Kristian Brask Thomsen has lived hospitality at full volume. He has been a breakdancer, waiter, sommelier, restaurateur, writer, host, storyteller and the creator of Dining Impossible. He has crossed continents in search of extraordinary tables, brought strangers together in some of the world’s most celebrated restaurants and built Bon Vivant into an international embassy for gastronomy, travel and human connection. His journey carries all the elements of a rock-and-roll life: ambition, excess, reinvention, spectacular success, a million-euro collapse and a return from the edge powered by curiosity, discipline and an unshakable appetite for beauty.
Through it all, restaurants have remained his stage. They gave him a profession, an identity, a community and a way of understanding the world. Around their tables, he has witnessed friendships begin, partnerships form, people fall in love, and entire lives change direction. This is Kristian’s story in his own words: the story of a boy from a small Danish island who dressed for the life he wanted, found his purpose in hospitality and became one of gastronomy’s most distinctive ambassadors of pleasure.
Chapter I • Fake It till You Become It
“I was already looking the part without being it. Fake it till you make it, if you will.”
As a teenager, I was a young man without much purpose in life. I had gone from being a very sociable child to becoming something of a lone wolf. Music became my refuge. My father was a disc jockey, playing in inns, dance halls and discotheques throughout the part of Denmark where I grew up. In many ways, I was raised with a headphone jack in my hand. Hip-hop became my first real obsession. I started as a scratch DJ, fascinated by turntables and beats, before discovering breakdancing. I threw myself into that world completely and, before long, I had become a well-known and reasonably accomplished breakdancer within that community. At the same time, another dream was taking shape.
Even at seventeen or eighteen, I had this strange ambition of becoming what I called a man of the world. A bon vivant. I couldn’t have explained exactly what that meant, but I knew the direction I wanted my life to take. So, I dressed accordingly. While my friends looked like ordinary teenagers, I already wore turtlenecks and double-breasted suits, trying to resemble the man I hoped to become one day. I certainly wasn’t him yet. I barely had enough money to buy breakfast. As we say in Denmark, I didn’t even have salt for an egg. It was, in every sense, fake it till you make it. Those years were full of contradictions. I jumped from one education to another without ever finishing anything. Part of me wanted refinement, elegance and culture. Another part was still the rough kid from the hip-hop scene. A gentleman and a breakdancer.
At around nineteen and a half, my ambitions of becoming a professional dancer came to an end, and I returned to the island where I had grown up. Very few people know this part of my story. I went home because I simply didn’t know what came next. For the first time, I wondered whether all those dreams of becoming someone extraordinary had already come to an end before they had even begun. My mother would probably have loved it if I had stayed. I might have ended up with a house, a wife, children and, who knows, become a slightly overweight head waiter at the local restaurant. It would have been a perfectly respectable life. It simply wasn’t mine.
Chapter II • The Waiter Who Refused an Ordinary Life
“It doesn’t matter what your purpose is. It only matters that you have one.”
When I returned to the island, I had no master plan. I needed to earn a living, so I took a part-time job as a waiter at an old royal-privileged inn. It was one of Denmark’s better-known establishments, and the man who later became my master was responsible for royal banquets and official functions. I had never imagined hospitality would become my profession, but I quickly discovered that I was good at it. At the same time, my mother’s husband kept encouraging me to get a proper education. He used to say unemployment was the root of all evil, and that it didn`t matter whether your purpose was to become a rocket scientist or a waiter. What mattered was having one. At first, I experienced hospitality almost as a personal defeat. I was intellectually curious, loved books and conversation, and many of my friends had already gone to university or started respectable careers. Their lives seemed settled while mine felt uncertain.
I eventually embraced the profession. In Denmark, becoming a waiter is a serious education lasting three and a half years. You study food, wine, service, guest psychology, languages and the staging of a dining room. You learn how to host, how to read a room and how to create what Italians call bella figura; making both the guest and the house look their very best. Used properly, that education trains you to become a maître d’hôtel.
I had found my place. Even as an apprentice, when the mayor or another important guest arrived, people would say, “Put Kristian on it.” They trusted me to host because I had an eye for detail and genuinely enjoyed making people feel welcome. By twenty-three and a half, I was fully qualified. I had a good salary, a house and a girlfriend. Then an old friend returned from Copenhagen and told me, “Kristian, this life isn’t for you. You’re meant for greater things. You need to move to Copenhagen.” I resigned, packed everything into a car with my girlfriend, and drove towards the city. I still remember crossing the Great Belt Bridge at half past five in the morning, with Hallelujah playing and the sun rising. It felt like the beginning of the next chapter of my life.
Chapter III • Copenhagen Killed the Small-Town Boy
“Somehow, I always seem to end up in the right place at the right time.”
When I arrived in Copenhagen, everything changed. I had left behind the island, a secure job and a predictable future without knowing exactly where life would take me. My girlfriend stayed just long enough to help me settle before she left. Looking back, I think she already knew our journey together had ended before we crossed the Great Belt Bridge. One chapter closed as another began. My career accelerated almost immediately. I started at Konrad, then arguably the most exciting restaurant in Scandinavia. It was packed every night, attracting guests from across Europe, and after dinner it transformed into a party. Copenhagen’s restaurant scene was unlike anything I had experienced, and I suddenly found myself at the centre of it. I went from waiter to head waiter and soon joined Henrik Boserup at Formel B, where I was introduced to a completely different level of hospitality and ambition.
