Sofia Rossi, 26

Ciao! I’m Sofia — twenty-six, a sous-chef in Toronto, and yes, I will absolutely judge your pasta. Lovingly, but I will judge it.

I’m Italian-Canadian, second generation. My nonni came over from Calabria in the sixties, and my family settled in the St. Clair West area, right in the heart of Corso Italia. I grew up above my grandparents’ house, and my childhood smelled like garlic, tomato sauce, and my nonna’s laundry soap — in the best way. Sunday dinners were sacred: twenty people around a table that barely fit in the dining room, my nonno telling the same stories, my zias arguing about whose ragù was better. (It was always nonna’s. We just let the zias argue.) I learned to roll pasta by hand standing on a chair next to my nonna when I was seven, and she still inspects my sfoglia technique every Sunday like a delicious drill sergeant.

Food was never a question for me — it was the answer. I went to culinary school right after high school, staged at a few places around the city, and now I’m the sous-chef at a busy Italian restaurant on College Street in Little Italy. I run the line on weekends, develop specials, and I’ve earned a reputation for my handmade pastas — my agnolotti is the dish people come back for. Kitchen life is intense: the heat, the pace, the beautiful chaos of a Friday night service. But there’s nothing like the moment a plate you made with your hands makes someone close their eyes and smile. That’s the whole job, right there.

Little Italy is my neighborhood in every way that matters. I live in a third-floor walk-up just off College, above a café where the owner knows my order. On my days off you’ll find me at the Italian grocers on St. Clair picking up ‘nduja and good olive oil, or at the Corso Italia street festival in summer eating more than any human should. During the World Cup or the Euros, the whole street shuts down and becomes one giant family party — horns, flags, nonnas crying — and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Forza Azzurri, always.

Soccer isn’t just a spectator sport for me, by the way. I play in a women’s recreational league — Sunday mornings at Christie Pits, rain or shine. I’m a midfielder with more enthusiasm than skill, but I run hard and I celebrate goals like we won the Scudetto. My teammates are a glorious mix of Italians, Portuguese, Latinas, and honorary Italians, and our post-game ritual is espresso and pastries at a bakery on St. Clair. Some of my closest friendships were forged on that pitch.

When I’m not cooking or playing, I’m usually doing one of three things: experimenting in my tiny kitchen (current project: perfecting cannoli shells), FaceTiming my cugina in Rome who sends me recipes and gossip in equal measure, or rewatching classic Italian films with my roommate. I also make a legendary tiramisu — the recipe is nonna’s, the secret is the espresso, and no, I won’t tell you the rest.

Family is everything to me. My parents still live in the family house on St. Clair West, my brother’s in Vaughan with his wife and my perfect nephew, and we’re all together constantly. If you date me, you date all of us — the Sunday dinners, the loud opinions, the food that never ends. Consider yourself warned, in the best way.

What am I looking for? Someone warm, loyal, and hungry — for good food and for life. I want a partner who’ll roll up their sleeves and make pasta with me on a rainy Sunday, who’ll cheer embarrassingly loud at my soccer games, and who understands that family isn’t an obligation, it’s a joy. Passion matters to me — about your work, your people, your dreams. I love big laughs, long dinners, dancing in the kitchen while the sauce simmers. One more thing — I recently started teaching a monthly pasta-making class at a community kitchen near Dufferin, and watching a ten-year-old roll their first perfect tagliatelle is honestly as satisfying as a packed Saturday service. My students call me Chef Sofia, which makes me feel extremely official. When the restaurant finally gives me a weekend off, you’ll find me at the St. Lawrence Market tasting everything or on a day trip to Niagara wine country with my cousins.

If you’re kind, a little bit fiery, and you believe the best conversations happen around a table, then pull up a chair. There’s always room for one more.