His father was the one who taught him to be patient and follow instructions. To risk in trying something new. To be creative, inventive and artistic in everything he did. He was the one who taught him how to cook.
His mother was an excellent cook. Her food was finger-licking tasty. But she was the “safe-type”, the one who preferred to follow instructions exactly as they were written with few if any deviations from the recipe. Like all women, she preferred order in her kitchen.
His father, on the other hand, had a mastery for cooking up his own recipes. He usually made a mess out of the kitchen, but prepared something spectacular in the end. He found that if something looked pleasant to the eye, it probably tasted good too. He was the “innovative chef”, the one who didn’t mind trying unprecedented procedures or cooking methods. Who preferred to get burnt and learn than to keep doing the same thing that was passed down to him. He was the one who wanted to have something new to pass on to the next generations.
So when Anton graduated from the top gastronomy school in the world, it was only natural that he would distinguish himself in the sector. A kitchen was more his home than his living room. He did not fear the blades of his knives or the fire of his stove. What he most anguished about what his most severe critic: his own future wife. For he knew that the best way to a person’s heart is through their stomach. And it was all down to the judgement of their taste buds to give the final verdict.