When a Parisian mixologist trades his shaker for Roman pizza—without giving up his art
The double branding on the boxes has just arrived. Eliott Roule studies them with satisfaction before lighting a cigarette, a habit he has been trying to quit for ten years. “I’ve got the early signs of ambition,” he says with a wry smile. “But every year I gain a little more depth of conviction, you see?” At thirty-five, he has set himself a deadline: forty. Five years to go. “It would be good if I started now.”
This self-deprecating humor, tinged with almost brutal lucidity, runs through the entire conversation. Eliott Roule is not the kind to sugarcoat reality. Behind the bar at AVE Pizza Bar, his place at 100 Boulevard de Ménilmontant, he embodies that generation of Paris nightlife professionals who chose to pivot, to reinvent their relationship with the craft before the craft consumed them.
Eliott’s former lives
Had Eliott followed his childhood dreams, he would be an astrophysicist. At ten, he devoured documentaries about the universe, a passion that never left him. “It’s something I still love—I watch an incalculable number of astrophysics documentaries.” Then came adolescence and the desire to become a photographer. In high school, another turn: acupuncture. He would go on to earn a master’s degree in Chinese medicine.
“After high school, I thought, ‘Why not combine being a war reporter with treating endangered populations in war zones where medicine doesn’t reach?’” The project looked great on paper: photographer–massage therapist, acupuncture, herbal medicine in the field. “And then I realized it was a great life project… except I might die.”
It was in Australia and New Zealand, where he worked in bars to finance his life after his studies, that he discovered mixology. “I rediscovered almost a science in mixology—the craftsmanship, the art.” In that world he found everything that had always driven him: the artistic dimension missing from Chinese medicine, the scientific approach in studying flavors and distillation, and a social side “a bit more fun, a bit more relaxed” than the lonely therapist’s office.
Fifteen years behind the bar
Since he was eighteen, Eliott has spent more than fifteen years behind bars. Seventy-hour weeks, juggling full-time studies and restaurant work to pay for them. He climbed the ranks, worked in prestigious venues, refined his craft (Experimental Group, Apicius, Le Syndicat).
At the Ballroom at Experimental, underground speakeasy vibes, the hours were brutal: 5 p.m. to 5 a.m. “It’s hell. Amazing years, I learned so much—mixology, organization, people skills—but… my God.”
He knows the Paris cocktail bar scene inside out. The excitement, the creativity, but also the wear and tear. “When you’re a bartender, one shot a day is nothing. But once you’re out of the scene, you think, ‘Wait… one 40-degree shot every day…’” He pauses. “You’ve got your head down, you’re in a kind of loop. You wake up late, go to work, and you end up a little depressed without even realizing it.”
When he left the Ballroom, he told his colleagues and friends Nicolas Josset and Adrian Nino, who were about to jump ship too: “You’ll see, it’s incredible!” Incredible, that feeling when the lid comes off after leaving the night rhythm. “These are young people’s jobs. After a certain age, it’s hard. You see it physically on people’s faces. Even me—I look forty already!”
The birth of AVE
The opportunity came through Fred Nuzzo, his partner and longtime friend. They had worked together on Eliott’s very first job when he was eighteen. “We’d worked together three or four years and said, ‘One day, that would be cool.’” The project matured over fifteen years. Fred, originally from Rome, had opened his first place seven years earlier—he had pizza culture. Eliott, of Italian-American background, brought cocktail know-how and entrepreneurial punch. The match seemed obvious.
Then came Covid. “Cocktail bars suffered or closed, while if you had food—something small…” He mimics eating. “And with food, you can do takeaway. During Covid, that paid our overheads.” Resilience through pizza.
The idea already existed when the pandemic hit. What remained was to find funding, negotiate with partners, build a business plan without really knowing how. “When you don’t know, you pay people. But when you can’t pay, you have to learn—fast. And when you learn alone and fast, you end up making mistakes.”
The obstacle course
Eliott doesn’t hide the violence of those two years of construction, one year late. “I started in the hard stuff.” He redid everything in that space. Everything. Problems with architects he had to fire, take to court. “I was too nice. I trusted my first architects too much.” Ethics betrayed, space taken advantage of. “Sometimes being too nice lets less scrupulous people benefit.”
If he had to do it again, he’d “sharpen his fangs a bit more.” “Big smile, but fangs out, you know?”
Sleepless nights choosing between white or off-white. Power outlets. Paint. Texture. Tiles. Stainless finishes. Sharp edges. “Your brain is boiling constantly.” The plans that didn’t work, discovered the day before demolition. “We measured and said, ‘What is this plan?’” They’d been tricked. He had to rethink everything. That’s when the idea that would define AVE Pizza Bar was born: cocktails on tap.
