“The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree”, goes the saying I grew up hearing at home. I often feared the phrase as I looked critically at flaws I saw in my parents, uncles, grandparents – and that I feared seeing mirrored in my own personality. When my son was born, I remember, terrified, finding his feet identical to those of my father-in-law, whose countless qualities he possessed did not include the beauty of his feet.

The more time passed, the more I understood and accepted the impossibility of fighting against characteristics that, through genes, link us, for better or for worse, to our ancestors. Of course, I was also grateful when I discovered the quickness of reasoning that I am proud to have inherited from my father, in addition to the slanted eyes and thick eyebrows that make him recognize me and also see in my son part of the trail he left here.

Well, this week I was treated to seeing up close a mixture that gave rise to someone brilliant and that, by chance, may even have genes that could be found in my DNA.

Very tall, thin, prominent nose, deep eyes and curly hair. This was the figure of the chef who welcomed us at the door of his restaurant last Wednesday. With an aristocratic elegance that was almost out of fashion, Ivan guided us through a narrative that seemed more like a modern fairy tale. From the main courtyard, where a jabuticabeira brought back the memory of the emotional heritage of his grandmother's farm, passing through the main hall and arriving at the moment when we were introduced to the living room, for pure continuity of the delight of the senses in the post-meal space, everything made up the symphony of life dreamed by the young man in front of me.

Ivan revered with words the heritage of the sweets created by his grandmother, the joy in being part of a family that had a love for food and, without needing to say anything, the resilience and work of the entrepreneurial dreamers who preceded his journey. The fundamental image was missing for the mosaic to form and give rise to this chronicle, which happened when Ivan began his delicate waltz in the open kitchen, amidst his audience. Forget everything you've heard about screaming, desperate chefs with their terrified employees. Think of the harmony and gentle fit of the best and finest orchestras. Think of a conductor who is gentle, present, attentive, and deeply loving. From then on, I cannot, due to a pure lack of vocabulary, continue weaving, uniting all the tastes of chef Ivan Ralston's cuisine. I just have to highlight the impact that the moment had on me and, who knows, look inside if I happen to find the similarities that I would love to have with my cousin.