Chapter 17 #3
I make a mental note for any future work in management: Make sure front and back of house are on the same page and don’t put the staff in the middle when their visions clash. It’s a crappy place to be as an employee.
But now is not the time to act like a mid-level employee, and I summon my managerial gravitas.
“All the same, if you could keep your volume down, it would be appreciated.” I shoot her back a glare of my own.
Not withering, just businesslike. Svend is right that we can’t have a comped table ruin the atmosphere for those paying good money for a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
They roll their eyes and give the wine list a cursory glance.
They all order the mixed-beverage flight, which contains wine as well as beer and cocktails.
They’re constantly recording, but their commentary has gotten quieter.
They accept their beverages without a second glance, which doesn’t surprise me.
They don’t seem to be the sort who would know a prized vintage Chateauneuf-du-Pape from a boxed wine and only care that it gets them buzzed.
If I were less ethical, I’d be tempted to serve them two-buck chuck to see if they’d notice. But alas, we have nothing like cheap wine in-house, and I feel compelled to give them what they order, even if they aren’t paying for it.
We survive the first several encounters in the lounge without further incident.
They are louder than what Svend would prefer, but I sense that’s true of any guest not eating in reverential silence.
The moment has come for us to transition to the next phase of the evening, and the influencers follow me to their next table.
My breath catches at the sight of the main room, which is massive and domed, like a planetarium.
Projected on the ceiling are images that reflect something about the entrée that is about to be consumed.
The messages are sometimes literary, sometimes political.
Often about conservation and sustainability, which I admire.
All manner of exotic ingredients in jars sit along the wall, giving the place more of a laboratory feel than a restaurant, which doesn’t seem wholly inappropriate.
The cameraman, whose name I learn is Devon, takes sweeping shots of the domed room, and I can’t blame him for being in awe of the place.
The women—the blonde is Jane and the brunette is Riley—give their commentary in appropriately hushed tones, as if recording in a church.
Though the atmosphere is closer to that of a modern museum than a place of worship, the quiet veneration still feels appropriate.
One of the first dishes is shaped like an ear, meant to represent how big tech is listening in on, and commodifying, everything we say.
It’s actually made from pork and vegetables, but it’s human-looking enough to be very off-putting.
The pictures of ears all over the domed ceiling make the effect even more surreal.
“Oh god, I don’t know if I can do this.” Riley looks at her plate and whimpers. She motions to Devon to stop recording, and he obliges.
“You have to. It’s content.” The other man in the group, Brandon, has been mostly silent for the majority of their visit, only speaking when spoken to, and looking rather sullen except when he knows the camera is pointed at him.
From my quick study of their videos, I gather he’s more of a stuntman than a foodie, and this is definitely not his wheelhouse. I cringe at his use of the word content. As though an amusing reel on social media is the height of what this six-hour dining experience can aspire to.
“Suck it up, Riley.” Jane, while the camera is rolling, claims to be “BFFs” with Riley, but that doesn’t seem to translate to life off camera. Perhaps that’s why they record so much of their lives—their friendship wouldn’t tolerate it otherwise.
“No, it’s gross.” Her voice has gone up several decibels, and I take a few steps closer to the table, ready to intervene.
“It’s just like eating bacon.” Brandon slices off a small corner of the earlobe and eats it as a pledge of good faith. He glances down at his plate once the flavors have registered. “It’s actually the best thing I’ve tried here so far. Savory and just a bit crunchy.”
Riley has gone fully chartreuse. “Ewww, you’re gross, Brandon.”
Devon, who looks far more haggard than the others, pleads with her. “C’mon, Rile, I need this on film.”
“No.” She slams her napkin on the table and glares at Devon with such intensity, I worry the camera he has angled at her will melt.
Heads have turned in their direction, and the patrons are beginning to look peeved at their antics.
Svend, who has been circulating the room, catches my eye.
His expression is nothing less than murderous.
I intervene with all the professionalism I can muster.
“Hi, we can absolutely clear this for you.” In a regular restaurant I’d offer a new entrée on the house, whether she deserved it or not, just to keep her quiet, but I’m unsure what the policy is here when everything is so carefully orchestrated.
I opt for something that is in my gift. “Would you like another glass of the kombucha you enjoyed so much?”
“Just get this away from me!” She is full-on shrieking now, and the projections of ears all over the dome seem to be setting her off even more.
I clear the plate, handing it discreetly to the server who began rushing toward the table at the sound of the patron’s distress. As realistic as the ear looks, I’m not surprised the server seems prepared for this outcome.
Riley seems calmer now that the offending dish is no longer in front of her, but she is clenching her eyes and covering her ears to avoid looking at those in front of every other diner as well as the images of ears of all shapes, sizes, colors, and—I’m sorry to say—volume of ear hair swirling around on the dome overhead.
As obnoxious as Riley and her group are, I feel bad for her.
A meal out, especially one that costs more than most people’s monthly take-home pay, should be a pleasant experience.
I’m all about food pushing boundaries, but I’m not in favor of a thousand-euro-plus dinner sending a patron into a panic attack.
Svend finally crosses the room to my side, incandescent with rage. He’s trying to intimidate me with his piercing stare, but I don’t cow under his gaze. I’m not the wet-behind-the-ears kid chopping vegetables at La Fontaine Mirabeau anymore and I won’t act like it.
“What is the meaning of this?” he hisses.
I gesture in the direction of the cowering Riley, who is still in sensory-deprivation mode as the ear mosaic is still very much in full swing.
“She is bothering other guests.” He discreetly nods in the direction of some patrons who are looking askance at Riley’s over-the-top reaction.
Not good. But even more upsetting to me is the absolute indifference of her fellow influencers, who have continued filming as though all is perfectly well.
They keep Riley carefully out of the frame and do nothing to comfort her.
I respond to Svend with the same venom he’s been hurling at me. “What would you have me do? Kick her out? That’s under your purview, not mine.” He looks affronted that I’ve lumped in bouncer duties with those of general manager, but it really is his duty more than that of a sommelier.
He takes a step closer, his blue eyes flashing like jagged ice. “I told you to keep them under control.”
“That’s nice for you. If you haven’t noticed, she is an adult human with her own free will.
I have done as much as I can to defuse the situation.
I don’t like having them here any more than you do.
If you don’t like her behavior, bounce them and take the heat from Bj?rn when they pan the place for all six million of their followers. But that’s on you. It’s. Not. My. Job.”
For the briefest moment he looks as though he’s impressed by my defiance but then regains his composure. “We’ll be revisiting your attitude later.”
I don’t respond. Because, in fact, we won’t be discussing anything later. There is power in knowing I can leave this at any time. But it occurs to me that this always has been and always will be the case. I can leave any unpleasant situation at any time.
And it’s probably a good thing I haven’t taken advantage of this too often in my past; there is a lot to learn from sticking around even when things are hard.
But in this scenario, there is nothing to be gained from letting myself be disrespected by someone like Svend.
Or by staying at a restaurant whose vision I can’t entirely get behind.
If I were to write this place up in The Anonymous Epicure, and it’s more than tempting, I’d have to say it might be worth the experience if you have a few buckets of money lying around to burn and you run in crowds where eating here may get you some bragging rights.
But for us mere mortals? We’re better off eating in restaurants where the chef thinks about the guests—and the food—over the spectacle of the meal.