Chapter 15
Copenhagen
This is fine, this is fine.
I force myself to stop shaking, but my nerves have gotten the better of me.
It was hard enough to navigate moments from my actual past, but coming to Copenhagen means muddling through a past timeline I never lived in a city I have never visited.
If I am in Copenhagen, it means I landed the sommelier job at The Mesmerist. I don’t just think but know I am in over my head.
It’s always been amazing to me how restaurants are really divided into two worlds.
The work is quite different between them, but how draining and rewarding they both can feel on the same day.
I love cooking and the camaraderie of the kitchen, but seeing the faces of happy patrons is a special sort of joy I learned to appreciate in this epoch of my career.
My phone confirms that I did, indeed, land the job and that I am not expected until late afternoon. It’s just midmorning now, so I need to piece together what Sommelier Sabrina would be up to before service.
It would seem Rosaline was kind enough to leave me a crib sheet of sorts: a slip of paper with my address in the city and other vital information I’d otherwise have no way of knowing, tucked safely in my backpack.
I move it to my pocket for easy access. Given her talent for thinking of all possible contingencies, it’s a shame there aren’t more fairy-godmother types in the travel industry.
They do a lot better at managing the experience than the hedge fund billionaires we have running the show now.
But I suppose that’s an effect of Rosaline actually caring about human beings.
I find the taxi stand outside and give the driver my address.
This time, I’m not taking in familiar sights but drinking them in for the first time like a proper tourist.
Ironically, my flat is in the Nyhavn neighborhood, one of the most touristy areas of the city.
The “New Port” is lined with the row of easily recognized colorful buildings that grace postcards and tourism posters with K?benhavn printed in a whimsical font.
My flat is a vibrant blue above a quasi-traditional Danish restaurant that caters to the tourist crowds.
It’s the sort of place I’d avoid under normal circumstances, but as they’re literally neighbors, I’d probably make a point of visiting a couple times a month.
Especially in low season when they need the receipts.
A glimpse at the menu at least looks promising.
I climb the stairs to the flat, hoping that Rosaline hasn’t made a grave error in her instructions.
But given that she hasn’t steered me wrong yet, I trust that this apartment is either mine or, at a minimum, where I’m supposed to be.
I find a likely looking key on the metal key ring in my pack.
The key ring is heavy and made of silver-toned metal in the shape of a daisy, which is both the national flower of Denmark and very reminiscent of a Michelin Star.
On the back it’s engraved: Velkommen hjem, Sabrina. Fra Nikolai.
“Welcome home, Sabrina. From Nikolai.”
Who on earth is Nikolai? My Realtor? The engraving is a little too intimate for a corporate gift of that sort, though.
Welcome home, from Smith Realty purchased in bulk?
Okay, sure. But the personalization of it makes it feel like one small step below jewelry.
Curiouser and curiouser, but I likely won’t find the answers to this mystery in the hallway.
I poise my key to slide it in the lock, but before I turn it, I hear indistinct clattering inside. I pause. Someone is inside. Before assuming I’m being robbed, I pull the paper from my pocket and double-check the address Rosaline provided. I am indeed at the right place.
The most likely explanation is a roommate. Probably this Nikolai? I look down at my hands and see they’re ring free, which is a relief. I do not want to navigate being thrown into a marriage without the benefit of a courtship to learn the person’s ins and outs.
Despite my frugal nature, I have avoided having roommates since culinary school.
My erratic schedule doesn’t exactly make me the easiest person to live with, and I find the solitude of my own place helps me to cope with the hectic pace of restaurant life.
And with my luck, I’d end up with a cheerful morning person who insists on banging and crashing about while I’m trying to catch up on sleep after dinner shifts that drag into the wee smalls.
But if I do have a roommate, their name would have been useful information for Rosaline to include in her notes.
A quick scan of the paper confirms that this bit of trivia—who the hell is on the other side of my apartment door?
—wasn’t worthy of inclusion on her list of fun facts about this version of my life.
We’ll have to discuss this omission later.
I take a calming breath. I can’t stand out here all day like a marginally sentient gargoyle.
