Gino Benevenga Gino Benevenga

Some gastronomic stories are born from a precise project, from an idea planned in advance, from an entrepreneurial vision built with method. Others seem to come from much further away: from an entire life spent in work, effort, kitchens and adaptation. Gino Benevenga’s story belongs to this second category. In Toronto’s Junction neighbourhood, Venga Cucina is not only an award-winning pinseria, but the result of a long, personal journey, deeply Italian and by now fully Canadian too. In the 2025 Guide to the Best Pinserie in the World, Venga Cucina reached fifth place in the Top 10 and also received the award for Best Beverage. These two recognitions capture the nature of the restaurant very well: on one side, the quality of a technical, artisanal and identity-driven product; on the other, a broader vision of the experience, where pinsa does not stand alone but dialogues with drinks, atmosphere, service and the pleasure of being at the table. For Gino, hospitality is never only about food. It is welcome, relationship, memory and presence.

His story begins in Campania, in an Italy of the 1980s where work was scarce and often harsh, almost ruthless. Gino remembers a context in which those looking for a job had to accept difficult conditions, because behind them there were always others ready to take their place. People worked a lot, earned little, and the space to imagine a different life was narrow. He started early, at sixteen, in restaurants. Kitchens, bars, shifts, services: everything became part of his training, even before it became a conscious professional choice. Then came England, the return to Italy for military service and finally Canada. Gino arrived in Toronto in 1980, at the age of twenty-two. Since then, he says, an entire life has passed. But throughout that life, Italian cuisine has remained the guiding thread. Not just any profession, not a temporary solution, but a familiar language, a way of staying close to his roots while building something elsewhere. The dream, as often happens for those who spend years working in other people’s restaurants, was to open a place of his own.

The real turning point came shortly before Covid, when Gino began to imagine opening a pizzeria. He was looking for something new, something that would not simply repeat a familiar model. Searching online, he came across pinsa romana. At first, he did not really know what it was. But he understood that it represented a different path: a different dough, a different shape, a lightness able to stand apart from traditional pizza. He also discovered the possibility of obtaining certification. His son told him that perhaps it was not necessary, that he could work without it. But Gino decided to do it. It was a choice that says a great deal about his character: not settling, looking for a serious foundation, truly learning. After several months of trials, he prepared the required material and sent it to Rome. He was approved. Then came training with Davide, from Teramo, who stayed in Canada for two months. For Gino, pinsa did not become a trend to exploit, but a product to be understood slowly. And slowly, in fact, his new path took shape. First alongside the rest of the offering, then increasingly at the centre of the restaurant’s identity, especially after Covid arrived, when many certainties in hospitality changed and everything had to be rethought.

“Pinsa is more complicated than it may appear.”

Being among the first to bring pinsa to Toronto also meant facing initial incomprehension. Customers would come in and ask what that thing was. They looked at it with curiosity, perhaps with a little suspicion. Gino explained that it was different, that it was not a pizza like the others, that lightness was one of its most evident qualities. Then came the tasting, and resistance faded. The clientele was built like this: one table at a time, one explanation at a time, one pinsa at a time. In a city rich in gastronomic offerings, Venga Cucina found its place precisely because it does not imitate: it brings a new product, but with a recognisable soul. For Gino, a great pinsa begins above all with patience. He repeats it simply, but firmly. Without patience, nothing can be done. Pinsa is more complicated than it may appear. Unlike Neapolitan pizza, which according to him allows wider margins of management even when fermentation is not perfect, pinsa requires a precise point. It must be ready at the right moment. If it is behind, it does not work; if it has gone too far, it loses balance. Every day is different, every dough reacts differently, every environment demands adaptation.

This is where Gino’s experience fully emerges. He does not speak about technique as a fixed procedure, but as an ongoing dialogue with real conditions. Temperature, humidity, heat, cold, ventilation: everything matters. If it is cold outside and too warm in the kitchen, he opens the door to create airflow and cool the room. These gestures only appear simple, because behind them lies the ability to read the material. For him, pinsa cannot truly be learned in two or three months of school. School is useful, certification is useful, but then one must do, make mistakes, ask why something happens or does not happen, understand what went wrong. The morning moment, when he opens the dough containers for pre-baking, is described almost as a surprise. Every day, the dough gives a different answer. And every day, one must adapt. It is a deeply artisanal vision, where technique does not eliminate the unexpected but governs it. Quality does not come from total control, which is impossible, but from the ability to respond with experience. This makes pinsa a living product, and perhaps explains why those who work with it seriously often end up speaking about it almost as something to be accompanied. Alongside technique, however, there is an element that matters even more to Gino: the memory of taste. When he creates his pinse, he tries to return to the flavours he grew up with. Even the sauces he prepares in the restaurant come from there, from childhood memories, from a sensory heritage that existed before culinary school and codified recipes. There is no written formula that can replace that background. A recipe, he says, can be read by anyone. But memory, passion and experience cannot be transferred onto a sheet of paper.

This philosophy is reflected in the atmosphere of Venga Cucina. Gino speaks of Mary as a fundamental presence in telling and selling the concept, but immediately broadens the conversation. The restaurant is not only about food. It is a pleasant, relaxed environment, built around an idea of Italian hospitality that he connects to the 1980s: when you entered someone’s home, the door opened and you immediately felt welcomed. In Toronto, far from Italy but crossed by a strong curiosity for its cuisine, Venga Cucina tries to recreate precisely that feeling. The Best Beverage award in the 2025 Guide fits perfectly into this vision. It is not an accessory recognition, but confirmation that the project works as a complete experience. Pinsa, with its lightness, crunch and ability to welcome different toppings, is an extremely versatile product in dialogue with drinks. Wine, beer, cocktails, aperitivo: beverage becomes part of the story, not a mere accompaniment. In a restaurant like Venga Cucina, where hospitality is central, the glass helps define the rhythm of the evening, conviviality and the pleasure of returning.

When asked what the point of arrival is, Gino answers with one of the most beautiful lines of the interview: “The best one has not been made yet.” Some people, once they reach a result, decide that it is the maximum. Not him. For him, the best pinsa will always be tomorrow’s. Today’s may be good, of course, but tomorrow’s still has to be tasted. Everything is contained in this sentence: the humility of the craft, the desire to improve, the awareness that excellence is never a stable position but a continuous movement. Perhaps this is also why Venga Cucina has become one of the best pinserie in the world. Not only because of the quality of the dough or the correctness of the technique, but because of the energy of a project that never feels complete. Every day, every service, every container opened in the morning, every customer entering for the first time represents a possibility.

Gino Benevenga brought pinsa romana to Toronto with the patience of someone who knows hard work and the enthusiasm of someone who continues to search. His best pinsa, he says, has not yet been made. And perhaps that certainty is exactly what already makes it so special.