The on-tap cocktail revolution
“I said, ‘Okay, I don’t have space for a bar. But I can’t open a place without a bar and without cocktails—it made no sense.’” One night of insomnia and absolute anger, the solution appeared: taps built straight into the wall. Radical space saving, and a concept that fit perfectly. Especially since he had found an archive photo from 1905 showing the same place already serving wine and beer from barrels. “So going toward taps echoed the history of the place.”
No more flat prosecco by the third glass in awful goblets. “Here I get precise carbonation, controlled freshness, and easy service.” Operational bonus: no need to hire a full-time bartender—pizza chefs can pull cocktails during rush hour.
But theory and practice are worlds apart. “I studied the system all through construction. I thought I understood everything. Then I saw all the circuits, kegs, taps, tanks… and thought, ‘Actually, I have no idea where to start.’”
Tests. Tests. Calls to experts like Yves Cosentino from Algebra. “Carbonation is amazing. And pressure precision between 2.5 and 3 is not the same. Five millimeters on the gauge can change everything.”
Now? No regrets. “Every time I pull a cocktail, I think of all the ones I’ve shaken and stirred. And I think: ‘What a joy. Glass, ice, pull, serve.’ It’s magical.”
Educating the guest
Six cocktail taps, two beers. Strawberry Negroni bestseller. Espresso Martini. Twisted Gin & Tonic. Rhubarb Aperol Spritz. And a seasonal Sgroppino: pear sorbet, Calvados, prosecco, basil leaf. A ritual that transforms the pizzeria experience.
But his boldest innovation may be offering two cocktail sizes. “In cocktail culture, you never see that. Never.” Because classic mixology worships perfect balance, calibrated to the milliliter. Change the volume and you break the architecture.
He knows it. Fifteen years respecting those rules. But AVE is a restaurant, not a cocktail bar. “People don’t drink the same way. Some just want to accompany their pizza, others really want the cocktail.” So he redesigned every recipe twice. Rebalanced, rediluted, recarbonated. Invisible work, but technically demanding.
Not provocation—pragmatism. “It makes sense here. That’s all.”
And teaching that to customers is daily work. Cultural barriers too. Italians want beer with pizza. French want wine. “It’s daily strategy: listening, adapting, guiding them where you want.”
He even simplified the menu. Too many ingredients scared people back to classics. So now: “Aperol, Rhubarb, Prosecco, Soda Water.” Period. Even though inside there’s citric solution, malic acid, ascorbic acid, glycerin, salt…
What remains from the bar
From fifteen years behind counters, he kept what matters: hospitality. “At a bar, people come to enjoy themselves. In a restaurant, they come to eat. Not the same vision.”
He kept operational skills. And quality. Because in most pizzerias with cocktails, “they’re awful. Bad Spritzes.”
What he didn’t keep: the wear, the unhealthy hours, the environment. Life quality improved—even if work remains massive.
Entrepreneurship, unfiltered
He hides nothing about the violence of becoming an entrepreneur. “It’s totally different. When you’ve invested everything and taken all the risks, it changes you.”
Bartending was already multitasking. But this? “Mont Blanc versus Everest.”
A typical day? Lawyer emails, menu engineering, supplier negotiations, delivery problems, operations, staff training, customer service, cleaning. “Ten jobs in one day. And I love it.”
Advice to bartenders wanting to start? First reaction: “My God. Don’t do it!” Laughs. Then real advice: take your time. Build funding, real business plans, market studies. Choose partners wisely—complementary skills, not similar. Anticipate problems. Talk about them before they explode.
Reinvention or evolution?
Is it really a career change? He hesitates.
Fundamentally, it’s another world. But the astrophysics passion remains. The documentaries, the need to understand how things work—from the universe to carbonation pressure. Science runs through all his lives.
The future
For now, only pizza. But maybe diversification later. Meanwhile, he perfects his Sgroppino. Pear in winter, mandarin in February, change again in spring. Activations, partnerships, innovation.
Because “human psychology goes toward what it knows.”
So he does what he always did: test, adapt, improve. “Every day: how can I get better, how can I make the guest understand what I’m doing?”
Last words? “Peace and Love. The world needs that more than a business pitch.”
Behind him, six chrome taps wait for the evening rush. Six taps telling a story of reinvention, science, and stubbornness. The story of a man who wanted to be an astrophysicist, a war photographer, an acupuncturist—and became, in his own way, an explorer of the infinitely small: those precise bubbles, calibrated to the millimeter, that make the difference between a good cocktail and a perfect moment.
