But when he sits down with a room full of journalists at Newsweek's New York City offices, the chef, restaurateur and cultural architect is humble, reflective and candid about the journey that shaped him.
"I never really met bad food," Samuelsson says with a smile. "I've met bad people. But food? It's always been good to me."
That affection for food -- and for people -- is what has fueled his 30-year journey in America. Born in Ethiopia, raised in Sweden by adoptive parents and forged in kitchens from Tokyo to Switzerland, before landing in Harlem, Samuelsson's story is as layered as the dishes he creates.
His cross-continental upbringing taught him early on that identity is both inherited and invented. "I grew up in a very Swedish environment, but I'm Ethiopian. Those two cross-cultures were constant," Samuelsson says. "We were the Samuelsson tribe -- we just looked different."
His cousins were Korean, his aunt Jewish, his parents white. But the bond of family and a home filled with foreign languages and love prepared him for a life that would require adaptability, grit and vision. His mother -- central in shaping his early confidence -- instilled in him a kind of resilience that would later fuel his global ambitions.
"As white parents prepping young Black kids for the world, they didn't have all the tools, but they trusted their gut," he says. That gut instinct drove Samuelsson to culinary training in Japan as a teen, to grueling kitchens in Europe in his early 20s and, eventually, to New York City, where he made a name for himself at Aquavit before founding Red Rooster, his Harlem flagship.
Samuelsson didn't always plan to be a chef. "Being cut from [a] soccer team was pivotal," he says of his teenage years. "That's when I asked myself, what else could I do with the same passion?"
His answer came in the form of food, nurtured by his grandmother Helga. "Her Swedish meatballs were everything," he says. "Not just because of how they tasted, but because of how they made me feel. She taught me about texture, sourness and balance."
Still, the path wasn't easy. After training in a Michelin-starred kitchen in France, he told his chef mentor he was ready to strike out on his own. The response? "He told me it wasn't possible. That no one would come to a Black-owned restaurant."
Samuelsson called his father, packed his bags and came to New York -- a city where, as his dad reminded him, "they voted for a Black mayor. Maybe they'll support a Black chef."
Samuelsson credits much of his success to elders who believed in him before the industry was ready. "Chef Charlie Trotter in Chicago saw me and said, 'You need help -- and I want to help you,'" he recalls. Trotter introduced him to elevated culinary circles, affording him opportunities most chefs of color never accessed.
Then there was the iconic New Orleans restaurateur Leah Chase. "She taught me how to show up," he says. "She challenged me to feature Black artists, to play the right music, to honor the culture."
He also draws inspiration from Alberta Wright, who redefined what Black luxury could look like. "She was bold. She wasn't interested in mimicking soul food traditions -- she created her own lane," he says. "Her restaurant, Jezebel, was where Black Broadway lived. Roberta Flack, Luther Vandross -- they all came through. She gave me the vision for what a place like Red Rooster could be."
Watching women like Chase and Wright taught him that soul and sophistication could exist side by side. "Hospitality in our spaces looked different," he says. "I needed both to create my own path."
Ask Samuelsson what he wants his legacy to be and he says one word: "Delicious." But his version of delicious carries meaning beyond taste. It's also about elevating the stories of people and places that have often been excluded from fine dining and culinary prestige.
"When I entered this space, it was only white men cooking all kinds of food," he says. "Vietnamese food by Jonathan. Italian food by Richard. They were great, but there is more. I want to reframe the journey of what people of color have contributed to food in America."
He points to Chase, Wright and Sylvia Woods as women who "changed the trajectory of American food." His own restaurants continue this legacy. At Red Rooster, an open kitchen allows diners to see the chefs -- often women and people of color -- leading the way. In his new concept, Metropolis, located at the World Trade Center campus, his team is made up entirely of women of color in leadership roles. His Chelsea restaurant Hav & Mar marries his cross-cultural upbringing in both its name and design.
"Our icon is a Black mermaid," he says. "She's the star of the restaurant. Our name, Hav & Mar, comes from both Swedish and Ethiopian roots. It's intentional. If you're in a position of influence, liking something on Instagram isn't enough. You have to create real opportunities."
Like many, the pandemic forced Samuelsson to reflect. "It was the first time I stopped," he says. "That time gave me clarity. What else could I be doing to support women of color in hospitality?"
It wasn't just women who benefited from his renewed focus on mentorship. That clarity birthed not only Metropolis, but also Marcus DC -- a new restaurant in Washington led by Anthony Jones, a young chef from the Washington D.C., Maryland and Virginia area who had worked under Samuelsson at Red Rooster Overtown in Miami. "He said, 'I want to go back to Maryland, back to my neighborhood,'" Samuelsson says. "So I said, 'OK, I'm in.'"
Both restaurants are extensions of Samuelsson's belief that excellence should have context and community.
Whether it's helping chefs like Adrienne Cheatham and Tristen Epps rise to prominence on Top Chef or supporting the work of his dear friend Paul Carmichael -- whose restaurant Kabawa recently earned three stars from The New York Times -- Samuelsson has a clear goal: create a better path for the next generation of chefs of color. "Our journeys are always longer," he says. "But that's why they're always gooder."
TV helped amplify Samuelsson's mission. Shows like Chopped, Iron Chef America and No Passport Required made him a household name, but he says it's not something he's done in pursuit of fame.
"For me, being on television is about resetting how America cooks," Samuelsson says. "It was never about brand exposure. It was about showing that immigrant culture is the reason America is so delicious."
He's less interested in pop culture portrayals like The Bear. "I've lived it, I don't need to watch it," he says. Still, he sees value in how cooking is resonating with new audiences through media. "Food is one of the few things we can all participate in, at any level," he says. "That's why it's powerful."
Even in moments that might intimidate other chefs -- like judging mystery basket challenges on Chopped -- Samuelsson leans into curiosity over criticism. "You're not judging the food," he says. "You're judging someone's effort to transform it. It's not the food's fault if it wasn't great -- it's our job to bring out the best."
Samuelsson's creativity doesn't stop at food. In July last year he launched a collaboration with home decor company West Elm that merged Scandinavian minimalism with African maximalism. "I was always frustrated. Chairs, tables, lighting -- they never looked like what I imagined," he says. So, he started creating them.
His restaurants reflect that duality. From hand-carved tables at Hav & Mar to white clay walls inspired by Ethiopian huts, each design choice is personal. "Growing up in Sweden, I was surrounded by light and nature. But my African American side is all about bold, layered expression. I wanted to bring those worlds together."
Samuelsson's commitment to hospitality, community and cultural inclusion has never wavered. Whether it's designing a dining room that reflects diasporic pride or helping a young chef open their first restaurant, he stays rooted in purpose.
"This journey has to be about rebalancing who gets credit, who gets opportunities and who tells the story," he says. "It's about being part of something bigger -- and making it delicious."