Starting from Zero-Zero by Eilia Attar

When you ask most people why they became chefs, they will tell you it has to do with love: a love for food, or for the people who cooked for them when they were small, or for the way that food itself expresses love. But what if love isn’t enough? 

I was born in Iran in 2000, into a world where food, family, and tradition were at the heart of daily life. My earliest memories were filled with the smell of my mother’s cooking. She was, and still is, an excellent cook, the kind of woman who can create magic with the simplest ingredients. Ghormeh Sabzi was always there, slow-cooked and deeply comforting, with parsley, fenugreek and dried limes. As a child, I didn’t know what “fine dining” meant, but I knew what it meant to love food. I loved sitting at the table, tasting, smelling, and watching. I think that was where everything started, not with a knife in hand, but a spoon. 

For a long time, cooking was just a quiet love. I studied mining engineering at university because it seemed like the responsible path. But when I was 18, something shifted inside me. I began learning to cook seriously, watching every detail in the kitchen and teaching myself step by step. I started to see kitchens as places where I could build something beautiful with my own hands. I realized that food wasn’t just something I liked, it was the only thing that truly made me feel alive. 

In my first or second year of cooking, I discovered what fine dining really meant. I learned about Massimo Bottura and his philosophy, how behind every dish there is a story, a message, a piece of culture. It was the first time I understood that food could speak. That a plate wasn’t just something to eat or something to sell, it could carry a voice. It could represent history, identity and emotion. That idea changed everything for me. I wanted to learn from the chefs who treated food like language. That was when I decided I had to move to Europe. 

When I was 20, I made the hardest decision of my life. I left my studies, my home, and everything familiar behind. I moved to Latvia as an intern to start a new life in Europe as a young cook. I didn’t have much, just a big dream and a suitcase. I believed, and still believe, that if you want to be the best, you have to learn from the best. And for me, that meant Europe, fine dining and working with chefs who inspire the world. 

After my first year in Latvia, my family could no longer support me. The economy in Iran had worsened. My parents did their best, but I had to stand on my own feet. I started again from zero. Actually, I often say I started from “zero-zero” — not knowing the language, with no money and no network. My first job was washing dishes. It wasn’t glamorous, but every night after my shift I told myself, one day I will cook with the best chefs in the world. That belief kept me moving. 

Two years ago, after finishing my studies and paying off my debts, I decided it was time to chase the dream that brought me here. I sent applications to around 120 of the top kitchens in Europe. I spent countless nights writing emails, researching restaurants, and trying to find the right words that could make someone believe in me. Out of all those applications, maybe 12 responded. Three or four invited me for an interview. But in the beginning of almost every conversation, there was a silent wall I had to face: a big no. 

The reason was not about my skills, my passion, or my story. It was because of where I come from. A “third country.” A passport that meant more paperwork, more costs, more complications. Rejection stopped being personal; it became systemic. I understood it wasn’t my fault, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. It felt like knocking on doors that were never built for someone like me.

But I kept knocking anyway.  

Being far from home is not just about distance. It’s the feeling of building your life again from the ground up. It’s learning how to belong somewhere new while carrying your roots inside you. Every shift in the kitchen was a reminder that I had chosen this path, so every burn, every long night, every small step forward meant something. Slowly, I moved from the sink to the stove. Slowly, I became a cook. 

Today, I am working as a cook in Europe in Latvia, continuing to build my skills in professional kitchens while searching for the opportunity to grow in a place that values learning, discipline, and long-term commitment. My dream is to learn everything I can in this journey, every skill, every discipline, every philosophy, and one day use it to support and educate people back home. 

My dream has never been only about me. I want to be one of the best chefs in the world, not just to have a successful career, but to give something back. Iran faces many challenges, economic struggles that make everyday life difficult, widespread poverty, and environmental problems like water scarcity that threaten food production. Food has power. It can connect people, give dignity and create opportunities. And I want to be part of that. 

Sometimes people think being a cook is only about technique, about perfection. But for me, it has always been about survival, about purpose. In my world, there is no room to drift or to give up. Every service matters, every mistake carries weight, and every job is something I have to hold onto. Every plate I create carries a part of my story, the boy who grew up eating his mother’s food, the young man who left everything behind to follow a dream, and the person who still believes he can change something with what he learns. 

This is just the beginning of my journey. There is still so much ahead, but each morning, as I put on my kitchen clothes, I remember why I chose this path, for love of food, for people and for a dream that knows no borders. 

Header image credit: Arvis Spridzāns