Authenticity is one of those words that gets thrown around a lot in food.
Often loudly, often defensively & sometimes without much thought.
We’re told something is authentic as if that alone should end the conversation. As if it’s automatically better, purer, more correct. And when something isn’t authentic? Well, that’s often treated as a failure. Or worse, an insult.
But the truth is, authenticity in food is far more nuanced than people like to admit.
Why authenticity matters
Let’s be clear first: authenticity does matter.
Traditional dishes exist for a reason. They’re born from place, climate, necessity, and history. They tell stories about the people who cooked them first and the ingredients they had access to. When you understand that context, you cook with more respect, more intention, and usually, better results.
French cuisine, in particular, is built on systems.
Mother sauces.
Classical techniques.
Defined dishes.
There’s a reason a bourguignon tastes the way it does, or why a blanquette is treated gently and finished with cream and egg yolk rather than browned aggressively. These things weren’t arbitrary, they were refined over time because they worked.
The same is true across the world.
Italian nonnas didn’t decide one day to be stubborn about recipes. They cooked what worked, what tasted right, what their land gave them. Over generations, those decisions became tradition.
Ignoring that foundation entirely, usually leads to food that’s confused, sloppy, or hollow. If you don’t understand the rules, you don’t know which ones you’re breaking, or why.
If you’re old enough to remember the early 2000s restaurant scene, you’ll remember a very particular kind of “innovation.”
Everything was fusion.
But not the thoughtful kind.
We saw:
• Thai green curry pizza.
• Wasabi mashed potatoes served with steak.
• Teriyaki chicken pasta with cream.
• Tandoori chicken paninis with mango mayo.
• Sushi burritos stuffed with anything that would fit.
• Hoisin-glazed duck quesadillas.
• Sweet chilli sauce on absolutely everything.
At the time, it felt modern. Bold. Global.
Looking back, much of it makes no sense.
Not because cross-cultural cooking is wrong; it isn’t. Cuisine has always travelled and evolved.
But because much of it ignored structure. It mashed flavours together without understanding what made them work in the first place. Cream sauces were added where acidity was needed. Sweetness layered on sweetness. Spice without balance.
It wasn’t evolution. It was collage.
And that’s the difference.
Fusion that understands its roots can be brilliant.
Fusion that doesn’t often feels confused.
Where authenticity starts to fall apart
That said, authenticity can also become a prison.
Italian food is probably the clearest example. Few cuisines are defended as fiercely.
Change the pasta shape.
Add an extra ingredient.
Serve something slightly differently.
Someone, somewhere, will be furious.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth:
most “authentic” dishes were once improvisations.
Carbonara wasn’t carved into stone tablets.
Cassoulet exists in multiple versions depending on the village.
Bouillabaisse was a fisherman’s stew made from what didn’t sell.
Food has always evolved. The idea that there is one fixed, perfect version of any dish ignores the very history people are trying to protect.
And when authenticity becomes about gatekeeping rather than understanding, it stops being useful. It becomes about ego instead of flavour.
Where we sit with Bohémien
Bohémien sits somewhere in the middle.
What we cook is absolutely rooted in classical French technique, there is absolutely no doubting that.
Braising properly.
Making sauces the long way. Respecting seasonality. Understanding why things are done a certain way before doing them at all.
That part matters deeply to me.
But we’re not trying to recreate a Parisian bistro in the 1950s. We’re cooking in Wales. Using Welsh produce. Working in small kitchens. Cooking for real people, right now.
Sometimes that means borrowing a French idea and letting the local ingredient lead.
Sometimes it means changing a garnish, a cut, a ratio.
Sometimes it means admitting that the “correct” version isn’t the most delicious one in this context.
That doesn’t make it inauthentic.
It makes it honest. If I was to serve certain classic dishes, while I love them personally, people aren’t going to want to eat them (veal brains sautéed in brown butter and capers anyone?) I view Tradition as a starting point, not a finish line.
I think the healthiest way to think about authenticity is this;
Tradition should be the starting point, not the end goal.
Learn it properly. Cook it faithfully. Understand why it exists.
Then and only then, decide whether it needs to change.
Evolution in cooking doesn’t come from ignorance. It comes from understanding something so well that you know where there’s room to move.
When food stops evolving, it becomes museum cooking. Revered, but lifeless.
Why this matters now
We’re cooking in a time where ingredients change.
Costs change.
Expectations change.
Rigid authenticity doesn’t always make sense anymore. But neither does throwing tradition out altogether.
The best food, the food that lasts, tends to sit in that uncomfortable middle ground. Respectful but not precious. Informed but not constrained. Rooted, yet alive.
Final thoughts
Authenticity is valuable.
So is creativity.
The mistake is thinking they can’t coexist.
Good cooking isn’t about proving how correct you are. It’s about making something that tastes right, feels right, and makes sense in the moment it’s served.
And if that means honouring tradition while gently nudging it forward?
I think that’s exactly what good food should do.
Tom
Chef & Owner, Bohémien
