It’s Sunday in Florence. The dining room of Il Gusto di Xinge is empty, the Venetian blinds casting strips of morning light across tables that will, in hours, be filled with Florentines who queue weeks for a reservation. But Xinge Ge Liu, 33, is not thinking about service yet. She is thinking about a poem. “I bei paesaggi e tutte le cose belle sono solo sogni dopo tutto,” she says softly. “Beautiful landscapes and all beautiful things are just dreams after all. Upon waking, only sad memories remain.” This is not a preamble to a meal.

This is the recipe for a dish called “Blooming”: traditional crystal pasta revisited with squid ink, filled with swordfish, celery and mascarpone, garnished with purple cabbage marinated in the traditional Chinese way, mussels and fish roe. A poem, translated twice—first into Italian, then into food, that we will come back to later. Those who have experienced her cuisine all say the same things: “She mixes design and food,” “Every dish is made with moodboards.” “She is not only a chef, she is a designer.”

The whispers follow her, but Xin Ge Liu doesn’t pay much attention, she is too busy creating and reinventing. “But on a Sunday morning, before the glam, before the kitchen is fired, what emerges is something else: the mother, the wife, the patron, the immigrant who does not only sketch dishes before creating them. She is translating memories into stories—some painful, some wonderful—to create flavors searching for textures, memories seeking expression. It is a reversal of the normal creative process.

Born in 1993 in a small town in northern China, Xin Ge Liu grew up in a place so insignificant that its name would mean nothing to the Florentines who now queue for her tables. Within that small town, a power plant built by her Japanese grandfather created a self-contained city of fifteen thousand souls, where life proceeded with the mechanical precision of the turbines. “You are almost born to death there,” she says, “because the boundaries of possibility are drawn before you can even imagine pushing against them.” A Truman Show-like world, she calls it.

The smoke of that industrial childhood has transformed into affumicato—smoked—evoking memories of the old world within the new. The opposing forces that would come to define her work were already present: isolation and connection; the hunger of her parents’ divorce and the abundance she would later build; the bullying she endured for being different and the quiet authority she now exudes. The child who was pushed out of her groove became the chef who has learned to push herself out of it deliberately, knowing that growth requires displacement. And tears. Tears she is not afraid to shed with her team, who have come to enter Xinge’s world and emerge with dishes no one else would dare to imagine.

These forces meet in her kitchen. They meet in dishes like the Pollo Shibari (a dish so complex that must be ordered in advance).  “At least once in our lives we have been ‘bound,'” she explains. “Bound to people, bound by situations, by fear, by love. You want to scream, cry, fight. You want to break this bond with all your strength and hope. Cut me, untie me, break me… free me!”

The dish translates this feeling into form: chicken bound in red string, evoking the sensation of constraint, with an egg hidden inside waiting to be freed. The preparation draws on Daokou, an ancient Chinese marinating and slow-cooking recipe from the Qing Dynasty (1661)—one of the four most famous recipes in China. Eight spices and aromas, a concentrated broth. In Xinge’s version, it is scented with truffle. The meat, flavorful and tender, is best enjoyed cold.

The egg waits inside, waiting to be discovered. They meet in the Zen Bao, where artichokes are deconstructed and reconstructed into their original form. The dish represents the hero’s journey that she herself has lived: departure from that small town, initiation in Florence, return to herself through the medium of food.”We have the Food Bible,” she says of her kitchen. “I talk about this, and they know that the restaurant is part of me.

I don’t hide it. It really is my baby here, so they feel it. It’s alive.” The restaurant, she says, “is like your children.” But the comparison haunts her. Because she knows, in ways that are impossible to reconcile, that the metaphor is also a confession.  “It’s difficult, it’s very difficult,” The pressure of leaving everything. The pressure of learning not just a new cuisine but a new language, a new culture, a new way of being in the world. This self-contained world is created from pressure, like the power plant community where Xinge grew up, but one she has built herself, from nothing but dreams.

The spark that arises from these opposing forces is what her guests experience as the Xinge effect: the temporary displacement—Where am I, is this China, is this Milan?—that precedes genuine transformation. The inebriation of flavors that announce themselves not sequentially but simultaneously. The stirring of the soul that comes from consuming not merely food but story.

I think Heroe’s Journey and I think Xinge. Take us  back to the beginning.

I grew up in a power plant community. My parents worked there. My nonno (grandfather) is Japanese and he came to China to build the power plant. When I think of myself at eight years old… my mom came to this place, she worked there, and there were 15,000 people living there. They built the power plant and across the street, they had a supermarket, a school, a gym… a cooperative.

