Chapter 17
As I step from Nikolai’s black ?koda, the ground feels unstable beneath my feet.
A bit too literally. I force my wobbly knees into submission and fight the sensation, summoning every bit of bravado I keep in reserve.
I will have to act with all the self-assurance I was able to muster in New Orleans or Dublin .
. . but without any firsthand experience to guide me.
I’m shocked when, instead of going to the kitchen, Nikolai goes behind the bar.
It’s worse than I thought. He’s not a chef whose talents are being underutilized—he’s a bartender whose talents aren’t being utilized at all.
It takes every bit of my resolve not to go into the kitchen and tell Chef Bj?rn what a fool he is right to his face.
The expression on Nikolai’s face is somber as he sets to polishing glasses and dusting bottles before service.
He does look up at me and smile with a “good luck” before returning to his preservice checklist. His words don’t feel so much encouraging as they do cautionary.
He’s wishing me luck because I’m going to need it.
The Mesmerist is in the industrial part of the city, not terribly far from the airport, so I have an exit if things go disastrously wrong.
We’re earlier than necessary for our shift, and for this I am grateful.
I’ll have at least a few minutes to familiarize myself with the wine list and the layout of the place in peace.
I hope I can gain my bearings before the rest of the staff comes in and wonders why I am bumbling around like a new hire on their first day.
Though effectively, that’s what I am. Under normal circumstances, this would be fine.
I’ve been the new kid in town so many times that it comes with a dose of adrenaline I find pleasant, in a demented sort of way.
What I don’t like is feeling incompetent when I, in the eyes of my colleagues at least, have several months of experience under my belt and should be well up to speed.
Within moments I realize there is no hope whatsoever of getting my bearings.
The restaurant is divided into several distinct areas: The first is a dark foyer where guests are greeted with an amuse-bouche and a beverage by a server who more closely resembles a mime than someone in food service.
Next, they’re led into a breathtaking lounge where bottles of wine are stacked to the ceiling in a labyrinthine series of plexiglass cubbies so complex it reminds me of a thriving beehive.
This is where Nikolai will be stationed for service, and I am grateful I’ll have access to him if I need help.
I hate depending on colleagues to bail me out, but this may have to be one of those times.
The lounge alone nearly gives me the vapors.
Even if I could somehow memorize the wine list—and it is vast—how would I be able to find a specific bottle among the thousands on display?
I’ve read about this place and watched several videos, but seeing it firsthand is something no human recording device can replicate.
There are two more areas, but I can’t bring myself to contemplate those just yet.
I stay in the lounge, which is where I will first greet my guests.
The servers are now buzzing about like gray-clad worker bees, trying to ensure the tables are ready for inspection.
There is no menu, as such. Naturally, allowances are made for allergies, all noted in a computer system that is likely sophisticated enough to run the entire European nuclear program.
But the typical guest at The Mesmerist comes in expecting to eat what they’re served for each course.
I use the term course, but in reality, they are more like “encounters” with various food concoctions.
It’s sort of like an endless flow of tapas, but most offerings are even smaller than the Spanish small plates.
The typical dish is one or two bites and is engineered with more thought behind it than the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Fifty of them over the course of six hours.
Per guest. Fifty guests per night at staggered intervals.
Twenty-five hundred dishes served per evening, not including any extra beverages.
The amount of labor—just on the service side alone—is mind-boggling.
Behind the main bar in the lounge, I find a grid with an employee schedule, complete with names and job titles, including mine and Nikolai’s.
At least he’s lead bartender. He should be sous-chef or the chef de partie in charge of pastry.
His guinea fowl was incredible, but his tart and butter cookies are what remain emblazoned in my memory.
When Nikolai’s head is turned, I snap a photo of the directory with my phone so I can reference it later if I need to.
I also learn I am not the sommelier, but one of several on duty tonight.
I glean from the website that the guests can choose a “sommelier experience,” which means those opting for this expensive package will get near-constant attention from a sommelier over the course of their evening.
This explains how I was able to land the job: They needed far more of us on staff than the average restaurant.
I make sure my Certified Sommelier pin is affixed securely to my lapel and endeavor to take a deep breath.
I study what I can and let the relief wash over me when I discover there are various beverage flights that can be purchased.
For wine, there are three tiers that range from expensive to large mortgage payment, as well as “mixed” flights that include cocktails, beer, and nonalcoholic beverages.
A surprising number of fermented beverages like kombucha are available, which is certainly on trend, but I would think these would be difficult to pair well with many foods without overpowering them.
I cross my fingers and hope to persuade my guests that one of the wine flights is the way to go.
It removes most if not all of the guesswork and should lead to the best possible experience.
I locate all the wines on the three tiers and find that Chef Bj?rn has even indicated which glasses he wants used for each segment of the meal.
I begin to believe I might not embarrass myself entirely.
The odd patron will want a cocktail, which Nikolai will manage, and there will be guests celebrating special occasions who will want champagne.
Easy enough. Unless an emergency causes us to retool the menu on the fly, which seems unlikely given Chef Bj?rn’s reputation for precision, I feel like I can manage the service. Maybe.
A truly good sommelier would be able to go off the cuff in a place like this and love the challenge of it.
Few restaurants have lists this comprehensive or pairings so unusual.
They would know the wine list and the planned menu frontward and back and take an active role in the theater of the place.
They would help weave the story that Chef Bj?rn is trying to tell.
And that monumental task is one I am not equal to. The best I can do tonight is fake it.
And I hate faking it.
The general manager, whose name I gather from the roster is Svend Madsen, walks in.
He’s every bit the tall Nordic man one would expect to see on a Danish tourism poster.
I do a stealthy Google search on him and learn he is very prominent on the Danish food scene.
He’s in his late fifties but looks twenty years younger.
Blond with chiseled facial features, and wearing an expression without an ounce of humor, Svend looks little removed from his Viking roots.
Only a pristine navy pinstripe suit takes the place of crude garments of leather and homespun wool, and his hair is cropped short rather than left to grow wild.
Despite his impeccable attire and grooming, it’s all too easy to imagine him in a rough-hewn horned helmet out of a Wagnerian opera.
“Are you ready for service?” His words are growled more than spoken, but in perfect British English.
It feels more like he’s asking my competence to serve in the armed forces than to pour a few glasses of wine.
Has something in particular set him off, or is this just his usual sunshiny disposition?
I refrain from smiling, figuring American ebullience would only irritate him further.
“Of course.” I speak with more confidence than I’ve earned, but I sense he isn’t the sort to look at any sort of equivocation with anything other than hostility.
He nods and moves along, presumably to the kitchen, but not before his steely blue eyes shoot me a glare that feels like it will bore a hole in the very fabric of my soul.
Nikolai leans closer to me from across the bar and stage whispers, “Once again you survived the Madsen death glare. Well done.”
I smile, despite my nerves quaking as I see on the clock behind the bar how close we are to opening doors. “What can I say? I’m made of stern stuff.”
“Danish hardware with American programming. A formidable combination.” He sends me a wink from behind the bar, and I have to stifle a laugh.
Given the quiet atmosphere, it feels like trying not to giggle in church.
His expression turns more serious. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem a little off tonight. ”
“I feel a little off, to tell the truth.” Honesty is the right choice. If I confess to feeling a bit wonky, it’ll cover any missteps I make. And I know I’m likely to. And a bit of sympathy may lead to a discreet helping hand if I fumble.
“You know the list better than anyone here. Why so edgy?” He’s prodding, but out of concern. It doesn’t feel like he’s trying to uncover the mask of an impostor. Even if that’s exactly what I am.