Chapter 17 #2
“Svend ‘Death Glare’ Madsen doesn’t help my nerves.” It’s a convenient excuse and has the benefit of being at least part of the reason I feel like I am walking into an important final exam for which I am wholly unprepared. “And I don’t want to incite his ire by botching anything.”
Nikolai snorts in derision. “You’ll incite his ire even if you don’t. Just do the job and try not to throw a glass of pinot noir in Madsen’s face before the end of the night. That’s as good as it gets here.”
I decide to make light. “Right, red wine would stain, and I don’t want to foot a bill for a new suit. Pinot gris it is.”
He nods, his expression deadpan. “That’s what makes you management material.”
It’s my turn to snort in derision. It would be several more years before I make the jump to GM, and it’s not like that was a glowing success.
The banter has me feeling a little lighter, and I want to kiss Nikolai on the cheek for his help.
But I refrain because I’m sure Svend has strict rules about displaying any sort of human emotion while on duty.
The first guests should be arriving in twenty minutes, and I try to commit as much of the wine list to memory as I can.
It’s probably futile, but a few scraps of information are better than none.
My study is interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls on the marble floor. I look up to see Svend making a beeline in my direction, his eyes laser focused on me. I close the thick leather wine list and put all my energy into screwing a neutral expression on my face.
“We have some important American influencers coming today. From YouTube.” He says the word with such disdain I worry it’ll permanently affect their website traffic. “Chef Bj?rn wants them accommodated; whatever they want is on the house.”
YouTube influencers? Is that really necessary?
The question hovers on my tongue, but I don’t speak it.
The restaurant only opens the reservation portal quarterly, and they sell out in minutes.
With heavy, nonrefundable deposits too. Comping a table of YouTubers when we don’t need to scare up business seems like a waste of several thousand dollars to me.
The question must be telegraphed on my face, though, because Svend answers it immediately. “Chef believes it will help increase visibility with a younger demographic. He is constantly concerned with remaining relevant.”
This is a fair point. Fine dining has historically been a hobby of the “upper middle age” set.
I’ve found the regular clientele in places like these are generally late in their careers or early in retirement and finished raising their kids.
They have the money, the time, and the energy reserves to travel in style.
The problem is that with uncertain economic times and fewer secure jobs to be had, younger Gen Xers and Millennials aren’t poised to take over the void left when their Boomer parents begin to weary of chasing reservations at the new hot spot in town and dressing to the nines.
But that, heretofore, hasn’t been a problem at The Mesmerist, which is hip enough to draw in the young elite who can foot the staggering bill.
Svend continues, “As for me, I want their visit to be as unobtrusive as possible. You will be their sommelier for the night and will stay with the table the entire evening.”
His subtext is clear: You’re the American in-house.
You’ll babysit your idiot countrymen and make sure they aren’t a nuisance to the other—paying—guests.
While it will be somewhat of a relief to have only one table to contend with, it will be an exercise in always being on hand without hovering, which is maddening for all involved.
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “I wonder if they wouldn’t rather have a sommelier who isn’t American. They might prefer a more authentically Danish experience.”
“This is the best possible arrangement.” He speaks in declaratives without room for nuance. He probably thinks it conveys a commanding presence, but it mostly serves to make him seem like a petulant child. Of course he does have authority in this situation, but he lacks real leadership skills.
I narrowly avoid rolling my eyes. “As you wish.”
“Their manager confirmed they will be here in fifteen minutes.” He walks off without further conversation.
Manager? They’re important enough to need a manager? I always envisioned “influencers” as being goofy teens with hand-me-down iPhones doing stunts and overly tanned twenty-three-year-olds giving makeup tutorials. Clearly the world of internet stardom is beyond me.
He returns through the great doors that separate the lounge from the restaurant’s main room, hopefully to share his sour disposition elsewhere.
