memory: the warmth of my childhood kitchens, of Sundays with my grandmother, and the dishes I serve today to my loved ones. It would be a dish that speaks of my soul, my history, and my philosophy of gastronomy—simple, yet capable of evoking profound emotion.
CURRICULUM VITAE
Born in Turin in 1994, Matteo Rossatto arrived at the culinary craft from the Piemontese province, which early on taught him the grace of pragmatism: there, between the local culinary institute and his first hours in the laboratory, he understood that he was not merely choosing a "common" trade, but destiny. Not the easiest path, but the most necessary.
His passage through ALMA — the high academy of Italian cuisine — marked his first true threshold: discipline transformed into language, technique ceased to be a sterile obsession and began to elevate into a form of thought. Upon the Amalfi Coast, he met his first maestro, Michele Deleo, and absorbed his primary ethos: reverence for the raw ingredient, rigor, and devotion to the culinary gesture — that invisible grace which sustains the whole.
Then came the intense season spent at La Madonnina del Pescatore with Moreno Cedroni: the cadence of haute cuisine, clarity under pressure, and the realization that "the highest level" does not signify spectacle, but constancy. Immediately thereafter, he joined the brigade of Carlo Cracco, who became a true mentor to him: a guide in his choices and, above all, in the architecture of a vision. In Milan, he also passed through Trippa with Diego Rossi, a decisive experience that grounded his identity and substance: less rhetoric, and more truth upon the plate.
His journey led him to Giancarlo Perbellini, first at the Milanese bistro and later at the gastronomic temple in Verona: here he refined precision, contemporary sensitivity, and that sense of measure which distinguishes a mere "technician" from a true chef. An innate desire to challenge himself propelled him beyond borders: in Monte Carlo, at Le Louis XV – Alain Ducasse, he encountered the ideal of absolute excellence as a system, as a daily liturgy, as a profound responsibility.
Returning for a time to Italy, he chose to deepen his mastery of leavening through a specialized course at ALMA alongside Ezio Marinato: for even bread, in truth, is a silent testament to "the art of care." Yet France beckoned once more: he entered the house of Georges Blanc, rising from sous-chef to chef de cuisine over the span of four years. It was there that he was "definitively" forged, both as a professional and as a man: through leadership, trust, and structure. Blanc, to him, was far more than a maestro — almost a second father.
Yet the final step remained: to measure himself against the thrill of creation, bearing the solemn responsibility of building from nothing. Thus, he relocated to Paris to inaugurate, alongside Martino Ruggieri, the restaurant in the heart of the city, at the Palais Royal, where he continues to labor today.
Today, the cuisine of Matteo Rossatto stands as an overt bridge: Italian roots, French technique, and a poetic search for identity. He carries within himself the legacy of his masters — discipline, precision, substance — yet he looks ahead with a serene, quiet ambition: to soon write a chapter entirely his own, without pretense, with the same solemn devotion that guided every step of his odyssey.
dialogues
Chef, what are the first memories of pasta from your childhood in Turin? A shape, a sauce, a domestic gesture that even today dictates your rhythm when conceiving a dish?
My earliest memory bound to pasta belongs to those Sundays spent crafting fresh pasta alongside my grandmother—tagliatelle, to be precise. A simple ritual, repeated through time, woven from gestures, laughter, flour, and hands working in unison. My grandmother was like a second mother to me, and those moments in the kitchen forged my understanding of food. They are the guiding principles that still govern my craft today.
From your path at ALMA to the kitchens of De Leo, Cracco, Rossi, and Perbellini: how did your philosophy of pasta mature during those years? Is there a technical or ethical lesson on pasta that you still carry with you daily?
ALMA bestowed upon me method and precision, yet it was through my internship that I had the privilege of working alongside Michele Deleo, who remains one of my greatest mentors. Under his guidance, I learned how vital it is to treat pasta with reverence, refining every detail from the physical gesture to the selection of ingredients. That experience, combined with the teachings of ALMA, truly defined my culinary approach and my vision of pasta.
Arriving in Vonnas, in the "village" of Georges Blanc, means entering the very heart of classical French gastronomy. How did Italian pasta find its place in such an identity-rich sanctuary, dominated by Bresse poultry, jus, and grand sauces?
My journey under Georges Blanc completely transformed my approach to sauces and, consequently, to pasta itself. I learned to view the sauce not merely as a condiment, but as the supreme protagonist of the dish, capable of imparting structure, equilibrium, and character. Today, when I compose a pasta dish, I always contemplate how the sauce can elevate the raw material without eclipsing it, harmonizing textures and flavors. Every embellishment is born with a singular, noble purpose: to honor the pasta and express the dish in its grand entirety.
You handle olive oil and Mediterranean salinity with the same natural grace as French butter and reductions. When envisioning a pasta dish, from which side do you begin: the selection of the semolina and shape, or the construction of the sauce "à la française"?
To me, pasta begins its journey long before it meets the boiling water. I recall the Sundays with my grandmother preparing gnocchi: even then, I understood that every single element possesses weight. Today, when choosing grains, semolina, bronze dies, or drying times, every step resonates in the final creation and must converse with my vision of the dish. When I cook, I seek above all things tenacity, so the pasta may carry the sauce, followed by absorbency and aromatic purity, thus bringing balance, harmony, and depth to the plate. These are the nuances that elevate a simple pasta to a memorable masterpiece.
