Tradition belongs to the root, the flame to flight. I stand between them, without choosing a side. I just hold the balance, as long as I can, for a moment.
– chef Silviu Atanasie
I sometimes think that tradition is not something you preserve, but something you live again. It has the smell of a gentle fire, of bread breathing under a towel, of wood crackling softly and of a heavy pot simmering slowly. It is the way time stops and takes on flavour.
But taste cannot always stay the same. If you only repeat it, it dies out, like embers left without air. And then you ask yourself — where does tradition end and where does the fear of changing something begin? This question keeps coming back to me, especially when I sit alone after a long day at the restaurant, savouring a glass of wine.
Boldness that does not break
Perhaps the answer lies somewhere between the two — between respect and curiosity. I have learned that tradition is not lost when you touch it, but when you fear it. When you lay your hands on an old recipe, you must listen to it. Not remake it mechanically, but give it the chance to express itself again, through you. Sometimes it stays silent, sometimes it whispers like a memory willing to be told again, but differently. That is what happened when I put truffles over balmoș, or when I brought a fresh note to a rough taste. It was not a wish to defy tradition and order. It was rather a silent dialogue between past and present, between taste and memory. Perhaps that is what creating really means — not forgetting where you come from, but having the courage to go further.
The silence behind taste
In the kitchen, the truth does not show itself in noise. During service everything is intense, every second feels like a battle, but the truth only appears afterwards — when everything calms down and the last guests leave, satisfied, for their homes. You are left alone, it still smells of food, and you feel that cooking is not about control, but about letting go…, about that moment when you let taste speak for you. And in that silence, the images that truly matter begin to appear. Fresh ingredients, the fire, the flame, the steam slowly rising — each with its own story. From them, a new question is always born: what do we keep, and what do we allow to transform?
Between fire and flame
After every day I cook, the image that always comes back to me is that of fire. Fire is tradition. It appears to me steady, warm and deep. The flame, on the other hand, is a living, restless search, sometimes risky. I stand between them, without choosing a side. I just hold the balance, as long as I can, for a moment — and perhaps that fleeting balance is what gives life its true taste.
The quiet that says everything
At Sens, I am not trying to show the world anything. I am only trying to understand it while I cook. And sometimes, when someone tastes in silence, I feel that they have understood too. Not me, only what I wanted to reach — the quiet behind taste.
Perhaps that is where the meaning of all simple things is hidden — in a brief silence, between a gesture and a breath, between the fire that nourishes and the flame that searches.
