Inside the Kitchen: Seven Questions with Chef Barbara Pollastrini

If I had to choose one deserted island meal, it would be eggplant Parmesan. Thin slices of eggplant, fried until golden, layered slowly with tomato sauce made from ripe tomatoes, fresh mozzarella melting into each layer, and basil added at the end. It’s a dish that rewards patience and care, the kind of cooking I return to every day. Even on a deserted island, it would still feel like home.

My Ratatouille moment happened recently while tasting involtini al sugo, thin rolls of meat simmered in tomato sauce, filled with pecorino, garlic, and parsley, cooked the way my mother used to make them. One bite was enough. The flavor slowed everything down, and suddenly I was there again, standing close and watching her cook. Not as a memory, but as something still living in the way I cook today.

To me, fine dining is about care, not formality. It is the attention you give to every detail, the food, the timing, the atmosphere, without making it feel heavy or intimidating. Fine dining should feel generous and thoughtful, but also relaxed, a place where you can slow down and feel looked after. When it is done well, it is not about luxury, but about creating a moment that feels special and personal.

As a chef, I want to keep cooking in a way that feels true to me. I want to grow through the work itself, cooking every day, paying attention, and getting better with time. I believe in confidence that comes from experience, not from noise. I am ambitious, but quietly. I want my food to speak clearly, to be recognized for its honesty, and to reflect the care I put into it.

For my restaurant, I want to build a place people come back to, not for trends, but because it feels familiar and cared for. I want it to grow slowly, with intention, staying true to the food and atmosphere that make it personal. If it is recognized, I hope it is for its consistency, its honesty, and the way people feel when they are there.

On my restaurant bucket list is Da Vittorio, where I have eaten before. What stayed with me was the feeling of care, the calm, and the generosity. Everything felt clean and precise, but also deeply human. Places like that are why I decided to open my own restaurant and cook honest, clean food. It showed me that you can be serious about quality and still make people feel truly at home.

I cook the way I have always cooked, by paying attention. I taste, I wait, I listen. I do not like to rush food or do too much to it. When the ingredients are good, they already know what they want to be. I try to respect them and not get in the way.

For me, cooking is about being present. Trusting your hands, your memory, your instinct. Knowing when to touch something and when to leave it alone. That is where the care is, and where food becomes comforting, honest, and real.

My comfort food is la carne del bollito ripassata al pomodoro con cipolle, meat cooked first for broth, then gently cooked again with tomatoes and onions. It is something my mom used to make for me, often from leftovers, simmered until it felt cared for all over again. The smell would fill the kitchen, and you knew everything was okay.