My name is Paolo Russo, and I believe in cooking. I learnt all I know from my Nonna Nina. My God, she was a beautiful woman. And her dough? Il migliore. The best. For any pasta – Carbonara, Arrabbiata, Bolognese – it was famous. Everybody in our hometown, Trapani, knew my Nonna Nina.

When I was just a little boy, I would watch my Nonna Nina cook. My espresso-brown eyes level with the counter full of flour, passion, amore. My tiny fingertips, gripping those rough edges just to have a peek, as though I were hanging from Mount Etna. I remember when Nonna Nina plated her pasta and lifted me up onto her lap. The flour would fall gently, like confetti in our kitchen, and my sides would sting with safety. And then, I would wait for those two words. They translate, literally, to ‘good appetite’. Nonna Nina always told me that those words date back thousands of years, to a time when servants were invited to feasts, following fruitful harvests, and their masters would say something like, ‘Today, you can eat more than usual. Enjoy.’ I always had the biggest appetite for Nonna Nina’s cooking, but it took me many years to find my appetite for life: that little boy in this big world, dimples dusted with flour, pomodoro sauce staining the ends of his innocent smile. I don’t think I’ve been so happy since.

My entire life I lived in Nonna Nina’s trattoria, Come A Casa. The red and white chequered tablecloths. The candles crammed into forgotten vintages of Chianti or ...