As far back as I can remember, gustatory pleasure has been an integral part of my life. As a child, with Grandma, we accompanied Grandpa on his business trips, all over the province. The evening… it was our moment! We went out, both to the big chic restaurants and to the little Lebanese on the corner. I was 4 years old and already several culinary experiences in the throat. I liked to ask the servers for a Shirley Temple rather than ordering a simple 7UP grenadine. Let’s say that I was the kind of slightly detestable child – adorable would say my ancestors – who found it cool to declare to his class: “My favorite dish is not spaghetti, but rather duck confit accompanied by a tartiflette! » 

In addition to being a foodie with a discerning palate, my grandfather always cooked a lot. I watched him for hours while he, facing his pans and cauldrons, had his back to me. Then, I listened to him stuffing myself with his tips and his culinary knowledge. Between two songs by Brel or Brassens, he revealed to me the importance of reducing my sauce well, very slowly. He told me that everything is always better with 35% cream and explained to me how to properly position my fingers inward when slicing vegetables. I watched him work in his little paradise. It was beautiful, it was soothing. 

This story with my grandparents is like butter in a bechamel sauce. This is the basis, the very essence of why I have come to write this part of my life. My grandfather is the trigger for my love for cooking. He transmitted to me the pleasure of cooking, a pure happiness that I try to share with others.