Nikolai, whose hands are busy wiping away nonexistent smudges off pristine glassware with a stark white linen cloth, shakes his head after the doors close behind Svend. “Sorry about that. They must be pretty high profile if Chef thinks they’re VIPs, though. It’ll be a good chance to show off.”
I try to force a smile, but showing off is the last thing I’m qualified to do in this situation. I take one last steadying breath and hope I don’t make a fool of myself.
I have just enough time to do recon on our influencers.
I’d hoped it would be one of the dignified YouTube channels with decent production values where cultured travelers trot the globe to feature the best of the best in fine dining and local hidden gems. The kind that provides legitimately valuable information for the jet set and travel/food escapism for the mere mortals who, if they ever did manage to save up for plane tickets to Denmark, would have to eat bread and cheese from the supermarket or try their luck with food carts for the duration of their stay.
I admit to watching too many of those videos in my own spare time, justifying them as industry research. But this is nothing like that at all. Their channel is devoted to adventure travel and “exotic experiences” aimed at a much younger demographic.
Among their extensive catalog of videos, I don’t see a single video dedicated to a restaurant or food at all.
This sort of video seems totally off-brand for them.
Why would someone as famously discerning as Chef Bj?rn feel the need to give free table space to this sort of influencer?
But then I see they have six million followers, more than twice my favorite foodie channel’s subscriber base.
The temptation to welcome them makes sense now—but I share Svend’s apprehensions.
At the appointed hour four young adults—two men, two women—dressed stylishly in all black appear in the lounge.
Svend appraises their attire and gives a look of restrained approval as he leads them to me.
And I admit, they look perfectly appropriate for the venue.
Fashion-forward but minimalist . . . which is how I’d describe most of Denmark, really.
Not that I’ve had the time to see much of it beyond my flat yet.
They were greeted with a glass of peach kombucha and little crackers made of caramelized seaweed in the foyer .
. . and now I am on duty. I’m poised with a wine list and a spiel about why any of the wine flights would be the best possible choice for them, but they are far more invested in filming than they are in anything I might have to say.
“We’re actually here at The Mesmerist, the premier dining experience in Copenhagen!
” the shorter of the two women screeches into the high-end DSLR camera held by a wiry-looking man, who seems either anxious or overcaffeinated.
Or very likely both. Svend shoots me a murderous look.
Keep them quiet. Your job is on the line.
Fabulous. If I flub this up, it will make for a very serious blip in my future. To work at a restaurant of this caliber without leaving with a good reference in hand is career suicide.
The taller brunette woman and the man without the camera squeeze into the frame and wave.
They finally take their seats while the cameraman takes a wide shot of the lounge before turning back to the table.
He focuses on the darker-haired woman, who gives a toothy grin to the camera.
“Oh my god, guys! You wouldn’t believe this place.
The entryway is even extra. And this kombucha is incredible.
They need to carry this in the States.” She swirls her glass of bubbling kombucha for the camera.
It resembles champagne, and the effect under the light is stunning.
Sadly, she doesn’t seem to understand the difference between a small-batch home-fermented kombucha and one mass-produced for sale in a big-box liquor store. Worse, her voice can be heard all the way in Sweden.
I introduce myself to the table before Svend explodes.
They seem only mildly interested in my presence and seem utterly bored by my discussion of the wine flights.
I finally address the elephant in the room.
“I’m thinking it might be best if you take footage and do the voice-over in post?
The sound quality will be better, and it will be less obtrusive to the other guests trying to appreciate their meal. ”
The blonde woman pierces me with a withering glare.
“This is what we do. Voice-overs lack spontaneity and authenticity, and that won’t resonate with our fan base.
Our manager said this was cleared with your people.
” She speaks with the sort of vocal fry that makes me itch.
How anyone can stand to listen to her on videos for more than a few seconds is beyond me.
Svend is glaring at me with equal intensity. Bj?rn might have approved this intrusion, but Svend has not. And as their designated handler, I will catch hell if these people continue to speak like they’re projecting their un-miked voices to the back of a stadium-sized theater.