“We have less money here but more life”: Why this Toronto chef moved to Italy—and how it’s going

For a brief, brilliant moment, Joachim Hayward lit up Toronto’s dining scene. After moving here in 2017, hot off the heels of a Sicilian honeymoon (and two years of cutting his culinary teeth in the UK), he rose from line cook to head chef at Brothers, then launched the beloved (yet short-lived) Crosley’s. He cooked like someone chasing joy, not stars (though he did end up winning a Michelin Bib Gourmand award while at Wynona), making flavourful food that was unfussy and full of heart. And then—poof!—he was gone. Burnt out and priced out, Hayward packed up his family and moved to a sleepy lakeside town in northern Italy. A year into his new Italian adventure, Hayward tells us about why he left and how his new dolce vita is treating him.

Toronto was good to me. It also beat the shit out of me. The highs were high, but the lows hit harder—and by the end, the city had wrung me dry. With a one-year-old at home, my wife, Donatella, and I started asking the big questions. By last year, we’d made up our minds: it wasn’t just time to leave Toronto—it was time to leave Canada.

I met Donatella when I was 22 and living in Sydney, Australia. She was originally from a small town outside of Lake Como and had come to Australia to get away from it, to chase something bigger. I caught feelings for her fast.

In 2013, we settled in Vancouver, where I’m originally from. We started Donatella’s permanent residency process and tried to make a life there, drawn by the sea and the old-growth forests. But, by the end of it, we were both over Van: the grey skies, the relentless rain, the cliquey scene, the whole vibe. So we left for the UK in 2015, where I spent two years cooking in some great kitchens, including the Dairy, under Robin Gill of MasterChef Ireland fame.

When our visas ran out in 2017, we figured it was time to head back to Canada. But, before returning, we snuck in a quick honeymoon in Sicily: some sun, some wine, a little dolce far niente. Then it was back to real life. We had zero interest in the West Coast, so we took a gamble on Toronto. I didn’t know a soul there. No job lined up, no plan—just a gut feeling that it was time for something new.

I did a short stint at La Banane, then Brothers, where I started as a cook, moved up to sous in six months and took over as head chef six months after that. When the pandemic hit, I was suddenly unemployed—at home on CERB with a newborn. At some point, Brothers started doing meal kits for takeout, led by Julie Hyde, now head chef at 20 Victoria, so I reached out to see if they needed a hand.

It was a temporary gig with long hours and low pay. But it was peak pandemic, and little did I know that the experience would lay the foundation for what came next: Crosley’s.

Related: “Closing Crosley’s felt like being pushed off a ledge. Theia feels like coming home”—How a Toronto chef started over in Prince Edward County

In the spring of 2020, Myles Harrison—a former Brothers server, fellow BC kid and then-director of wine at the St. Regis Hotel—told me that a couple of investors had approached him. They’d secured a space on Ossington and were looking for young talent to run it. Would I be interested in a chat? The pitch was that we’d be owners, but neither of us came from trust fund stock, so all we had to offer was sweat equity. The deal: $50,000 a year each, plus 12.5 per cent of the dividends—if the place ever turned a profit.

While the space was under construction, we ran pop-ups out of Bar Piquette to build buzz and test the concept in real time. The format was more or less lifted from Brothers: seasonal Ontario food by me, bottled cocktails by Myles, menus handwritten by his mom and beautiful moody photos by Margot Kenny, Myles’s now-wife. The formula worked. Crosley’s had momentum, but the hustle was brutal. Fifty grand a year in Toronto just doesn’t cut it—not with a wife and a toddler to support. I took on managing Piquette too, which bumped me to $75,000. But I was stretched thin.

Then, two days before Christmas in 2021—right as the Omicron wave was cresting—I got an email. No call, no meeting, just a cold, legalese-filled message: the investors were pulling the plug. They wanted to lay everyone off, and when Myles and I pushed back, they hit us with a cease-and-desist notice. We were given 36 hours to hand over everything—keys, alarm codes, supplier contacts, the password for Crosley’s Instagram account, even the vinyl records. After that, they boarded the place up and sent an assistant to each staff member’s house to deliver whatever personal items had been left behind at the restaurant.

