MOVED TO ITALY AT THE AGE OF 22. Oblivious, insecure, but full of hope. From the moment my passport was stamped in Tehran's airport to the moment I finally got off the plane in Rome, something kept repeating inside my head: “It's over”. You might wonder whether I was fleeing something dreadful; a political persecution perhaps, a violent unrest, or a menacing family. But the reason I left Iran was far less dramatic: I was young, and I simply sought to write my life story elsewhere.
The very first night, together with some other students, I went to Tiberina Island on the Tiber River and opened a bottle of chilled white wine, something I had never tried before. Next, my first pizza al taglio, the very Roman one topped with potatoes. Then, my first mind-blowing cappuccino e cornetto for breakfast in a busy bar.
Years passed, terrifyingly quickly, and somewhere on the verge of turning 30, like many foreigners before me, I found myself totally enchanted by Italian cooking and the lifestyle, opening my eyes for the first time to how food expresses culture, history and economy.
Soon I found my lantern, my mirror and passion in food, lighting up not only my path to understanding Italy, but also illuminating the reflection of my own Iranian culinary heritage. Like many immigrants before me, I came to know – and cherish – my homeland, in comparison with the new country.
The more I learned about Italy and its food, the more curious I found myself about Iranian food. As I dug into my memories and those of other people from the Middle East and the Mediterranean, the food of these places started to appear to me as a multi-layered déjà vu of flavours. Going down this rabbit hole through travel and tasting, while tracing the red thread of common ingredients,
