140 141 For instance, they started growing Japanese ginger for me. It’s a dynamic process, constantly evolving based on what works, both in the field and on the plate. Using 21st century tools, I took a bird’s-eye view of the Food Forest Ketelbroek, and it seems like a perfect machine whose gears assembled and synchronised by Wouter van Eck flow flawlessly. Through the combination of trees, shrubs, and herbaceous plants, all perennials – some native, some exotic – that mimic nature’s ways and timing for the formation of a forest, it is possible to regenerate a soil exhausted by traditional agriculture and revitalise it by restoring bacterial life and the intricate complex of symbiosis to its natural, self-sustaining state. The natural intelligence that regulates the symbioses of this macro-organism guarantees food all year round, but refuelling in a food forest means compromising with nature’s timing. I wonder, as the impatient-by-nature that I am, if this is always stimulating. Working with a food forest means surrendering to nature’s rhythm. It’s not about imposing our timing, but about aligning with what the land gives us, when it gives it. That can be challenging, but it’s also incredibly rewarding. It pushes us to think beyond convenience and embrace creativity. It has become a journey of discovery, one that doesn’t just solve practical challenges but also unlocks entirely new, complex flavours, which are essential when running a plant-based kitchen at the highest level. Fermentation, drying, pickling, aging – these are not just ways to store food; they are ways to create depth, umami, and nuance in a cuisine that relies entirely on plants. So yes, working with nature’s timings demands patience and adaptation. But rather than seeing it as a limitation, we see it as an invitation to learn, to experiment, and to refine our craft. And in doing so, we’re not just cooking; we’re continuing a tradition of resourcefulness that has existed for centuries. The lessons we learned and the answers we found are not entirely new, they were already there, embedded in the rich history of generations before us who faced the same challenges. We are rediscovering these solutions – particularly, the practice of preserving seasonal abundance so that we can bridge the months when nature goes into hibernation. You mentioned practical challenges, so I have to ask you at this point about what could spread a leaf-to-root approach to gastronomy today, and how can we increase awareness about it more broadly. The beauty of a restaurant is that it’s all about seduction. That’s where the key lies. Every day of the week, we welcome guests and seduce them with deliciousness. That is the most powerful argument you can make, because if something is truly delicious, people will want it, regardless of whether it’s plant-based or not. When we talk about a leaf-to-root approach, or a fully plant-based cuisine, the challenge is not just about convincing people intellectually; it’s about making them feel the richness of what the plant kingdom has to offer. It’s easy to frame the future in terms of loss, what we should stop eating, of what we should give up. But that’s not inspiring. Instead, we focus on abundance. On showing people that plants provide complexity, depth, and excitement. That there’s a whole world of flavours, techniques, and textures waiting to be explored. The best way to spread this approach is to make it irresistible. It has to be something people crave, not something they feel obligated to adopt. That’s why highlevel plant-based gastronomy is so important: it shifts the perspective. If fine-dining restaurants, bakeries, street food vendors, and home cooks all embrace the idea that plants can be luxurious, indulgent, and deeply satisfying, then we don’t have to push for change: people will want it themselves. Awareness grows through experience. It’s not about preaching, it’s about cooking, sharing, and making plant-based food so undeniably good that it speaks for itself. That’s how you truly change the way people eat. Speaking of awareness, we know what impact the traditional gastronomy sector has on soil consumption, but maybe we could counteract this phenomenon with botanical gastronomy. The impact of gastronomy is relatively small when you compare it to total food consumption. Restaurants alone won’t change the world. But chefs do influence public opinion and can even contribute to shifts in food culture. That’s where the real potential lies. Botanical gastronomy can play a crucial role in introducing new plants to our menus, plants that go beyond what supermarkets offer year-round. It’s important to remember that many of the ingredients we now consider staples weren’t always widely accepted. We haven’t been eating broccoli for that long, and in the last century, the introduction of garlic in the Netherlands was met with strong resistance, people were actually angry about it. Now, imagine shifting our dependence on crops like potatoes, soy, rice, wheat, and corn toward something more diverse and resilient: what if we worked more with chestnuts as a starch source instead? What if we embraced more perennial crops that restore soil health rather than depleting it? I can imagine it, and there is nothing utopian about it. The myriad of food forests that dot the world are objections to the blind exploitation of soil and its resources, and are driving the transition. As chefs, we have a role to play in this transition. We can experiment, refine, and showcase new ingredients in ways that make them desirable. When something delicious and exciting appears on a restaurant menu, it opens the door for broader acceptance. In that sense, botanical gastronomy can help reshape our food system, not through mass production, but through inspiration and cultural change. Many pretend otherwise, but European culture is a consequence of cultural mutations and has been for centuries open to exotic plants, albeit in a cadenced manner, as you mentioned. On your menus, and thus in the Food Forest Ketelbroek from which they originate, there are several exotic plants that are unfamiliar to Western taste, but are excellent candidates for enriching the biodiversity of these agroforestry systems. I’m wondering if, among them, there are some that could become a permanent presence in our gastronomy. There are several strong candidates that could become a permanent part of our menus and, more broadly, our food culture. One of the most fascinating is Chinese mahogany, a tree with beautifully feathered leaves that taste remarkably like French onion soup. We’ve even managed to extract a broth from its wood that, surprisingly, has the deep, comforting flavour of chicken soup. It’s a plant with immense culinary potential, both in terms of flavour and sustainability. Then there are walnuts, which are universally recognised as a healthy and nutritious food source. Every dietary guideline advises eating more of them, yet when you check the packaging, most walnuts come from Turkey, China, or California. But these trees grow perfectly well in our climate. Beyond the commonly known native varieties, we should be looking at pecan, hickory, and black walnut, which all thrive here and could reduce our reliance on imported nuts. Another overlooked opportunity is the Nashi pear. This incredibly juicy fruit is currently flown in from Asia, but it grows just as well in our region. It could be a direct supermarket contender, providing a delicious alternative to the fruits we already know. Then there’s bamboo, a fantastic vegetable that is not only delicious but also easy to preserve. It offers a unique texture and a sustainable growth cycle, that aligns perfectly with agroforestry principles. And for a more dramatic flavour experience, we have Szechuan pepper berries. These bring an exciting, electrifying taste sensation that’s still quite rare in Western kitchens, but could add a whole new dimension to European cuisine.
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