Some kitchens run on love.
Some run on shortcuts.

I grew up right in the middle of both.

Mum owned three cafés in Rio de Janeiro. Her food was beautiful, made with real love. Her staff didn’t share that love. One cook walked out after his shift with two filet mignons stuffed down his trousers. That was the kind of help she had. I watched her pour her heart into it, and slowly burn out with nobody in her corner.

And every night, she still put love on the table.

My Italian dad had his own way of saying it. Broomsticks strung across the kitchen, fresh pasta drying over every one. Nothing from a packet, ever. And however long I’d been away, whatever was going on, I’d walk through the door and he’d already be at the bench, sleeves rolled up, flour flying. Dad didn’t make speeches. He made pasta. That was how he said welcome home. That was how he said I love you.

Then I grew up, and 23 years ago I moved to London, into the same famous Holland Park restaurant my mother had worked in 30 years before me. London gave me my first proper training, and a lot of shouting, egos and shortcuts. Australia showed me another way: ten years on a remote island, a kitchen culture that actually inspired people, and five years as a full-time mum running my own micro-bakery. That taught me I could build something of my own.

With Mum and Dad starting to get a bit older, I came to Portugal to be close to them. Then I cooked my first retreat here, nailed the brief, laughed all day, and fed people who actually cared what was on their plate. I’d found my people. That was the day La Bisoni began.

So now I do it my way. Everything from scratch, no shortcuts, served by someone who actually gives a shit.

These days Dad’s hands are slower. So when I visit, I’m the one at the bench, sleeves rolled up, flour flying. He just watches me, and neither of us says much. We don’t need to. He already taught me how to say it.

Welcome home.

Lara x