Émilie Laystary : We might be tempted to call your cookery a signature cuisine: it’s quite a unique feat to be inspired by both West African and Japanese cuisines. That’s precisely what opens up a world of creative possibilities rooted in two culinary languages and two realms of know-how. how would you define this notion of know-how which also serves as the title of this section?
Mory Sacko : Know-how is transmission. In fact, before there can be know-how there has to be a let-it-be-known. A book. The teachings of a chef. Lengthy, constructive conversations. It’s a dynamic of continuous learning. At culinary school, I studied French cuisine and its intricacies. Complexities such as how to handle a knife; how to work with fennel and artichoke; how to cook sauces; how to fillet a fish. Then Japanese cuisine came to my culinary life. I’ve had a deep passion for this island country since my childhood, although I didn’t initially know how to work with the ingredients of its cuisine. Not to mention, of course, the West African cuisines, which are the legacy that I’ve constantly drawn from, thanks to my mother. Behind all knowledge, I see a story of transmission.
E.L : You mention French cuisine, which is, first of all, this legitimate, codified culture that’s taught in school as a foundation vocabulary. How did it go after you turned to your mother, to your motherly heritage?
M.S : My mother has always cooked alongside my sisters and aunts. In my family, cooking was a women’s affair. As a child, I used to tag along and watch them closely. I’d see them using the mortar’s pestle to make fufu and grind herbs. I remember asking: “Mom, why don’t you use a blender so you can go faster?” Before opening MoSuke, I went back to see her with so many questions. I wanted to understand the intent behind each cooking gesture. Take nokoss, for example: if you pound the pepper, the garlic and the ginger root with a mortar, you keep the fibers intact. Crushed garlic doesn’t release the same flavors as chopped garlic. It may take more effort but there’s a reason behind it. It’s the kind of knowledge I deeply want to pass on to my team.
E.L : And concerning Japanese cuisine, was it intimidating to try to integrate the techniques of this gastronomy that you admire so much?
M.S : Japanese cuisine is indeed incredibly impressive. The respect for ingredients, the artisan pursuit of excellence... Above all, what’s most important is to stay wary of the moment you think you’ve mastered it. That moment of confidence is often when you realize there’s actually a thousand details. Take miso, for instance: it’s not just an ingredient, it’s an entire world. There are thousands of ingredients used in thousands of ways. Or consider a dish like tempura: I met chef Fumio Kondo who’s been making it tirelessly for over 40 years. Some may describe a cook as an artist... I actually see us as artisans. Sometimes, repeating a gesture is essential if you want to truly make it your own. Personally, I had to fillet fifty fish before I could reach a state of awareness where I really understood the product.
E.L : The complete understanding of a product, perfectly mastering the gesture... Earning a Michelin star is, after all, a mark of excellence. Has this accolade added pressure?
M.S : On the contrary, I’d say the star helped me stay energized. We clearly wanted it and we worked for it. For the team at the restaurants and me, it represents legitimacy. We could’ve been just a fashionable restaurant, constantly trying to justify a concept so as to remain relevant. But the star made things easier: it freed us from the need to hide behind a gimmick. Before, I tried to represent both West Africa and Japan in each dish, to display my influences. Now, I allow myself to sometimes highlight just one or the other, depending on the dish. I believe people come to the restaurant, to discover the chef’s sensibility. And that sensibility often expresses itself more subtly through the techniques I continue to refine each day.
E.L : Over the years, which technique are you most proud to have mastered?
M.S : Without a doubt, open-flame cooking! I’m genuinely glad to have learned how to tame fire. It requires a kind of sensory precision: it’s not just about cooking times. All five senses must be alert in order to control the flame or embers. For instance, it took me a while to understand how to truly elevate cauliflower over the embers. If it’s placed too high above the fire, it won’t cook properly. It will just burn. But after much trial and error, I found the right method: start with high heat to sear and brown it evenly, cooking the florets, then stand it upright on its stem, set it over the embers, and let it finish cooking through with residual heat. And there you have it: cauliflower, served sliced, like a plant-based pepper steak.
E.L : That sounds like real research and development! Are there other challenges awaiting? What other techniques are you looking forward to learning?
M.S : I believe we should always keep learning, especially in terms of cultural knowledge. For example, I’m more confident in my technical expertise now. But if we want to apply them in an ever-expanding field, we have to keep broadening our horizons and cultivate an attitude of humbleness in the face of the world’s knowledge. Without humility, we shut ourselves off and thus we cease learning...
E.L : Are you thinking of West African or Japanese cuisines in particular?
M.S : Yes, absolutely. In respect to West African cuisines, it’s important to preserve old recipes that sometimes use ingredients less popular today. Like fundi and millet, cereals which have always been used in the Sahel region but are now increasingly being replaced by rice. In Japanese cuisine too, there’s still so much to discover. Some ingredients are incredibly specific for they are used only in one province, exclusively for one very particular dish. Sometimes, I run into another obstacle: rarity! Once I was delighted to find this paste called moromi, a byproduct of soy sauce production or made with grape must. I bought it in Japan, on the island of Aoshima. We used it extensively at the restaurant, and then one day, it was just gone. That’s the poetry of it. You can have truffles at hand, but moromi is somehow classier. Honestly, I don’t think caviar is more luxurious than a plantain banana.
E.L : Which brings me to the final question: what’s your definition of luxury?
M.S : Time. That is what ultimately distinguishes fast-food from fine dining. Good things take time. First of all, the time it takes to acquire the experience, and secondly, the time it takes to prepare the ingredient in the kitchen. The total investment is what makes the experience precious. To me, that’s true luxury.
