The roots
Everything began around a wood-fired oven.
The dancing flames, the dough that sticks to my fingers, the flour that flies and settles on my cheeks. It is Palmira, my grandmother, who guided my movements, and Samuel, my grandfather, who lit the oven's fire.
In the house, my mother prepared the buffet, my father put the bottles in the fridge… but above all, he lingered in the kitchen, a sly smile on his face, to secretly taste the dishes that were not yet ready. And I, as a little girl, watched this scene like a celebration that never ended.
For us, a meal has never been just a simple plate placed on the table.
It was a spectacle. The wood crackling, glasses clinking, laughter rising like a song. Time seemed suspended. I think that’s where I learned, without knowing it, that cooking was not just about feeding.
It was making life itself vibrate.
A dream passed on
Heritage of a passion
My mother could gather 90 people around a buffet she prepared by herself, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She dreamed of an inn, full of weddings and large tables. She already saw me in the kitchen, with rooms around us full of love and life.
This dream, life stole from us. But it continues to live in me. It has paved the way to Kaloula.
The roots
Everything began around a wood-fired oven.
The dancing flames, the dough that sticks to my fingers, the flour that flies and settles on my cheeks. It is Palmira, my grandmother, who guided my movements, and Samuel, my grandfather, who lit the oven's fire.
In the house, my mother prepared the buffet, my father put the bottles in the fridge… but above all, he lingered in the kitchen, a sly smile on his face, to secretly taste the dishes that were not yet ready. And I, as a little girl, watched this scene like a celebration that never ended.
For us, a meal has never been just a simple plate placed on the table.
It was a spectacle. The wood crackling, glasses clinking, laughter rising like a song. Time seemed suspended. I think that’s where I learned, without knowing it, that cooking was not just about feeding.
It was making life itself vibrate.
A dream passed on
Heritage of a passion
My mother could gather 90 people around a buffet she prepared by herself, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She dreamed of an inn, full of weddings and large tables. She already saw me in the kitchen, with rooms around us full of love and life.
This dream, life stole from us. But it continues to live in me. It has paved the way to Kaloula.
A dream passed on
Heritage of a passion
My mother could gather 90 people around a buffet she prepared by herself, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She dreamed of an inn, full of weddings and large tables. She already saw me in the kitchen, with rooms around us full of love and life.
This dream, life stole from us. But it continues to live in me. It has paved the way to Kaloula.
Shared stories
At the table of meetings
There were the seasons at La Folie Douce. The place where I grew up a second time. The frantic pace, the large tables, the music, the friendships that stick to your skin.
That’s where I met Eliott. Me, the intuitive self-taught one. Him, trained at Bocuse, rigorous, precise. Two worlds, one obvious choice. Together, we found our rhythm. And even in the midst of the chaos of service, we chose each other.
I also have my friends. Those who have always held me up.
Those who come to lend a hand, as if it were a bit their story too.
One summer, I returned to my grandparents' basement. Palmira, already ill, was tirelessly making her pizza dough, as if her hands still remembered what her memory was erasing.
That summer, I lived there. Day after day, I stayed in that basement where everything had begun for me as a child. Facing my grandmother's illness, I felt a visceral need: to perpetuate what she had passed on to me that was most precious, the love of cooking.
So I plunged my hands back into the flour, I recreated her gestures, I listened to the heavy silence of the house resonate with the sound of the dough slapping.
I had the feeling of holding an invisible thread, the one that connected my childhood to my present. That's where everything began again.
Shared stories
At the table of meetings
There were the seasons at La Folie Douce. The place where I grew up a second time. The frantic pace, the large tables, the music, the friendships that stick to your skin.
That’s where I met Eliott. Me, the intuitive self-taught one. Him, trained at Bocuse, rigorous, precise. Two worlds, one obvious choice. Together, we found our rhythm. And even in the midst of the chaos of service, we chose each other.
I also have my friends. Those who have always held me up.
Those who come to lend a hand, as if it were a bit their story too.
One summer, I returned to my grandparents' basement. Palmira, already ill, was tirelessly making her pizza dough, as if her hands still remembered what her memory was erasing.
That summer, I lived there. Day after day, I stayed in that basement where everything had begun for me as a child. Facing my grandmother's illness, I felt a visceral need: to perpetuate what she had passed on to me that was most precious, the love of cooking.
So I plunged my hands back into the flour, I recreated her gestures, I listened to the heavy silence of the house resonate with the sound of the dough slapping.
I had the feeling of holding an invisible thread, the one that connected my childhood to my present. That's where everything began again.
The flame
A kitchen filled with love
A kitchen filled with love
That's it, Kaloula. This is not a business, it's my breath. It's my mother in every buffet, my father in every dish tasted in secret, Palmira and Samuel in every dough that I knead. It's the Sweet Madness that still burns in my veins, my friends who accompany me, Eliott who walks by my side.
Kaloula is a cuisine that you won’t forget. It’s the moment when time stops, when life takes on a stronger flavour. And perhaps the secret is that every time I cook for my clients, I also invite a little of my family, my friends, my seasons, my mother, and my grandparents to the table.
