A Taste of History: Discovering Menton Through Food

What happens when architecture, history and gastronomy come together?

Architecture is everywhere. It is present in every home we inhabit, every building we pass, every urban space we experience and, of course, in the stories that cities carry within them.

But what happens when the history of a place extends beyond its buildings and streets, shaping something as unexpected as the food we eat?

I have explored this relationship in previous articles, particularly during my research into La Villette, in Paris.

I remember that one of my biggest challenges during that research was understanding how the area's historical transformation had influenced the lives of the people who lived around the park.

Then, a fellow student at Oxford Brookes University suggested something I had never considered: Since La Villette was once home to a major slaughterhouse, why not investigate what people used to eat there?

Food, just like architecture, can reveal the social, cultural and economic history of a place.

A few weeks ago, I experienced that same sense of curiosity and discovery again, although this time in a completely unexpected way.

I travelled to the south of France to attend JAS Menton, a conference closely connected to my interest in healthcare design and the relationship between architecture and well-being.

I left my projects and construction sites behind for a week, quietly hoping that nothing too strange, unexpected or disastrous would happen in my absence. Anyone working in architecture and construction will probably understand that feeling.

Menton, a beautiful Mediterranean town just a stone's throw from the Italian border, immediately caught my attention. With its colourful façades, narrow streets and remarkable setting between the mountains and the sea, it is a place full of architectural character.

But there was something else I noticed almost immediately : lemons everywhere.

I was curious, but between attending the conference and answering what felt like a thousand phone calls and emails from my construction sites, I didn't give it much thought.

Little did I know that I was about to discover the reason behind it, and much more, over dinner.

A dinner I wasn't expecting

As it happened, I knew someone living in Menton whom I hadn't seen for quite some time. When I contacted her, she kindly invited me over for dinner.

Her husband, Damian Konasiewicz, is a talented chef who has been developing his culinary skills through his experience at Mirazur, Menton's renowned three-Michelin-starred restaurant.

My friend had an interesting proposal. Damian was preparing a special dining experience, and she asked whether I would be willing to try his dishes and give him some honest feedback.

Of course, I couldn't refuse.

On my way there, I stopped at Carrefour to buy a bottle of wine. But I suddenly realised that bringing wine to a chef's dinner might not be the smartest idea, especially when I had absolutely no idea what he would be serving.

So I turned around, returned the wine and bought a beautiful plant instead.

And there I was, walking through the streets of Menton carrying a plant.

When I arrived, I discovered that I wasn't the only guest invited to give feedback. Another guest was an established chef working at Mirazur, who had come for exactly the same reason.

I must admit, I found myself wondering what I could possibly contribute to a culinary discussion alongside a professional chef.

But as the evening unfolded, I began to understand why our different perspectives might be valuable.

What happened next genuinely blew my mind.

Every single dish was inspired by the history of Menton.

Not simply by its local ingredients or traditional cuisine, but by the stories, people, buildings and events that had shaped the city over time.

Through Damian's food, I began to discover a Menton I hadn't encountered while walking through its streets.

I finally understood why lemons had become such an important part of the city's identity.

I learned about a book called Winter and Spring on the Shores of the Mediterranean, and how writings about the region's climate helped attract visitors to Menton, including people who came hoping to improve their health.

I also discovered the story of an abandoned monastery through one of his dishes, along with other fascinating details about the city's past.

It was extraordinary to see how historical research could be translated into flavours, textures, ingredients and presentation.

And suddenly, I found myself thinking about architecture again.

Sitting at that dinner table, I realised that a chef could approach exactly the same questions through a completely different medium.

Where an architect might use drawings, materials, light and space to communicate an idea, Damian was using ingredients, flavours and culinary techniques.

The objective, in many ways, was remarkably similar: to create an experience that connects people with a place and its history.

What fascinated me most was that I wasn't simply being told historical facts. I was experiencing them through my senses.

If you ever find yourself in Menton and are curious to discover the city from a different perspective, I would encourage you to look up Damian Konasiewicz and his culinary experiences.

Sometimes, an interesting way to discover a city isn't only through its buildings, but also through the stories hidden in its food.