I steel my resolve and turn the key. The first thing I notice is a waft of something coming from the kitchen.
Something delectable. Notes of thyme, cloves, and bay leaves fairly dance on the air, and I am drawn to discover the source of the luscious aroma by my most primal instincts.
“Hej. You’re just in time. Come taste what I made.
” The man, who I have to assume is Nikolai, stands in the archway of the kitchen, his cheeks reddened by the heat of the stove.
He is tall, in the grand tradition of our people.
Like me, he’s blond and his face bears the trademark chiseled features of the Danes, but currently his are tempered with a warm smile.
He’s dressed in black slacks and a white tee, the standard uniform for anyone who works in a kitchen, with the understandable omission of the chef’s jacket, since he is at home, I assume.
And he seems very pleased to see me.
I return the smile almost reflexively. I don’t know the nature of our relationship, so I don’t know if he’s expecting a hug or a kiss on the cheek or . . . even the lips? So I opt for a stilted wave hello from the entryway. Bashful and awkward—always a winning combination.
He gestures for me to follow him to the table in the kitchen where two places are set.
And by set, I don’t mean he just tossed some forks and knives in the middle of the table for people to grab as needed, as I was guilty of doing for informal meals on my own turf.
He’d set the table like he might for important company.
The plates and linens are various patterns of cobalt blue and white, with splashes of yellow to add visual interest. Nice dishes, heavy flatware, crystal glasses.
A bouquet of fresh white daisies with some yellow dahlias mixed in for a pop of color graces the center of the table.
I shoot a glance at my surroundings. The flat is the epitome of the ineffable Danish word hygge: The loose translation is “homey, cozy, and welcoming but without excessive clutter and fuss.” And it’s not just an aesthetic; it’s a whole way of life.
My dad embodied it. He had the uncanny ability to make anyone feel at home, wherever he was.
I feel the same vibe here and am not sure what to make of it.
The color theme from the table linens is echoed in the living room, but the effect manages to not be too matchy-matchy.
Two indigo throw blankets are draped artfully on the creamy-white leather sofa.
Three decorative pillows in coordinating blue-and-white patterns, all placed strategically, break up the sleek lines of the minimalist furniture. Three pillows, not twelve.
I’m stunned by the realization that in this timeline, I really own throw pillows. Those decadent, unnecessary throw pillows that have niggled at the back of my brain for months now. Well, I am at least throw-pillow adjacent, which is almost the same thing.
The whole place is airy and bright and . . . hygge. And I have no idea how I can afford even half the rent here.
The kitchen is a marvel of Danish functionality, equipped with every convenience a chef might ever desire.
And it’s evident Nikolai is a chef of the first order.
He pulls out a chair for me and sets a magazine-worthy plate at my place.
The main is thinly sliced guinea fowl that has been roasted in a Riesling sauce, pungent with the aromatic herbs that greeted me at the door.
He’s paired it with a mushroom-risotto cake so perfect, I wonder if he didn’t arrange each grain by hand, and a small pile of sesame snap peas with carrots and red peppers adds a dash of color.
He sets his plate next to, not across from, mine, and I’m not sure how much I should read into it.
His body language seems relaxed, so it’s safe to assume I didn’t move in last week, but I can’t tell if his feelings are romantic or not.
Copenhagen is an eye-wateringly expensive city, so it’s not shocking I’d need to share rent.
Especially for a flat directly on the canal.
He doesn’t reach over to caress my knee or make any other sort of familiar gesture, so I just try to mirror his ease.
I sample the guinea fowl and fail to restrain a moan of unbridled bliss.
It is possibly the best thing I have tasted in my long and storied career.
That includes Edward’s gingerbread espuma, my curried Créole sauce, and the astounding meal I splurged on for my thirtieth birthday at Le Bernardin in New York.
I’d dined alone that night, but the food had been company enough.
“Good?” His hopeful eyes are fixed on me.
I realize instantly that he’s not fishing for a compliment but asking for real feedback.
Colleague to colleague. It’s clear he values my opinion, and I can’t help but soften a bit.
Apparently, the way to my heart is by appealing to my professional sensibilities. How romantic of me.