It was day 5,754 of Fashion Week. I had written approximately a gajillion articles about clothes. Love it, obsessed with it, would sell a kidney for a good archive piece—but even I have limits. So when I was assigned to review my dinner at Saint Laurent’s Sushi Park on Paris’ Rue du 29 Juillet, I lunged at the opportunity like a starving fashion assistant at a backstage catering table.
Am I a trained food critic? Some would argue no. Those people might be wrong. I’m a seasoned expert in dining out. I happily blow my money on transcendent meals instead of, say, a responsible savings account. And when it comes to sushi? I’ve been chowing down since I had baby teeth. I know things (I think).
(Side note: I had a revelatory, borderline spiritual, sushi pilgrimage to Japan last November, where my partner Will and I ate our way through Tokyo, Osaka, Kyoto, and Hakone. Also, my sister Bianca is married to a Japanese man, Hidé, and their two perfect children, Aira and Tai, are legally half-sushi at this point.)
But enough digressions. I bolted from the Victoria Beckham show—which, in classic fashion fashion, ran late. Upon arrival, I was met with a rigorous line of questioning by a security guard who seemed convinced I was trying to break into Fort Knox. Do you have a reservation? Who are you here to see? Can I see the email? Of course, reluctantly, I complied.
Once inside, the ambiance was devastatingly chic—waxed concrete walls, mahogany accents, and creamy lantern lighting so flattering it should be illegal. The Saint Laurent team air-kissed me, as one does. Then, the barman asked: Would you like a drink?
Would I like a drink? Sir. I need a drink.
First up: a Sakura Spritz—pêche, fleur de cerisier, liqueur de piment, champagne. Lush. But when Dazed’s fashion features director Emma Davidson arrived, I craved something with more of a kick. “One Yuzual Suspect, please,” I declared. Now this? This was a drink. Zesty, spicy, a whisper of sweetness, but mostly potent with enough Patrón to wipe out a weak-willed individual. Perfect.
We slid into an inky-dark wooden table—pure Saint Laurent. The black quilted leather sofas? That gave Anthony Vaccarello. Emma and I sat side by side, facing Beka Gvishiani (aka StyleNotCom), who had the best view of us with matching Kiko Kostadinov Trivia handbags—by Laura and Deanna Fanning, FYI. Hers in black, mine cherry red.
Now, the food.
An extremely exclusive 11-course omakase, 22 pieces of sushi in total. Here were some moments:
Brill and shiso nigiri—Delicious, fresh, a little floral from the shiso.
Hamachi nigiri—Fabulous.
Akami (bluefin tuna) nigiri—A bit fishy.
Ōtoro nigiri—Always a highlight, and this one delivered.
Yellowtail nigiri—Chewy, but fine.
Oyster with ponzu—I don’t even like oysters, but this was incredible.
Horse mackerel nigiri—Never my go-to, because, well, it’s horse mackerel.
Red mullet nigiri—Loved her.
Scallop with caviar and ponzu—Luxury in its purest form.
Ōtoro rice bowl—I could eat this forever.
Langoustine nigiri—Perfect. Sweet, fresh, no notes.
Trout nigiri—Weirdly slimy.
Wagyu nigiri with ginger and ono sauce—Melty, indulgent, stunning.
Crab temaki—Divine. Could’ve done with more cooked seafood like this to balance out all the raw sushi.
Jason Hughes from Wallpaper summed it up well: “Decadent, in a very Saint Laurent mood.” And he wasn’t wrong.
As for the vibe… The staff looked like they worked at the Supreme store, all in black pullovers, white T-shirts, and black jeans—cool, unbothered, immune to our excitement. The head chef wore a Saint Laurent cap (of course he did). This European outpost is the first international expansion of Sushi Park, the LA spot where A-listers go to eat unpretentious, high-quality sushi. Peter Park, the founder, splits his time between the two locations.
This Paris edition? Practically mythical. You are not getting a table here unless you are someone, or sell your soul to Vaccarello in exchange for a seat.
Final thoughts: The meal was excellent, even if I wouldn’t have minded a few more cooked elements in the mix to balance things out. (I’m a sucker for tempura, kakiage, or karaage. Or even a grilled saba or unagi.) But getting a reservation? Good luck. You’d probably have an easier time getting cast in a Saint Laurent show.
As we left, Emma turned to me and asked, “So… was that good or what?” Before I could respond, Beka interjected, without missing a beat: “We don’t ask that question. Sophistication.”
And honestly? He was right.
Then I went back to my hotel and annihilated 20 nuggets and cheese fries.