A Birthday Cake for an Empty Chair

The Archaeology of Taste

 History is hidden in names. The ancient Greeks called it Oinouta. The Byzantines renamed it Mustopita. Today, we know it as Moustalevria. Traditionally, it is a humble porridge made of grape must and flour—cloudy, heavy, and comforting. To mark the end of a difficult harvest, I decided to craft an anniversary version. Seizing the occasion of his birthday, I entered the Kitchen Lab with a desperate need for clarity. Clarity of thought and clarity of relationships. I used aromatic Muscat from an altitude of 1,000 meters, but I refused to follow the beaten path. I did not want the cloudiness of flour. Flour always absorbs flavours and hides them—much like a narcissist hides his true intentions.

The Alchemy of Contradiction Cooking—especially when creating from scratch—is deeply influenced by psychology. This dessert was intended for his birthday. I didn't want a common cake. I wanted to make a statement. A statement without words, made only of taste. As I designed the recipe, I was consciously sculpting his character into the pot.

• The Technique: Instead of flour, which weighs the cream down, I used Agar Agar. I wanted the texture to be architectural—standing tall and proud, yet remaining transparent. Just as I try to be in every partnership.

• The Clarification: I boiled the fresh must with a pinch of soda to halt fermentation, then skimmed off all impurities. I wanted it to look pure, just as I expected the relationship to be with the man to whom I gave "half my kingdom."

• The Infusion: Into this liquid gold, I infused his "personality": Lemon peel for acidity (to cut through the sweetness) and generous doses of Cinnamon, Cloves, and Nutmeg. Spices that left a lingering bitterness, a shadow behind the light that he had diligently hidden for so long.

• The Garnish: I poured the mixture over a crunchy base of cereals and hazelnuts. The grounding in reality had finally arrived for me. I dressed it with Pineapple—exotic and flashy—soaked in syrup, Pistachio Cream, Basil, and Pollen.

  Must birthday cake has born

I wanted it to be plumed like a peacock: impressing everyone with its colours, but at the end of the day, merely crying out for attention while constantly soiling the very ground it walks on. I had crafted a jewel of a dessert, but one that hid a sharp sting. It tasted like my life at the time: seductive on the outside, but fraught with tension on the inside.

III. The Empty Chair The scene on the Kitchen Lab rooftop was set. Balloons, music, and abundant Jacques Selosse champagne chilling in the buckets. The "Must Cake" shimmered on the table, perfectly formed. And there was an empty chair. The guest of honour never came. He vanished into the night, leaving the guests with questions. But not me. I understood: This was not a missed appointment. It was a statement. His absence screamed louder than his presence ever could.

Happy birthday

The Idiot Like Dostoevsky’s Myshkin, I saw the lie but chose kindness. I chose to give chances again and again. I didn't know the details of the secret deals, but I knew the narrative was being rewritten behind my back. I knew that the "half kingdom" I gifted was treated as an entitlement.

I have always been wary of the ancient truth: «Ουδείς ασπονδότερος εχθρός του ευεργετηθέντος» (No one is a more bitter enemy than the one who has been benefited). Knowing that the weight of gratitude often turns into envy, I tried to preempt this evolution. I did not ask for gratitude; I demanded creation.

I placed him in a position of responsibility, offering him the need to build something that would be his own, justifying the concession of my realm. I tried to make him a partner, not a debtor.

And yet, I had made the cake. I hoped he would come; it was his last opportunity. Was I a fool? Perhaps. But there is power in knowing the truth and choosing dignity. By staying absent, he admitted he could not withstand the clarity of my table or face the people who came to wish him well.

Patience and kindness are virtues that always win in the end. A lie never takes you further than your own shadow, because you are the first one who has to live with it. No matter how wide you spread your plumed tail to impress or intimidate, you will always step into what you left behind. Another adventure-filled year awaits you—but not here. Not with us. You do not deserve our truth, and we do not deserve to live in your lie, trying to be discreet while you tarnish our work. I am not sure what you learned this year, but every experience transforms us. This one made me the man I am today.