Helen was glad that the romantic part of their first day of vacation had taken place before dinner, as the atmosphere in the Michelin-starred restaurant the Boss was like the inside of a refrigerator. The same went for the temperature. Her bare legs were covered in goose bumps, and she regretted not bringing a cardigan. Or maybe a parka. The concept was doubtlessly very trendy, but it was lost on her. A raised, diner-style bench had been installed along the wall of a large industrial kitchen, with a step to help you get onto it. There were smooth, square tables lined up against the bench, with barstools opposite. The furniture was arranged in one long row, with hard, white lighting overhead. It felt uncomfortable to sit so high up, with your legs dangling into space, although you did have a good view of the chefs as they went about their work. There was barely any privacy for the guests either, as the tables were positioned very close together.

Fortunately, their neighbors were speaking English.

Werner didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. He examined every course with interest and ate with dainty bites. “Molecular gastronomy,” he called it, but it felt more like a chemistry lesson to Helen. Or a guessing game. Something that looked like a vegetable could easily turn out to be fish or a piece of meat. White chocolate crumbled into powder when you touched it and tasted of rose petals.

The courses were brought out in quick succession, accompanied by mumbled explanations delivered in incomprehensible dialect, and so the conversation never had a chance to get going. The chefs delivered their creations to the table personally, the sommelier served wine after wine—each with its own explanation too—and a waitress topped off their water glasses so often, it felt intrusive.

It all put Helen on edge. “It’s awfully expensive, isn’t it?” she remarked when she realized that this little dinner would cost more than six hundred euros.

“Even so, I don’t think they make much money here.” Werner surveyed his surroundings calculatingly. “Not many covers compared to the size of the kitchen staff.”

There were eight or nine chefs hard at work in the kitchen, and every one of them looked young, toned, and hip. It was clear that they hadn’t just been hired for their cooking skills. A black woman was mopping the kitchen floor, while two of the chefs leaned against a counter and chatted.