Chapter 15 #2
I reward him with a smile. “You got the herbs just right, and the sear on the bird is spot-on. Well done.” I sample the mushroom-risotto cake and the peas and offer similar accolades.
Every note is perfection, and it all works beautifully together.
I make my praise specific because it’s clear he’s a serious chef who isn’t just after a pat on the head.
I want to ask him questions about his work, but these are things that I, as a roommate, would know already.
“I think it’s ready for a specials menu.
” Seems safe enough. I can’t ask if he’ll audition the dish.
He might be head chef somewhere. He’s certainly talented enough, if on the young side, to have climbed so high on the ladder.
Though I’m not particularly adept at guessing ages, I can’t imagine he’s much older than thirty.
Thirty-two at the most—a few years older than me, but not many.
“From your lips to Chef Bj?rn’s ears.” His smile is a rueful one.
Key bit of information unlocked: Chef Bj?rn is the renowned head chef at The Mesmerist. The brains and talent behind one of the most unique restaurants in the world. So Nikolai and I are colleagues; he in the back of house and I in the front.
“You don’t think he’ll consider it?” I think back to my insecurities in Ireland and hope I can disabuse him of any similar line of thought.
He shakes his head. “Bj?rn has a concept, and the chefs are just there to execute it.”
I want to reach over and pat his knee to console him but refrain.
This man may be Copenhagen Sabrina’s bestie.
Or boyfriend. I have no way of knowing. But I do know he’s my colleague, so I’ll let him take the lead on physical contact.
Anything as tedious as landing in an HR hearing does not seem like the wisest use of time travel.
“That seems like such a waste of talent.” And it is.
I totally understand that Bj?rn is a sort of wunderkind in our profession and he is entitled to focus the kitchen’s efforts to support his vision.
But the chefs who work under him aren’t robots.
They are world-class chefs in their own right.
By not incorporating their ideas and creativity, he’s leaving a tremendous resource untapped.
It’s something éugenie Rosier understood when she brought Maison Ortense into prominence. Every set of hands in the kitchen is an asset, and none of them should be taken for granted, and she’d imparted that lesson to Joelle.
But Bj?rn “knows better” and the result is disaffected talent like Nikolai.
“I can drink to that.” He pours me a scant glass of Riesling, left over from the sauce, to go with the meal. “A half glass before service won’t dull your palate.”
I accept the wine, but my stomach lurches.
I am going to have to fake an entire six-hour dinner service as sommelier.
I am a fully trained sommelier, but it has been years since I used those skills in any real way.
After Dublin, I apprenticed as a sommelier at a posh hotel in London, learning the service end of the trade on the floor and cramming in theory courses around my shifts.
I honed my tasting skills whenever the opportunity and my budget allowed.
It is possible to spend thousands of dollars on wine to prepare for the blind tasting part of the exam, but I tried to do it on the cheap when possible.
It took a year, but I got my Certified Sommelier designation, the lowest of the three tiers, from the Court of Master Sommeliers.
Advanced certification would have taken another couple of years, realistically, but an attainable goal if I’d been so inclined.
Earning the title Master Sommelier is a lifetime endeavor, however, and far beyond the level I needed to bolster my résumé.
When an opening for a sommelier at The Mesmerist had come available in my original timeline, I’d been torn.
It was the sort of thing that garnered notice on a résumé, but I wasn’t sure it was the kind I wanted.
“She’s eaten there” carries some street cred in the industry, but I had wondered if “she worked there” might be a double-edged sword.
I would have the clout of having been selected to work at one of the most unique restaurants in the world, but would people wonder if the eccentricity of the place might lead me to make odd choices as a sommelier?
The Mesmerist is something of a legend in the industry, but it’s as much a theater as it is a fine-dining establishment.
It has two Michelin stars, but when I’d been considering my options, it seemed too far removed from the rest of the restaurant world to give me transferable skills. I’d skipped applying altogether.
In my original timeline I instead went to Boston, not a Michelin city back then, and worked as a beverage manager for an upscale white-tablecloth steak-and-seafood place.
