In Greece, putting another plate on the table often feels like the most natural way to welcome someone.
In Norwegian kitchens, I found myself asking almost the opposite question: what could I take away from the plate?
One instinct comes from a culture of generosity and sharing. The other from an appreciation for simplicity, precision and restraint.
For a long time, I saw them as two different approaches to food. It took years of cooking, travelling and living away from Greece to understand how they could influence each other.
And that understanding didn't come from one particular chef, restaurant or moment. It developed gradually, through the experiences that shape you without necessarily noticing them at the time.
What I Brought With Me
By the time I moved to Norway, I had already worked in different kitchens across Europe. My cooking was rooted in Greece and the Mediterranean, not only through particular ingredients but through the way I understood food.
Olive oil, herbs, acidity, vegetables, grilled fish and slow-cooked meats were familiar parts of that language. So was the importance of sharing a meal and making people feel welcome.
But Greek cooking had also taught me something else: some of the best food needs very little intervention.
A perfectly ripe tomato with salt. Fish grilled over charcoal with olive oil and lemon. Beans cooked slowly until their texture becomes almost creamy.
Simplicity was never something I discovered after moving north.
What changed was how consciously I began to think about it.
Learning to Cook Where I Am
Norway made me pay closer attention to the relationship between food, place and season.
Seasonality had always existed in my cooking, but here it became harder to overlook. The contrast between winter and summer is dramatic. The availability of ingredients changes, as does the kind of food that feels appropriate.
Over time, I became more interested in building a dish around what was particularly good at that moment, rather than starting with a fixed idea and searching for everything needed to reproduce it.
That doesn't mean using only local products or leaving Mediterranean ingredients behind. Good olive oil, Greek cheese and ingredients with a particular regional identity still have an important place in my cooking.
But I became more interested in understanding why an ingredient belonged in a dish.
If Norwegian seafood is at its best, why shouldn't it become the centre of a dish built around Greek flavours and techniques?
The location of an ingredient doesn't necessarily determine the identity of the cooking. The way you understand and treat it matters just as much.
The Discipline of Doing Less
Professional kitchens can make complexity very tempting.
You learn new techniques, discover different textures and develop the ability to build increasingly elaborate dishes. Sometimes another element genuinely improves the result. Other times, it is there because you know how to make it.
I have certainly been guilty of that myself.
Over the years, I became more interested in questioning those decisions.
Does this component improve the dish? Does the technique bring something meaningful to the ingredient? Would the result actually be better without it?
I remember a dinner at Ekstedt in Stockholm, a restaurant built around cooking with fire and traditional techniques rather than conventional modern cooking equipment.
What I appreciated was the attention given to the ingredients and the skill required to achieve such results through methods that may appear simple.
It wasn't a revelation that suddenly changed my cooking. It was one of those experiences that reinforced something I had gradually come to value.
Simplicity doesn't mean a lack of technique. Sometimes it requires a much deeper understanding of the ingredient, the heat, the timing and the decisions you choose not to make.
And modern techniques are not the enemy of that philosophy. What matters is whether they serve the food or simply demonstrate what the chef can do.
Understanding My Own Roots Differently
Living away from Greece has also changed the way I look at Greek cooking itself.
Distance can make you more conscious of things that once felt completely natural.
I have become more selective with the ingredients I use to express Greek flavours. Adding feta, oregano or olive oil doesn't automatically make a dish meaningful or authentic. Their quality matters, but so does the reason they are there.
I have also become more interested in understanding the thinking behind traditional recipes, rather than treating every detail as something that must remain unchanged.
Greek food has always been shaped by geography, seasons, migration and what people had available to them.
Respecting tradition doesn't necessarily mean reproducing it without question. Sometimes it means understanding what makes a dish recognisable and allowing that character to exist in a different setting.
A Norwegian ingredient can find its place within a Greek idea without either losing its identity.
For me, that is far more interesting than combining cuisines simply for the sake of creating something new.
What Has Never Changed
Perhaps the most important part of my Greek background is not an ingredient or a technique at all.
It is hospitality.
I still believe that food is about much more than what happens in the kitchen. It is about the experience of sitting together, sharing something and feeling genuinely looked after.
That applies whether I am preparing a carefully composed tasting menu or a table filled with dishes intended to be shared.
Norway has influenced how I approach the food, but it hasn't changed what I want people to feel when they eat it.
And that brings me back to those two apparently opposite instincts: the generosity of the Greek table and the restraint I have come to appreciate in Nordic cooking.
I no longer believe generosity has to be measured by how much is served, or that simplicity should mean sacrificing warmth and character.
Both can be expressions of care.
The Food I Want to Cook Today
After all these years, I don't think of my cooking as half Greek and half Nordic.
Greece remains the foundation. It shaped my instincts, my understanding of flavour and the importance I place on bringing people together.
Norway has influenced how I express those things. The seasons, the ingredients, the precision and the confidence to question what is necessary have all become part of my approach.
Together with the experiences I have gathered in other kitchens and countries, they have shaped the point of view behind Noêma.
Not a new cuisine created by combining two traditions, but a personal way of cooking that is rooted in one place while remaining open to the influence of another.
I came to Norway knowing where my cooking came from.
Living here has helped me understand more clearly what I want it to become.
— Panagiotis Lenakis
Chef & Founder, Noêma