I was itching for a reason to bake a cake. Since my sister left, cakes and all sweets had been put on hold as a household of two cannot justify projects that serve eight (and let’s just say my restraint, when something sweet lurks on the counter, is next to zero).
A few days ago, lured by a recipe I saw on goop, I found myself at the stove stirring a tapioca pudding made with almond and coconut milks and a bit of maple syrup. Since the cancer diagnosis a year ago, I had to make some changes to my diet and eliminating refined sugars is one of them.
Yesterday I walked in a restaurant kitchen for a training session and the first thing I noticed was that, among the cooks, there were no girls: a common state of affairs until a few years ago, but things are changing. Women are more and more present in professional kitchens, holding their own, and no longer relegated to pastry only.
Last week, I had the great pleasure of starting a brief stint in the old kitchen where I worked for eight years, a job I left right when Campari and Sofa was born. Two and half years later, it was a bit surprising and very heart-warming to see how little had changed, how certain habits fit like your old favorite shoes.
A million years ago I used to stay in a hotel called the Principe di Savoia in Milan. It was (and probably still is) a very regal, proper hotel. With the most wonderful bar/lounge where they had real barmen who poured old-fashioned cocktails and would never have dreamt of throwing bottles around a la Tom Cruise in Cocktail. There was always a piano player, an elderly man – who told me he had played “with Important Orchestras in Each of the Important Capitals of the World”. The Principe would never have considered piped music. People behaved with decorum, there were sofas to sink into and the rococo decor always made me smile. You could exhale at the Principe.