Flavour has been the one constant in my life. It’s what’s carried me across continents, kitchens, and cultures. I grew up in Aotearoa, surrounded by food that told stories, not written ones, but the kind passed down through word of mouth. Māori food isn’t about perfection. It’s about connection. Every dish begins with respect for the land, the moana (sea) and ends with gratitude for what it gives back. That idea, that relationship between food and people, has shaped everything I do.
When I first started cooking professionally in Wellington, I didn’t have words for what flavour meant. I thought it was technique, heat, timing, seasoning. But the longer I cooked, the more I realised flavour isn’t something you create, it’s something you listen to. It’s balance. Sweet, salty, sour, bitter, umami. They’re the only five tastes we have, yet they form an infinite language when you learn to combine them. That’s where the real work begins.
I’ve spent three decades chasing that balance. From the chaos of London’s kitchens to open-fire cooking on beaches in New Zealand, flavour has been my compass. I’ve seen how it bridges culture, how a sauce from Bangkok, a spice from Lagos, or a technique from a French kitchen can find common ground on the same plate. That’s the beauty of food. It speaks to memory, to identity, to love.
Science tells us that taste lives on the tongue, but flavour lives in the mind. It’s shaped by smell, texture, sound, temperature, and memory. It’s why the same meal tastes different when you’re happy, sad, or far from home. It’s why one bite can undo you. Think of the end of Ratatouille, when the critic tastes the dish and is taken straight back to his mother’s kitchen. That’s what food should do. That’s what it can do when it’s cooked with care.
These days, my work is about helping people find that connection again. Through my sauces, masterclasses, and writing, I want to remind cooks, whether at home or behind the pass, that flavour is a feeling before it’s a formula. It’s culture. It’s memory. It’s whakapapa, the thread that ties us to the land and to each other.
Flavour isn’t an ingredient. It’s an understanding. It’s knowing when to stop adding, when to listen, when to let fire, fat, and time do what they do best. And maybe, if you get it right, one day your food will stop someone mid-bite, not because it’s fancy, but because it tastes like something they thought they’d lost.