Their wine list punched way above their weight class by the time I had my way, and the chef had accepted the challenge to bring the food up to par with it.
That job wasn’t the most exciting entry on my résumé, but I was proud of leaving that restaurant better than I’d found it.
But it had been taking the safe route. I’ve spent more than a little time wondering if I was too cautious with my choices in this era of my life.
But at the time, the idea of applying for a position at such a prestigious restaurant with only basic credentials in hand felt presumptuous.
Rude, even. Yes, I’d done well on the sommelier certification tests and had stellar recommendations, but there had to have been dozens of other candidates with far more experience and much better pedigrees than I could boast vying for the job.
I can’t imagine how I stood out among the applicants, beyond having a modest working knowledge of Danish, thanks to my father, that other foreign applicants might not have.
I am intrigued by the art and science of the sommelier’s world, but I feel less secure in my ability to identify the varietals, vintner, and vintage of a wine from a few sniffs and a sip than I do in any other element of the restaurant business.
A saucier’s work is nothing short of alchemy, it’s true.
Their work takes patience, skill, and a good sense of timing.
But all those things can be learned at the stove by dint of hard work if one has the drive.
A true sommelier, though? Those are born, not made.
One can study the books, travel to the vineyards, and taste every wine in creation, but the nose and the palate of a gifted sommelier can only be honed—not forged from nothing.
And while I don’t consider myself a total loss when it comes to the art of wine and drink pairings, I’m nothing like a master of the craft.
I raise a glass to him. “To the finest chef in Nyhavn, even if Bj?rn can’t see beyond the end of his nose.”
Nikolai snorts with light derision but raises his glass to clink against mine. “At least we will have some fuel to get us through service.”
“This is more than fuel—it’s art.” And I mean it.
Were he newer to the craft, I wouldn’t be concerned about his creativity getting stifled.
Learning to bring Bj?rn’s fantastical creations from concept through execution is akin to years of advanced culinary training, and it would be invaluable experience for an entry-level or intermediate chef.
But Nikolai is ready to lead. I can tell this from a few bites.
Even more important, I sense he has the even temperament that would make him run one hell of a good kitchen.
He wraps an arm around me in a quick embrace. I don’t hate it. “That means a lot coming from you.”
I take his gesture to mean he’s comfortable with a bit of touch, so I gently knock my shoulder against his. “Far be it from me to withhold praise where it’s due. You’re talented.”
He knocks shoulders with me in return. “I owe a lot of it to you, you know. Lessons in exchange for rent has been the best bargain of my life.”
Ah, that explains how I’m able to afford this place. But how is he able to afford it for both of us on the salary of a sous-chef? He may only be a chef de partie for all I know. But have I really been that instrumental in his cooking?
Just then, a sleek black cat with a small patch of white on his neck, akin to a priest’s collar, hops onto the table and curls up in the empty space to my right as though he’s claiming his rightful place. He shows no interest in the food but is more interested in being part of the family.
Nikolai rolls his eyes. “Spoiled Pjuske. Don’t try that when Farmor comes to visit. She doesn’t believe kitties should join us at the table. Even handsome boys like you.”
I parse the Danish from the sentence. One word is easy: Farmor—paternal grandmother—must be referring to Nikolai’s own mother.
I wonder if she visits often and hope she’s kinder than Orla or Robin, but I’ll reserve any judgment for now.
That Nikolai speaks to the cat as he would his own toddler is ridiculously endearing.
I mentally scan my limited Danish vocabulary for the more obscure term, and remember that pjuske is something akin to “fluffy” but has the connotation of “disheveled” as well.
A misnomer of the worst sort, given that he is the most elegant creature I’ve ever beheld.
His fur is suited for the dress code of a society cocktail party.
And a red bow tie on his collar to boot.
Pjuske blinks slowly at me, so I reward him with gentle scritches under his chin. “Pjuske? For this refined gentleman?”
I realize I’ve misspoken. This version of me likely would have known the story of the name. Thankfully it doesn’t seem to faze Nikolai.