Van der Westhuizen - Jan: a breath of French air: Nice, France

Every story has a beginning. Mine started at the tables of my mother and grandmother, where the notion of true South African hospitality seeped into my consciousness to become the foundation on which I would later build JAN. It is here that I learned the humble art of serving and creating a warm, welcoming space where people would feel special and escape the humdrum of everyday life, to enjoy the singular pleasures of good company and delicious food.

Ive wanted my own restaurant for as long as I can remember. During my time as a student chef, I used to work as a waiter at a commercial family-style steakhouse in a shopping mall with tinny music and fluorescent lighting. This, however, did not deter me from treating the guests at my four tables as though they were seated at the table grande at a restaurant in the heart of Paris. Eager to imbue their experience with a sense of occasion, Id cobble together an amuse-bouche from bits and bobs I could gather from the grill and salad bar and serve it very grandly on a slightly chipped saucer.

The story of how this eager young South African lad came to own a restaurant in Nice, France, is one filled with many obstacles, hard work, determination and more than a little bit of luck. I believe that each of us will experience a few occasions in our lives where the stars are perfectly aligned to make our dreams come true. Destiny will shove you into the right place at the right time, but in that moment it remains your responsibility to take the plunge to close your eyes, leave the safety of your comfort zone and prove how badly you want it, even though you doubt yourself every step of the way.

I still remember clearly the day I told Pascal that I wanted to open a restaurant in France. I was finally ready to run my own kitchen; to leave my mark on each plate of food served. In hindsight, tackling the challenge of feeding the fussy French and battling the red tape that comes with opening a restaurant in France seems like an insurmountable fools errand. Yet, somehow we managed to pull it off, even with the odds stacked against us.

The day I found the premises, which used to be a motorcycle repair shop, I could envisage it filled to the rafters with contented diners, the rhythmic sound of cutlery against crockery mingling with soothing music. And so our fate was sealed. We enlisted the help of a good friend to assist with the architectural renovations and started our foray into the trying world of doing business with the French, whose relaxed attitude about life extends to construction deadlines. The restaurants opening date eventually had to be pushed out by a month, but we persevered. Even when our matre dhtel, whose previous employers included the five-star La Reserve and London Savoy, arrived and loudly observed that he couldnt visualise the premises as a restaurant.

If anything, we were even more determined to show the native French a thing or two about South African resilience. I attended French classes five days a week, published my first book and shed a few nervous kilograms, all while testing recipes alongside my newly appointed kitchen staff in a kitchen that had to be washed down four times a day to get rid of dusty layers of powdered chalk. Pascal and I spent innumerable hours with the architect, plumber, electrician, kitchen and service staff to achieve our vision, and the doors of JAN finally opened to the curious French public on a Saturday evening.

We were fully booked and, as things are wont to go when you are essentially living a comedy of errors, the power failed most spectacularly right in the middle of service when we hadnt even started on the main courses for half of the diners. In this type of situation there is only one thing you can do: drink a shot of your dads homemade mampoer (moonshine), offer your guests complimentary Champagne, take a deep breath and regroup. We somehow managed to survive that night and every night since.

Days turned into weeks, months and eventually years, and JAN remains one of my greatest accomplishments and life lessons. Today I manage staff members from all over the world and see to it that the standard of our service and cuisine meets and exceeds the early endeavours that won us numerous awards and prestigious listings. JAN is my homage to South Africas proud tradition of indiscriminate hospitality, and Im reminded of my roots every time I pour a glass of Pinotage or serve a plate of food.

I have learned that life rewards you when you live your dream. Go out and find your bliss.

[boo-lanzhuh-ree] a bakery that specialises in baking and selling bread. Masculine boulanger (plural boulangers , feminine boulangre )

Months before we opened the doors to JAN, it was already decided that we would bake our own bread. Throughout the storms that waged in the lead-up to opening day, I would calm myself by imagining patrons sitting down to the alluring aroma of our freshly baked bread.

In my minds eye I could see them sipping wine and breaking off pieces of warm, light bread with a perfectly crisp crust, slathering it in a thick layer of salted butter or using it to mop up a silky sauce.

For me, the smell of fresh bread is the smell of life and love. Its in the touch of the dough and the warm, yeasty smell that wafts from the oven when you open it to reveal perfectly raised loaves, just waiting to be glazed or lovingly dusted in flour.

I still remember the day a French boulanger spoke to me about his craft. He spoke with such passion and enthusiasm, his great hands flying about like a conductors, scattering leftover flour that gently sifted down in the rays of sunlight coming in through a small window in the bakery. From his mouth the specifics of baking the types of flour, yeast and pre-ferments sounded like an incantation.

It is this boulanger who told me that when he touches the dough to shape it into his pans, he always gets the feeling that, despite all the bad in the world, everything will be okay. I tend to agree.