1. Growing up in Rome, what was your first real food memory, the moment that made you fall in love with cooking?
Growing up in Rome, my first real food memory is tied to the artichoke — the Carciofo alla Romana, confit-style the way my Nonna Adriana used to make it. I remember standing beside her in the small kitchen of our family home, watching her peel away the tough outer leaves until the heart revealed itself tender, pale, and perfect.
She would gently place garlic and fresh mint simmering in the extra virgin olive oil, then let the artichokes slowly confit until they softened and perfumed the whole house. That moment, the scent of mint and artichoke simmering, the patience it demanded, and the way she treated something humble as if it were a treasure, was when I fell in love with cooking.
It wasn’t about recipes or technique then; it was about care, rhythm, and respect for the ingredient. My Nonna taught me that food wasn’t just sustenance, it was a dialogue with nature and memory, and that lesson has guided every plate I’ve ever created since.
2. How did your Italian upbringing shape your understanding of hospitality and seasonality?
My Italian upbringing shaped my understanding of hospitality and seasonality in a way that goes far beyond the kitchen, it’s a way of life. Growing up in Rome, food was never just about eating; it was about sharing. Every meal was an act of generosity, an open table, an open heart. My family believed that true hospitality wasn’t about luxury, but about making people feel seen and cared for, whether it was a Sunday lunch or a simple weekday dinner.
Growing up in Rome, food was never just about eating; it was about sharing.
Seasonality was inseparable from that rhythm. We never asked, what do we want to cook? We asked, what’s in season? My Nonna Adriana would walk to the market and choose what the land and the weather offered that day, artichokes in spring, porcini in autumn, figs in late summer. Those choices weren’t guided by recipes but by instinct and respect for time and place.
I believe hospitality and seasonality are two sides of the same coin: one honors the guest, the other honors the earth.
That philosophy still defines how I cook today. At Caruso’s, every dish begins with the ingredient, its origin, its season, its story. I believe hospitality and seasonality are two sides of the same coin: one honors the guest, the other honors the earth. Both require attention, empathy, and a sense of belonging, values I learned long before I ever wore a chef’s jacket.
3. Looking back at your international career, how do you think each culture you’ve worked in has added a new layer to your cooking philosophy?
Every place I’ve lived and cooked has left a distinct fingerprint on my philosophy, not just in flavor, but in perspective. In Italy, I learned the foundation “la verità degli ingredient” the truth of the ingredient. From Rome to Campania to the Amalfi Coast, it was all about simplicity, clarity, and soul. Cooking there taught me restraint: to let the ingredient speak for itself, to do less but with more intention.
When I moved through the Middle East and Southeast Asia, I discovered the poetry of spices and the beauty of balance; how acidity, sweetness, and aroma could create harmony as profound as melody. It also deepened my appreciation for ritual and generosity, where food is inseparable from culture and respect.
In Hawaii, I learned humility from nature. The islands taught me what it truly means to cook with a sense of place, to know your fishermen, your farmers, your foragers, and to give back to the land that feeds you. There, sustainability wasn’t a trend; it was a way of honoring life.
Now in California, I’ve found a place that feels like the intersection of all these worlds. The diversity of culture and produce here allows me to weave everything I’ve learned, the Roman respect for simplicity, the Eastern sense of balance, the Hawaiian reverence for the land, into a cuisine that’s both personal and universal. Each culture added not just a flavor, but a value, patience, empathy, curiosity, stewardship. Together, they shaped not only how I cook, but how I lead, how I welcome guests, and how I continue to evolve as a chef and as a person.
4. Caruso’s embodies refined coastal Italian dining with a Californian sensibility. How do you define that balance between Italian tradition and California’s modern energy?
For me, the balance between Italian tradition and California’s modern energy is the essence of Caruso’s, it’s where heritage meets horizon. Italian cuisine is rooted in discipline and respect, respect for seasonality, for craft, for the quiet wisdom of simplicity. It’s a cuisine built on memory, where every dish has a lineage and every flavor tells a story.
That tradition gives me my foundation, the Roman discipline, the Mediterranean soul, the purity of ingredients treated with humility. California, on the other hand, gives me freedom. There’s a boundless curiosity here, an openness to reimagine without losing integrity. The farmers, fishermen, and foragers I work with bring that same energy, they think forward, they experiment, they believe in the future. The coast itself feels alive, constantly in motion, and that spirit inspires us to cook with a sense of place but also of possibility.
So, Caruso’s stands right in the middle: Italian in soul, anchored in technique, seasonality, and restraint. Californian in expression, bright, sustainable, spontaneous, and free of pretense. A dish here might carry the structure of Rome but the light of Santa Barbara, a pasta made with grains from our local farm, finished with sea urchin from the Channel Islands; or a crudo that speaks both of the Tyrrhenian and the Pacific. That’s the balance: not fusion, but continuity, Italy’s timeless philosophy filtered through California’s light, nature, and modern rhythm. It’s a dialogue, not a translation.
