A wide door opens to a large room, designed in a vaguely Nordic spirit of purity and comfort. Daylight pours in through a long row of tall windows along the wall opposite us. I notice lots of pale wood and mineral elements, such as granite and marble. The ensemble is enlivened by colorful seat cushions and wool plaids thrown over the backs of the chairs.
The air smells fresh and clean, despite the active fireplace and the kitchen that’s separated from the front room by a tall counter. I guess, a restaurant like this can afford the best air-conditioning system out there.
Despite the super AC, my nose does catch an appetizing aroma wafting from the kitchen. Add to that the auditory excitement caused by the clinking, chopping and sizzling sounds, and I realize how hungry I am.
Darrel and Jordan are seated separately from Theodor and me. I suppose they know Theodor well enough to predict that he’s eager to get started on Simon and Elise’s correspondence, and so they give us some privacy to do that. Or maybe it’s just a boss-attendant thing. Maybe they never eat at the same table unless it’s an informal dinner in a hotel room like last night. I wouldn’t know.
Theodor orders our drinks.
A few minutes after they arrive, a portly man in a chef’s toque comes out to greet us. He claims he’s honored by our visit, recommends a special, and retreats into the kitchen. I’ve never been to a starred restaurant before, so it’s hard to tell if it’s customary for their chefs to greet guests like that.
“I read a note about your art,” Theodor says while we wait for the first course. “Glassblowing is technical, physical, and artistic at the same time. Very impressive.”
I know he’s burning to read the letters, and I appreciate his attempt at small talk. And at saying something nice.
“Did Darrel prepare the note?” I ask.
“Of course not! Not that he couldn’t do it, if necessary. I suspect he can do just about anything. But preparing notes and talking points for me isn’t part of his job.”
“Talking points?”
“Um… Yes. For business meetings and such.”
OK, so in addition to Jordan and Darrel, he has another assistant whose job it is to prepare notes and talking points.
“What line of business are you in?” I ask.
“Several,” he replies in a tone that discourages further questions.
Mafia, then.Probably second or third generation, raised by refined nannies and educated in Europe’s best boarding schools. Hence, the manners and tastes.
We dig into our appetizers, each a small piece of colorful, textured work of art in the middle of a big white plate.
“What’s your favorite type of glass object to create?” he asks.
“I love when my boss assigns me to a custom award project.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Quite often. It’s a strength of mine, and he’s smart enough to play to everybody’s strengths.”
“What are those awards for?”
I list on my fingers. “It can be a for a contest, or a festival, or to recognize individual achievement, or team achievement, or years of service… you name it.”
“What makes you love working on awards? Is it the creative freedom?”
“God forbid, no!” I laugh at his astonished look. “I’m the only one in the studio who never makes any spontaneous art.”
He leans forward, looking genuinely interested. “Why not?”
“Making things from scratch terrifies me. For my creative juices to flow, I need frameworks and structure.”
His piercing eye studies my face with curiosity, and I do my best not to look away.
“I need someone,” I say, “be it my boss or a client to give me a vision, a direction. That’s almost always the case with the awards. The client has a general idea of what they want. From there, I make sketches or samples, we brainstorm, and once we’re on the same page, I sculpt the object.”
“Fascinating!”
