A study in Cantonese gesture, labor, and spatial ethics

In Milan’s De Angeli district, Ba Restaurant maps a quiet Cantonese lineage—through untreated materials, slow kitchen rituals, and the deliberate absence of visual symbols of identity

Between red silk and charcoal: at Ba Restaurant, tradition reimagined in De Angeli

In De Angeli, a Milanese district defined by its residential sobriety and rationalist architecture, Ba Restaurant inserts itself without disruption. There is no signage clamoring for attention, no neon invitation. The entryway, like the cuisine within, is a study in restraint. Owned and operated by Marco Liu, Ba does not claim authenticity as nostalgia. Rather, it proposes a reconsideration of Cantonese identity, articulated through precision, materials and atmosphere.

Human diversity as culinary lineage

The Liu family operates within Milan’s Chinese culinary landscape as a constellation. The Liu family’s story in Milan began in the early Nineties when Marco Liu, originally from Guangdong Province, moved to Italy to pursue opportunities in the culinary world. His arrival marked the beginning of a family journey that would intertwine Italian and Chinese gastronomy. Marco’s brothers and sister, who also came to Milan, have since established themselves in the city’s Chinese food scene as well, contributing to a multi-generational narrative of Chinese culinary identity, which is not limited to tradition but evolves through innovation.

His brother, Liu Jiayi, runs Wang’s, a Michelin-starred restaurant that redefines Chinese fine dining with an approach that marries technical precision with modern interpretations of classic dishes. Located in the heart of Milan, Wang’s represents a more avant-garde take on Chinese cuisine, blending European influences with traditional Chinese techniques.

Meanwhile, Marco’s sister, Liu Min, operates a more community-oriented restaurant called Jin Mei, which focuses on the familial textures of Chinese dining. Jin Mei emphasizes accessibility, with dishes that bring people together in a more informal, yet personal setting.

Ba is Marco Liu’s proposition. Here, heritage is treated not as an heirloom but as a system open to revision. The chefs are Chinese. The staff speaks multiple languages. The clientele is diffuse: Milanese, international, diasporic. The menu exists in the space between memory and transcription.

There is no explicit storytelling of origin. The identity of the cuisine emerges instead from process: brining, marinating, steaming, grilling. The gesture replaces the narrative. In this way, Ba maps a form of culinary human diversity that is reflective of personal histories and practical experience rather than formula.

Jacopo Foggi’s design chandelier and the ethics of space

Ba’s interior was designed to be both spatial and spiritual. It gestures toward temple architecture without theatricality. The geometry is deliberate: matte surfaces, quiet materials, a visible kitchen. Central to the dining area is a red chandelier designed by Jacopo Foggi—it functions as axis rather than ornament.

Foggi, a Milan-based designer, created the chandelier as a central piece of Ba’s spatial composition. Constructed with interlocking layers of red glass, it represents a break from the smoothness of modern interior design. The structure emits a diffused glow, softening edges without erasing them. This tension between light and form mirrors Ba’s culinary ethos: not decorative, but composed. Every design choice participates in an unspoken ethics. There are no synthetic finishes. Metals are oxidized, wood is untreated, fabric is subdued—form emerges from consideration.

The open kitchen contributes to this architectural vocabulary. The wall separating labor from consumption is partially dissolved, but never performative. One sees without being shown. It’s an act of cultural transparency rendered through layout.

The purpose economy in the kitchen

The kitchen at Ba operates on slow cycles. Stocks are fermented, sauces aged, broths cleared over hours. The rhythm is the inverse of industrial gastronomy. There is no rush. Labor is visible and embodied. Dumplings are hand-folded, bone is hand-cut. No devices mediate touch.

Such gestures represent a form of resistance—resistance to speed, to automation, to the neutralization of flavor in the name of consistency. Chef Liu does not want to just source ingredients, but to understand them. An example is Ozaki Wagyu, grilled over binchotan charcoal. This dish does not pretend to be Chinese, Japanese, or Italian. It is instead a study in elemental reactions: fat, fire, iron.