Crosley’s had been busy. The books were solid. The costs were under control. We were finally hitting our stride. Sure, Myles and I had been clashing with the investors for months—over shareholder terms, over wages. We knew it might be years before we saw a dime in dividends. But I never thought they’d just walk away and lock us out. Between Covid waves, we’d had only a few months of actual in-person service. Crosley’s had barely gotten out of the gate.

A few months later, in early 2022, I was a contestant on Top Chef Canada. I wasn’t ready for it, and to be honest, I didn’t take the preparation that goes into being on that sort of show seriously enough. I got cut early, in the third episode. I learned the hard way that I’m a creative chef, not a competitive one.

Shortly afterward, I joined the team at Wynona, where I was given full creative control. We were awarded a Michelin Bib Gourmand while I was there. I was working just four days a week, but with tips, I was making nearly double what I’d made at Crosley’s. For the first time in ages, I felt like myself again. But it was already too late.

My daughter, Leyla, was born in September of 2022. By then, Toronto felt impossible. There was no hope of us buying a house. Our rent was $3,250; daycare and after-school care for Jayden was $1,100 a month; and car insurance, gas, groceries and phone bills devoured what little was left. The city itself had started to feel different, more manic. One day, I had to shield my kids from a man in a Jason mask aggressively flinging around a suitcase filled with gravel. Danger felt closer than ever, and life felt less livable.

Since Crosley’s closed, Donatella and I had been quietly mulling an exit. It wasn’t that we didn’t love Toronto—it was that building a future there was starting to feel out of reach. We considered Montreal, but the language barrier deterred us. Halifax had charm, but Nova Scotia’s health care system was collapsing. Calgary winters were too brutal, and neither of us wanted to go back to BC. We had dreamed of Italy before, but Covid had ravaged the country. Lockdowns were severe. Hospitals were overwhelmed. Moving there with young kids felt untenable.

By 2024, however, Italy was back to normal—and back on the table as a potential new home. We started dreaming of a life near Donatella’s family in Lake Como and of our kids growing up with their nonni, not just waving to them through a screen.

In April, we packed eight suitcases, four carry-ons and my guitar and made our way to Maslianico, Donatella’s hometown. It’s a village of 3,500 people hugging the Swiss border. Within two weeks, I had a job in Como, at Brillo Osteria, a natural wine bar with staff-first values and zero Michelin aspirations. It reminded me of Brothers. Donatella got a job with Como Calcio, the local football club. Jayden is in school now and is basically fluent in Italian—he corrects my grammar all the time. And Leyla answers me only in Italian, even when I ask her something in English.

The move hasn’t been seamless. Italian bureaucracy is no joke. It took me eight months to get my permanent residency, but it was only thanks to Donatella, who handled all the paperwork, that we didn’t have to spend thousands of euros on immigration lawyers. Even though she’s Italian and we were married in Italy and we have two children together, it was still complicated. I’m still fumbling through the language. I’m still occasionally stalling out on hills while driving stick. I’m still getting honked at by impatient drivers for going the speed limit.

Living in Italy has made me think more about identity than I ever did in Canada. In Toronto, every shade of the world is represented. No one ever asked where I was “really” from. In Maslianico, my family stands out. I get the “Canada? But originally?” thing a lot. People are rarely malicious—mostly it’s just ignorance. That said, things are shifting. Northern Italy is a lot less homogenous than when I first visited over a decade ago.

People grind hard here. Small businesses get crushed—the taxes are brutal. There’s less entrepreneurship, and folks tend to stay in jobs longer for stability. A permanent contract and some meal vouchers go a long way. It’s a different measure of success.

We have less money here but more life. I wouldn’t say I’ve found the perfect work-life balance—I’m still working Saturdays and kissing my kids goodnight over WhatsApp video calls five nights a week—but I’m cooking with joy again. I’m a more involved parent and husband. I’m not chasing culinary awards or dopamine-boosting likes on Instagram. I’m just trying to be present and letting contentment outrun ambition. And for now, that’s enough.