Real pamonha,
cuscuz made fresh

My father was from the Brazilian Northeast. He moved to São Paulo, like so many others. I'm the eldest son — born in São Paulo myself. From the Northeast, I have few memories. Some visits, some summers. But I remember him clearly: a natural salesman, everyone loved him. And a church elder — a man of faith. When he spoke, people listened.

He's gone now. And the longing I feel for him has no end.

In 2025, I took the whole family to Brazil. We went to the Northeast, to my uncles' home. And that's where two things happened at the same time.

My granddaughter — just a little one — took her first sip of fresh corn juice. Her eyes went wide. She wouldn't let go of the cup. She kept asking for more. We laughed, but inside, something was lighting up.

And I watched my wife sit down with the aunts and discover that she loved Northeastern food. She who had always cooked for the family — suddenly her eyes shone differently. She learned every recipe, every detail that had never been written down anywhere.

When we came back to Takahama, I looked at her and said: we're going to open a cuscuzeria.

Today, when someone sits here, eats, and closes their eyes — I know what's happening. They're remembering someone. A father, a grandmother, a time that won't come back. Those moments confirm it for me: we didn't come to Takahama just to cook. We came to keep memories alive.

And maybe — just maybe — my father back in the Northeast would be proud of that.