Which dried pasta shapes and producers do you feel closest to your culinary sensibility today? And which Piedmontese fresh pastas—tajarin, plin, thin lasagna—do you deem most suited to converse with the rich jus and preparations of French gastronomy?
When an inspiration is born, much depends on the dish and the season, yet I often begin with fresh egg pasta. It possesses a warmth, a tenderness, and a versatility that allow me to shape flavors and textures with immediate intimacy. In contrast, dried durum wheat pasta steps onto the stage when I seek structure and character, particularly for more intense ragùs or preparations demanding absolute precision in cooking. At this moment, the shapes I feel most intimately connected to are tagliatelle, ravioli, and potato gnocchi. They are forms that invite me to play with fillings, textures, and sauces without ever losing the singular essence of the dish.
In a prestigious menu, often punctuated by numerous courses, pasta risks being relegated to a "comforting interlude" rather than an authorial statement. Where do you position it within a tasting menu? And what criteria do you employ to balance portion, flavor intensity, and the dish's narrative role?
For me, pasta is never merely a "haven of comfort": in the realm of fine dining, it is a canvas upon which to articulate technique, balance, and artistry. Whenever it graces the menu, it must possess a precise purpose. It is not a matter of placing it out of mere indulgence or nostalgia, but of understanding what story it can tell, how it intertwines with the ingredients, and what memory it leaves upon the palate. My primary guide is harmony within the dish and the menu. If the pasta can convey intensity, poise, and character while retaining its essential lightness, then it has earned its place. It must be an absolute moment of pleasure, yet engineered with the same rigor and devotion as any other creation on the menu.
You have worked with an almost entirely Italian brigade within an iconic house of French gastronomy. In daily practice, how does this culinary bilingualism translate onto the pasta plate? Could you share a dish wherein you feel you have discovered a true "common dialect" between Italy and France?
Today, at Maison Ruggieri, to conceive a pasta dish is to wed rigor with weightlessness. Everything is transformed: the rhythm of the service; the grammar of sauces, which holds a sacred role here in France; the pursuit of texture, where each element must speak without burdening the palate; and the method of building richness and depth, always respecting equilibrium and harmony. The Parisian patron holds a silent expectation: they adore Italian cuisine when executed with absolute mastery, and they equally appreciate French culinary art reinterpreted with Italian ingredients or techniques. Learning to decode this subtle sensibility is one of the most exhilarating challenges of my craft here, for it demands creating dishes that speak eloquently without force, surprise without excess, and recount an authentic heritage.
Now you prepare for a new chapter between Puglia and Paris alongside Martino Ruggieri: what destiny do you envision for pasta in this upcoming venture? Will it lean toward the robust durum wheats and solar flavors of the South, or remain closer to the weightlessness and precision of Parisian menus?
At Maison Ruggieri, we do not practice strictly Italian or French cooking; we simply create beautiful, indulgent, "gourmand" cuisine. We dedicate ourselves to grand sauces and masterly cooking techniques, and through this, we achieve pasta dishes of profound flavor, character, and harmony—fully aligned with the vision of Martino Ruggieri, without ever compromising the truth and power of the ingredients.
When you are off duty, cooking for yourself or close friends, what is the pasta dish you feel is most intimately your own? Is it still the simple taste of childhood, or has it transformed after so many journeys and Michelin-starred kitchens?
When I cook for myself or a few intimate friends, the dish that most frequently summons me is spaghetti al pomodoro. It masquerades as simple, yet it remains one of the most challenging culinary feats to poise: the tomato, the oil, the salt, and the al dente cooking of the pasta must perform a flawless ballet. For me, it also holds a sacred emotional resonance: it invokes the memory of coming home from school to share a plate with my grandmother. Today, I prepare it often for friends, for my family, and for my fiancée, who treasures it deeply—especially being French, as it unveils to her the soul of authentic Italian flavor.
If you were to choose a single pasta dish as the signature of your legacy—the one by which you would wish to be remembered in ten or twenty years—what would grace the plate? What memories, what techniques, and what ingredients would be indispensable?
If I had to select a single pasta dish to define my legacy, it would be a creation that unites memory, technique, and pure, unadorned flavor. I would adorn it with simple yet deeply poetic ingredients: artisanal fresh pasta, a sauce that pays homage to it without overshadowing its grace, and whispers of flavor that invoke my origins—an exquisite olive oil, a sun-ripened tomato, fresh herbs, or a velvety cheese to impart creaminess. It would embody the masterly techniques garnered along my journey, from the halls of ALMA to the legendary kitchens, to my collaborations with chefs Michele Deleo and Georges Blanc: precision of cooking, harmony of flavors, structural texture, and meticulous attention to detail. And, naturally, memory: the warmth of my childhood kitchens, of Sundays with my grandmother, and the dishes I serve today to my loved ones. It would be a dish that speaks of my soul, my history, and my philosophy of gastronomy—simple, yet capable of evoking profound emotion.