It’s very far from the city, and there was nothing around but the power plant and the school. You can imagine, the carbon pipes. The power plant is made from carbon energy, so you can only see very large things. Because of the carbon, it catches fire and generates smoke.  It’s blue, it’s very beautiful. It’s white and blue, and it has a big cloud. It’s beautiful, it’s interesting.

It sounds like a complete, but isolated world. 

It was  like being born to death. It’s very organized, very, very beautiful. A bit like The Truman Show. When I was little, I was watching a lot of films from Italy and the United States, and I was so fascinated by all of it. I was very curious about this.

Was that curiosity encouraged by your family?

My parents divorced when I was seven. My mom left, and I was with my dad. He left me at our teacher’s house, to took care of me. She was never home. I was hungry; I didn’t have food. It was a very difficult time. She hurt me, physically.  I still remember that moment, but I didn’t tell my parents.

I think I was too young. Then I moved to southern China to live with my mother. People in the south thought I was from the north, that I wasn’t modest enough, that I looked so bad, and I suffered three years of bullying at school. I thought it was really difficult. But all of these experiences have transformed me into who I am today. 


I see the zodiac plays a role in the mixology menu. What is your sign?

What do you think?

I don’t trust in signs. But if I had to guess…I would say…Capricorn because you are business savvy, strong, and unstoppable.

Yes, that’s right! You got it. I like perfection. I live for myself and I don’t care what people think, because I think to care about the opinion of others is a real block to who I am and what I’m doing.

So, at 18, you left it all behind and arrived in Florence alone. What was the pull?

I didn’t think too much. I just knew that neither my father’s place or my mother’s… was my place. I always dreamed of Italy and fashion. So Italy was the best place. My only other option was to join the army because it’s part of my mother’s family and they would help me. But I wanted to leave, I wanted to see what’s happening outside. I wanted to find out if things happen like in a movie. And that’s why I came to Florence to study fashion.

How much did Italy influence who you are today?

I think it’s very important because the Italian lifestyle, the Italian people, the culture create incredible things. For example, when I bring the same stuff here, I feel so confident. When I go back to China, I bring the same stuff and I feel so weird. I think the situation isn’t appropriate. It’s funny.

You were at Polimoda for fashion design. At what point did you decide to switch to food?

When I first arrived here, I felt the idea of Chinese food wasn’t cool enough. People thought Chinese food was just fried rice and porridge. Now they ask me if we have dim sum. I don’t know what’s going on here. I had the idea to make something. And I wasn’t ready. I thought there was a time, a place, and everything to make it happen. While I was still at Polimoda, but there is never a perfect time. Only preparation. So I started studying for my HACCP diploma.

What are your thoughts on tradition, especially in a world moving so fast?

Tradition is so important. I think about this, it’s like the philosophy of Polimoda. When we design a collection, we first think about the concept and then we look for the model and then the paper pattern. We go forward with vintage and find a very interesting vintage dress, I like it, and we make a copy of the pattern and from that pattern we create the new version.

For me, tradition is like a very important energy in the middle of a very important place. Imagine, a ball of energy, that’s tradition, and around what’s happening is innovation. The recipes, the ingredients, and how it’s done technically… there’s something that’s our tradition, the original taste. When I came back to China in early 2025… we actually took a trip which went in-depth to study Fujian tea. I went there to choose, to make the selection. I think we need to at least make our selection to go back to China and find the best vendor, to make the tea from China.

How do you approach creating a new dish?

We have to remove the superfluous and all the lies. So many “layers” conceal the truth inside things. For the creation of dishes, as also happens in fashion, we look for images and suggestions that inspire us. But more important than anything is to look inside ourselves in order to try to convey our own emotions within the dish.

Where did the inspiration for your dish “Emotion” come from?

Chef Xinge: Many times we seek peace and silence in our heads, to alienate ourselves and distance ourselves from our emotions and the chaos. This is how this dish was born, which we called “Emotion.”

Can you describe the dish and what the guest experiences when eating it?

Chef Xinge: The pasta is made with taro and the filling is a purée of edamame and bamboo. The “net” that wraps around it is a particular type of mushroom. First you taste the flavor of the mushroom, then the sweetness of the taro, and finally the edamame that balances everything.

Tell me  about your dish “Blooming”

It comes from a Chinese poem: “I bei paesaggi e tutte le cose belle sono solo sogni dopo tutto. Al risveglio rimangono tristi ricordi.” (“Beautiful landscapes and all beautiful things are just dreams after all. Upon waking, only sad memories remain.”)

