Laszlo Badet

Did you have a creative childhood?

Yes, I grew up in a very creative family. My mother, a maker of every little daily thing, raised us by sewing our clothes, drawing every birthday invitation card, and as early in Autumn, crocheting by hand each number of our Advent calendar. My father, a painter, brought us up in his large studio—among his canvases and the total renovation of the house we lived in. It felt natural that he later became what I would call a “creator of interiors”: cafés, shops, restaurants... Both my parents were seekers of a poetic way of living. Nothing was ever done without care, without a tender touch.

We—my siblings and I—grew within this nucleus, and each of us has carried from it a deeply rooted artistic soul. I spoke very late—too late, some might say. I watched everything in silence, absorbing the world through colours, shapes, and scents rather than words.

Around this core, there were solid roots: my grandmother Monique Félix, an illustrator for children’s books; my great-aunt, who ran her own guesthouse called “Chez les Colins”; and the friends of my parents—artists, fine arts teachers, photographers... A little world, made of hands and of visions.

When did you realise you wanted to be working with food?

I’ve always loved cooking. I wouldn’t say there was a moment when I "realised" it, but rather a quiet day when I finally had the confidence—and the hunger—for creative freedom, without fear, to give myself to it.

I worked for many years in luxury fashion, where creation was reserved for an elite. I loved (and still love) my work as a seamstress. I might even return to it one day. But over time, I began to feel a disconnection between what I crafted with my hands and what that object would become in the world. Being a seamstress in a great fashion house never bothered me. I never particularly wanted to be a fashion designer. The work of the hands—that was what I loved. But growing in that world was not easy. Though I was devoted to preserving its savoir-faire, I had to extract myself from a system that no longer reflected my values.

Working with food—working with matter so humble—offered me a kind of lightness again. It allowed me to make beauty with almost nothing. To create something delicate, infinitely beautiful, precise and generous, with my hands—but also with my heart. When I began this new path, I simply transported my savoir-faire onto other materials.

Of the projects that you’ve worked on, which do you think you’ve learnt the most from?

Both those that went well and those that didn’t. I’ve learnt so much about myself—about the will I’ve had to build a new craft, and the heart I’ve put into it to make it grow, on my own. I’ve never stopped. Not a single day without thinking, cooking, or creating, in one way or another.

Of everything you’ve worked on, what are you proudest of and why?

I rarely say I’m "proud" of something, but rather that I’m happy with the result. I’d say perhaps my first residency at Château de la Haute Borde—when I left the ateliers and, from one day to the next, found myself creating menus, meeting new people, and presenting my project. It was spring—I remember it so clearly. I loved the morning light in the kitchen, the freshness of the air as I drank my coffee on the two steps by the door. I was surrounded by brilliant women, full of ideas and generosity of spirit. I cooked endlessly. I built something. I drew dishes from my memories. My partner and I cooked four-handed. We were so happy there. I could return every year and still feel that same beautiful sensation.

How has your past experience as a petite main informed your food design practice?

There’s an unconscious technique—a way of holding your hands, of shaping a material, of finding colour and form. I was a petite main for many years, yes, but I do so many things besides that I couldn’t say it’s my only source of inspiration.

If you weren’t a food designer, what would you be doing?

I do wear several hats daily—food designer, model, seamstress... It’s hard to say what I’d do otherwise. I love all métiers de main—the crafts of the hands—and I also admire more classic rhythms of life: the postwoman, the baker, the florist... The coming months will surely shape themselves differently. I’ll adapt, shape new projects, adjust my tempo and desires. I’m not afraid of that. They say happiness is about taking time to do what makes your heart sing.

What is your favourite restaurant or place to eat?

PARIS: (hard to choose, but the first that comes to mind) "Mon Oncle le Vigneron"—the dish of the day might be a Japanese curry or a Basque special, depending on the mood of the brilliant chef. Then, a glass of natural wine or pétillant with a piece of aged Comté from Estelle’s cave, "Cave Hélios".

MILAN: Fresh prawn pasta at "Giacomo", followed by an icy spritz at "Pichio".

LAUSANNE: A papet vaudois at "Au Romand", a "Japonais"-style cake from Wuthrich, and a glass of regional white at Danielle Wannaz’s place, Vinotheque d la maison rose.

BRITTANY: At "Merenn" in Tréguier—sushi or the daily special, tartlets, and a divine cider made in-house by the chef.

You’re hosting a dinner for your closest friends; what are you cooking and what are you serving to drink?

When we host, my partner and I always cook together. We prepare seasonal ingredients—either from our local grocers or brought back from past travels. Our friends are generous, joyful, and curious. We inspire each other to give the best of ourselves. That generous act of hosting at home is precious. Leonard and I always begin with the table—vintage dishes, family pieces, flowers catching the light of our Parisian apartment... Ironed or not, the napkins are always beautiful fabrics. He loves slow-cooked dishes with rich sauces, and I bring something crisp and fresh—always touched with some memory, something a little melancholic or romantic, maybe from Switzerland, maybe Italy...

Last time, our friends brought oysters. We served Bella di Cerignola olives from Paisano in olive oil from profil Grec and Menton lemon zest, divine Breton butter with anchovies, an ancient-grain sourdough from Terroirs d’Avenir boulangerie, radicchio with pizzomino sauce. Then Leonard made a saffron and asparagus risotto. I prepared a big salad of castelfranco leaves, caraway, fennel, honey, toasted walnuts and leftover anchovies. We followed with a cheese board from fromagerie de Goncourt, and for dessert—baked apples filled with buckwheat flour, berries and seeds, topped with a quenelle of raw double cream and a drizzle of olive oil.

Next apéro? This Saturday—with wild garlic tomme from Switzerland, ultra-buttery puff pastry sticks, and a fabulous wine Salix Chenin Blanc AOC Lavaux from the winemaker Louis Philipe Bovard, made on the slopes of Lake Léman—where I come from.