This is the purpose economy at a granular level. Value is not located in scarcity or spectacle, but in attention. A carrot is only served if its root structure is intact. A broth is plated only if the umami spectrum reaches its correct register. The kitchen is a listening chamber.

The mise en place speaks to labor economies—the hierarchy in the kitchen is horizontal, shaped by collaboration rather than assertion. What arrives on the plate is the endpoint of repetition, error, refinement.

Raw materials and their discreet origins

There is no manifesto on the menu. No list of kilometers or farms. But Ba is constructed on the back of raw materials, both in culinary and spatial terms. Ingredients are chosen for tactile potential as much as for flavor. Their origin is not marketed but internalized.

Wheat flour for the dumplings is milled to specific density. Soy for fermentation is selected from micro-batches. The restaurant’s use of binchotan—Japanese oak charcoal—exceeds utility; it becomes an agent of flavor, history, and temperature. The fire is not seen, only tasted.

This engagement with material extends to the dining space. Clay vessels are sourced from northern China. Tables are made of untreated oak, sealed not with lacquer but oil. The chairs are upholstered with vegetable-dyed linen. Even the fabric of the staff uniforms is selected for touch, wear, breathability. The space operates as a composite of surfaces meant to vanish into the gesture of use.

Human commitment behind the curtain

Behind the plate is labor, mostly anonymous. The kitchen staff, many of whom have trained in kitchens across Hong Kong and southern China, operate in silence. Communication is physical: gestures, nods, patterns. There is no executive chef tableau, no cult of personality. Marco Liu does not emerge from the kitchen. He is not a host. He is a presence. His commitment is distributed—not central.

The restaurant avoids the familiar hierarchy of prestige kitchens. Instead, there is choreography. Each person knows their axis, their gestures. Training routines are adapted from martial arts sequences. Timing and posture are synchronized during non-service hours. This repetition creates shared muscle memory, not just workflow. Discipline becomes embedded.

De Angeli: geography as gesture

The choice of location is not peripheral. De Angeli offers no performative nightlife, no cultural landmarks. Its architecture is rational, its rhythm residential. To place a Chinese restaurant of this kind here is to alter the map—not to insert the exotic, but to revise expectation.

This is not Chinatown. This is not a destination. It is a counter-movement, aligning with a desire to be part of the city’s everyday syntax without diluting the code. The restaurant opens at fixed hours, keeps to itself.

The geography extends inward. The space is arranged for intimacy, not spectacle. Lighting is absorbed rather than reflected. Tables are spaced to allow for pause, not privacy. The environment encourages listening—to oneself, to the food, to those across the table.

The urban choice echoes the Liu family’s refusal of visibility as validation. The decision to anchor Ba in De Angeli corresponds to a broader ethic: to occupy space without seeking assimilation.

Identity of minorities without representation

Ba does not operate within the framework of cultural representation. There are no dragons, no silk screens, no calligraphy. It does not explain itself to the diner. In a city where ethnic restaurants are often expected to perform their identity, Ba declines the role. It does not teach. It does not translate.

The Liu family’s position is not reactive but generative. They are not correcting Western assumptions about Chinese cuisine. They are constructing a new set of terms. Their restaurants form a network of practices—each distinct, none deferential.

This is the identity of minorities articulated not through signage or aesthetics, but through tempo and material. Minority presence here is not symbolic—it is operational. It appears in how rice is washed, how broth is held, how waste is managed. The identity is procedural.

An ingredient-driven practice

The kitchen at Ba operates without a fixed menu or seasonal marketing narrative. Ingredients are sourced daily based on availability, condition, and function. Selection does not follow trend but feasibility. The focus remains on how materials respond to heat, pressure, and time.

Culinary processes prioritize fermentation, slow boiling, and charcoal grilling. The binchotan used is measured for burning stability. Cuts of meat are chosen for structure, not volume. Vegetables vary from local producers to imports with specific textural properties. Rice is evaluated for gelatinization and starch release during extended cooking.

The culinary framework does not declare innovation or return to tradition. Recipes are modular, not conceptual. Taste is approached as outcome, not identity. Procedures are revised through repetition, not storytelling. Each dish exists for its construction.