How did you translate this poem into a dish?

The traditional crystal pasta has been revisited with the use of squid ink. Inside, there is a filling of swordfish, celery, and mascarpone. The whole dish is garnished with purple cabbage marinated in the traditional Chinese way, mussels, and fish roe.

Pollo Shibari…This dish evokes so much emotion. Can you explain the concept behind it?

At least once in our lives we have been “bound”: bound to people, bound by situations, by fear, by love. You want to scream, cry, fight. You want to break this bond with all your strength and hope. Cut me, untie me, break me… free me!

And how did you translate this feeling of wanting to be freed into a dish?

We used an ancient Chinese recipe for marinating and slow-cooking chicken, dating back to the Qing Dynasty (1661). This recipe is one of the four most famous recipes in China and it’s called Daokou. Eight types of spices and aromas are used, along with a very concentrated broth. The meat is flavorful and tender, best enjoyed cold. In our version, it is scented with truffle. An egg waits inside, waiting to be discovered, to be freed.

Now, as a mother and a wife, you work with your husband Lapo, your daughter is here with us. Seeing all this sacrifice, how do you balance it?

It’s difficult, it’s very difficult. I’m sacrificing my entire family, Lapo and my daughter. That’s how I feel, at least. There are moments when I think, and then one day I look ahead and think, but she’s here. It’s the hardest thing, because this is the hardest industry to break into.

It’s the whole energy, going to the restaurant, and pushing. Just yesterday, I had a problem with the kitchen, and we planned to be together, and now I have to call the baby, and she’s crying, and I’m crying, and I tell her, “I’m sorry, I can’t be with you, please understand that Mom has to work,” and try to make her understand. It’s just a conversation with her, and she’s okay, she goes home, but I know.

I asked your daughter if she wants to be a chef, and she said no. You said you don’t want her in this industry. Why?

I think it’s too much, you know. Having a restaurant, it’s your business, it’s like your children. Sometimes I feel like I’ve put more attention on this restaurant than my daughter. She’s asking you more, for sure I’ll introduce you here more than with my daughter, unless I’m sleeping.

How do the chefs in the kitchen understand your vision to tell that story?

Because it’s a real story. We have the Food Bible, so I talk about this, and they know that the restaurant is part of me. I don’t hide it. It really is my baby here, so they feel it. It’s alive. So let’s say I never hide it, even if I feel suffocated, I’ve cried, and then I’m strong, and they say they feel this energy and that’s important.

You’ve worked with incredible mentors like Chef Cristina Bowerman. What have you learned from her?

I was at her house yesterday… I like and love Cristina. We did the 4 hands and I’m very happy, and this made me understand more about her and her personality.

She’s so beautiful, and her philosophy behind the kitchen and in front of the bar is very humanitarian. I definitely knew her before meeting her, and I saw her from afar, and I didn’t want to say hello, I was nervous and thought she was very strong.

And one day I met her and it was totally different. She’s definitely one of the people in my heart and she’s so supportive of me. As she said one day, I asked her, “Cristina, why do you support me? Can I ask you this question? Because in this industry we’re like four cats, if you don’t support me, how should I do it?” This is the message she gave to me, and I will do it for other people who need help.

What is the hardest part now?

People prefer the first experience, and then getting them to come back and talk about it and keep talking about it. This is a form of story. We have to make the person look forward, keep reading until the last sentence. 

What is it in your story that makes them want not only the last dish, but to come back again? 

To make them come back again, innovation is so important. So you have to not give the 

same dish. Even the Red Chamber dream is so popular, but it needs to be developed. You can’t just say, “Okay, this is good.” 

What do you want your guests to take away once they’ve left?

I think I’m trying to build on my original idea, a dream. When you come here, you don’t feel like you’re in Florence. This place could be in New York, London, Paris, Milan. You separate your positive and negative, your experience, your love. The atmosphere changes completely, and you focus on what I’m telling you. I’m telling a story, a story about something different. We’re not just talking about such important ingredients, but we’re talking about another story, a philosophy.

To make them come back again, innovation is so important. You have to not give the same dish. Even the Red Chamber dream is so popular, but it needs to be developed. You can’t just say, “Okay, this is good.” But you have to have some dishes that are always on the menu. For example, our Shenzhen pao, which was there at the opening of this place. It’s like a double-cooked omelette and stew. It’s so important. And some dim sum, too. My master was a gangster in Hong Kong and had a restaurant, Golden Mountain Tea House. I like Golden Mountain Tea. It’s a fantastic name.