Jesus H Geist

We decided to go to some uber-cool, super expensive new hot spot the Copenhageners (I looked that up) are currentlly flocking to. Which is to say all Copenhageners under the age of 30 who have a lot of disposable income. I was easily 25 years older than the next oldest person there. Possibly this was because it was POURING rain (we walked) and in my experience people with sense (older people) stay home rather than go out to eat when it’s raining. At least they do in Milwaukee, or in any event, they did in the brief time I owned a restaurant and it either snowed or rained every day for a year and a half. But I digress. It was raining and I was the oldest person there, all other, older people having had the sense to stay home, or so I assume. But I was in Copenhagen visiting and didn’t really have a home to stay at. And, hey, it’s a hot spot, in Copenhagen!

We went to Geist (rhymes with Christ). The restaurant, as you enter, is really, really dark, but you don’t notice that as you grope your way toward the host, so much as how incredibly loud it is. At least we thought it was loud until we were ushered to our stools at the bar, where we came to know what loud could actually mean. Not loud enough to make ears bleed but headed in that relative direction. And the music itself, I don’t know if this is a thing but it’s my second experience with it here in Scandinavia, it’s music you know, say, the BeeGees and Dusty Springfield, mixed to the same never-ending disco beat. Boz Scaggs, the Andrews Sisters, throw in freaking Mahalia Jackson, anything apparently goes.

The restaurant is an enormous bar which encircles the kitchen where you can watch, for instance, a sous chef (or something) tap paprika onto a large plate with one ravioli on it. It’s a “small plate’ restaurant but the plates were huge. The food was small. The ball of paprika was wrapped in a dishtowel and tapped onto the plate by means of percussing the ball on the back of the sous chef’s wrist over the plate. There was much hurried activity of that nature. Variously uniformed people rushing about adding this and that, elder flowers, a chive, to plates as they passed hither and tither.  

The food, though, was excellent, if difficult to photograph as you can see below. The absence of light combined with the pounding beat of the music made it hard to hold the phone still enough to take a focused picture. And there was also my discomfort at taking the pictures at all. While the Copenhageners politely seem to keep close counsel, I am sure they were all thinking who’s the geezer taking pictures with his phone? I was thinking that anyway.

The meal was superb, the fish, I forget what it was, covered with what appeared to be used band aids but were, in fact, mushroom raviolis, was wonderful. The beef tenderloin was perfect. There was also a lovely salad, pulled pork and some lightly sauteed spinach, all of which were great. 

In the end though, my advanced age (a panhandler in Oslo called me Grampa which I can inform you didn’t make me feel generously inclined) getting the better of me, we declined to have dessert. It was too much, the driving pulsing beat of Tiny Tim and The Oak Ridge Boys, and the need to squint in order to see what we were putting in our mouths. We fumbled our way out to the lobby—through the sea of umbrellas, found ours—and escaped out into the rain. The quiet, well lit rain. 

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