A Night Out in New York With France's Feistiest 'Next Big' Chef
Discussing Daft Punk, the subconscious, and Jamie Oliver with Marcin Król of Cypsèle
Photography by Jeff Ayars.
Some unfiltered thoughts from the mind of Paris by way of London by way of Poland chef Marcin Król: WenWen is a “class” spot. The cocktails at Ilis are “proper.” And Daft Punk are a pair of “c*nts.” Or at least one of them is (it's hard to tell the two apart without their robot helmets) — whichever one it was who tried to cut him off during a recent late night binge at a Parisian bar.
Speaking of which, Marcin’s beer of choice? That would be Stella. Always Stella.
All of this—and more—was communicated to me by Marcin himself—ebulliently delivered in his just-outside-of-London patois—last Friday night as we made our way from Greenpoint to the West Village, stopping in restaurants and watering holes along the way so that Marcin and his team (somm Quentin Loisel, sous chef Taylor Peddle, and pastry chef Marissa Kimi) could get a taste of New York hospitality before they hit the Union Square farmers market the following day in prep for five nights of Cypsèle at Blackbird Club (completely sold out, sorry).
In case you’ve yet to hear: Cypsèle is Marcin’s forthcoming restaurant, the first the 31-year-old will have opened, due to make its sure-to-be-splashy debut on Paris’ Île Saint-Louis later this summer. World’s 50 Best has already named Cypsèle one of the top 10 new restaurants to book this year. Such expectations are warranted given Marcin’s impressive resume, which includes posts at Copenhagen’s noma, Santiago’s Boragó, Tokyo’s Inua, and—most recently—a three-year run at cult favorite Maison in Paris. Not bad for a chef whose cooking prowess came via divine inspiration from Jamie Oliver back in his teens.
“Oi!” Marcin shouts when recalling being glued to the telly during those formative years. “The Naked Chef!”
We’ve just concluded an incredible meal at Taiwanese standout WenWen (crispy tofu, deboned striped bass, lo ba beng with pork belly — aka the works), and Chef Eric Sze has sent us a parting round of Baijou shots. Now we’re on the corner of Green St. and Manhattan Ave., where Blackbird’s own Colin Camac has led us. A breeze cuts and cools the mid July air. The early evening light hits Marcin’s disheveled blond hair just right. It’s all rather cinematic. Our photographer, Jeff Ayars, crouches, Leica in hand, and snaps a photo.
Marcin’s childhood was a peripatetic one. Born in Tychy, Poland, he emigrated with his parents at age seven to the UK, before moving back home again. Chelsea stayed his favorite football club. But it was cooking that remained the one true constant in his life. His noma career started at 19, and from there it was off to the races. The globetrotting. The accolades. The cheeky, rockstar-esque sensibility.
“Whatchyou drinking, Dahmer?” Marcin wants to know, now seated underneath Ilis’ cathedral-like ceiling. He poses this question to Jeff, as in the photographer, who he’s taken a shine to, and who he’s nicknamed after the infamous serial killer due to Jeff’s, well, Dahmer-esque glasses. Ilis’ proprietor—Chef Mads Refslund—is a co-founder of noma, and the cocktails are exactly the type of whimsical yet earthy drinks one would expect from a place with such illustrious DNA (the gin-laced passion fruit being the clear winner — “fuuuuck,” is all Marcin has to say). So, too, is the otherworldly clam flask, which we tentatively sip clam and tomato juice from as if guests in a strange land. Then it’s onto the tuna bone, which we scrape raw tuna from with oyster shells, before it’s whisked away, only to be brought back, this time with the underside cooked and seeded.
Is Marcin filing all these tastes and details away somewhere in his chef’s brain, I want to know.
“Not at all,” he says, his voice jovial (though always anchored by a dose of sarcasm), his vowels clipped, like a character in an early Guy Ritchie film. “I just enjoy it. That’s what we’re doing, mate. Enjoying it. I suppose the subconsciousness is absorbing it somehow, but we should all just be focusing on what we’re doing right now.”
Cabs are commandeered. Through the Midtown Tunnel we go. Marcin shows me mocks of Cypsèle’s still-under-construction space (“fuckin’ sick, innit?”), a futuristic, Ken-Adams-indebted dining room designed by London-based studio Nice Projects. From the other side of the back seat, Quentin talks about the Spanish tradition of mixing table wine and Coca-Cola. “Terrible,” he says. “And terrible hangovers, too.” We cut through Murray Hill, Taylor—who originally hails from New Zealand—craning his neck to look Uptown, through the canyon of buildings, trying to catch a glimpse of the Empire State Building in the quickly fading light.
The Friday night crowd is thick at Sip & Guzzle when we arrive at 8:30 p.m., and our reserved table downstairs only big enough for five. We dispatch Colin to guide the Cypsèle crew into the bowels of the joint, while Dahmer—excuse me, our photographer—and I head next door for a spritz. We are later told of the theatrics and cocktails, all of which have earned top marks.
Joe’s is next up in the plan—Marcin and crew want some genuine, late-night slices (when in Rome…)—but a last-minute audible is called by Colin, and we veer further west to Emmett’s on Grove. They promise to squeeze us in for a corner table in the back, the best spot from which to take in the surrounding scene, but the crew is too antsy and hungry to wait, so along with drinks at the packed bar we order the Hot Papi Pizza. The alcove by the front window is chosen, beside a high-top of 20-something girls who have been cornered by two guys who, judging by their attire, must work in finance. Between squares of the party-cut pizza, Jeff yells, “is that Ed Sheeran?!” and snaps a photo just as Marcin looks up laughing and the table of girls divert their attention from the two guys in order to gush. Marcin plays it up for a minute, then says no, of course he’s not the “Shape of You”-singer.
“Then who are you?” one of the girls asks, referring to the entire Cypsèle team and, presumably, the swagger they all ooze.
“Famous chefs,” I offer. “Famous chefs from Paris.”
Marcin and his team immediately and modestly play it down. No, no, no, they all say.
Perhaps the operative word missing is “yet.” Not famous chefs … yet. We’re guessing that once Cypsèle opens its doors on the Île Saint-Louis, that will change quickly.
mouth? watering.