Not long afterwards, I became one of forty-eight candidates selected to earn the Danish sommelier certification. Curiosity then took me to London, where I worked at The Square in Mayfair, one of the city’s defining Michelin-starred restaurants at the time. George Michael became a regular, Roger Moore often dined there, and even the Prince of Wales visited. Looking back, I realise how often life placed me close to remarkable people and remarkable places. Former colleagues eventually persuaded me to return to Copenhagen to run Plaza Restaurant and the Library Bar opposite Tivoli. I invited the British chef Paul Cunningham to join me, and together we assembled what I believed was a dream team. It lasted about a year before a spectacular argument during service ended the partnership. Afterwards, I returned to Formel B, managing the restaurant for a year.
By 2003, I felt the familiar urge to build something of my own. I opened my first restaurant, then another, and then a third. Before I turned thirty, I had experienced almost every side of the restaurant business: service, wine, management, design, atmosphere and the kitchen. At the time, it felt as though everything I touched was moving forward. I had no idea that success was about to teach me the hardest lesson of my life.
Chapter IV • The Million-Euro Fall
“It wasn’t my fault. But it was my responsibility.”
By the age of twenty-nine, I thought I had figured life out. I had become one of Copenhagen’s young restaurateurs, quickly running three restaurants and appearing on magazine covers. Colleagues called me the Great White Hope, and, to be perfectly honest, it all went straight to my ego. Success had arrived so quickly that I simply assumed it would continue. My business consisted of three different entities. Because of contractual issues involving leases and ownership rights to my personal one, I suddenly lost the right to sell the restaurant I had bought for millions of Danish kroner. Within two months, everything collapsed.
At thirty, I lost almost one million euros in today’s money. I lost my businesses, my apartments and the identity I had built around success. I returned to the island where I grew up and moved back into my teenage cellar apartment. For two years, I survived on whatever work I could find while trying to understand what my future looked like. The judge handling my case said something I have never forgotten: “It isn’t your fault. But it is your responsibility.” Those words changed my life. They stopped me asking why it had happened and made me focus on what I was going to do next. Around that time, a wonderful young woman entered my life and helped me rebuild. I also began educating myself. I never finished high school or went to university, so I created my own education by reading Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Dumas, and many of the great classics. Somewhere along the way I discovered that I could write. More importantly, I realised I was a storyteller. One series had a particular impact on me: The Flashman Papers. The Danish editions carried titles such as A Bon Vivant at Court and A Bon Vivant at Sea. That expression stayed with me. Bon vivant. It was the same idea I had chased since I was a teenager, without ever fully understanding it.
I began writing about restaurants, wine, hospitality and the extraordinary people I had met along the way. Gradually, writing became another way of rebuilding my life. Eventually, one of Denmark’s leading magazine editors called me and said, “You shouldn’t be writing where you do. You should be writing for me.” Looking back, I still smile at the irony. I lost almost everything because of restaurants. Restaurants also gave me back my future.
Chapter V • The Bon Vivant Manifesto
“I always knew I would return to hospitality. This time, I would return with the ability to communicate.”
Writing gradually became much more than therapy. It became a profession. What had started as a small column on Denmark’s most widely read food blog soon attracted the attention of one of the country’s leading lifestyle editors. He told me I shouldn’t be writing for someone else’s platform anymore; I should be writing for his. Suddenly, I found myself travelling, interviewing remarkable people, and telling stories about restaurants, wine, and hospitality.
One assignment led to another. Before long I was walking through the vineyards of Bordeaux, dining beneath the rooftops of Paris, attending grand dinners in the Kremlin and visiting some of the world’s most remarkable restaurants. I became editor-at-large for Luxury Aficionados, while English-language publications also began commissioning my work. Looking back, it still amazes me. Only a few years earlier I had been back in my childhood bedroom, wondering what came next.
Even then, I knew journalism would never be my final destination. Hospitality was still in my blood. Restaurants had shaped almost every important chapter of my life, and I had experienced them from every angle: as a waiter, sommelier, manager, restaurateur and, finally, as a writer, later as a film producer, too. That combination gave me a perspective I hadn’t expected. I understood both the reality behind the scenes and the stories that deserved to be told. I don`t recall if you know, but I have produced two feature films- full-length motion pictures on top gastronomy, and successful ones, too, aired across the world, and a three-episode series on the Nordic culinary success for Scandinavian broadcasting networks. Your piece doesn`t include a film section, so I thought we might slip that in there.
We deliberately call ourselves an embassy rather than an agency because we see ourselves as ambassadors for people whose work we genuinely believe in. Before I agree to represent a restaurant or a hotel, I have to fall in love with it. It needs a soul, a purpose and people pursuing excellence for reasons beyond recognition. Our job is to understand what makes a place unique and communicate that essence without ever compromising its authenticity. Restaurants are far more than places that serve food. They bring together architecture, design, lighting, music, service, wine, cuisine and human emotion to create a single experience. Every restaurant has its own identity. Our role is to uncover it, refine it and share it with the world through storytelling, partnerships and experiences that remain true to the people behind them. The hospitality industry often chases recognition, but I have always believed that recognition should be the consequence of excellence, never its substitute. Popularity comes and goes. Prestige is built over time through consistency, integrity and extraordinary work. As a teenager, I wore double-breasted suits because I wanted to look like the man I hoped to become. Today I understand that becoming that man had very little to do with the clothes. It had everything to do with the journey.
Chapter VI • Mission: Dining Impossible
“People told me it was impossible. So, I called it Dining Impossible.”
Even while I was writing and travelling, I always knew I would return to hospitality. The opportunity arrived in 2009, during the financial crisis. Restaurants were struggling because people had stopped going out, and I wondered whether they simply needed a reason to gather again. So, I organised a dinner party. The first took place at Hotel Skt. Petri in Copenhagen. I earned very little from those early evenings, but that was never the point. I wanted to bring people together, create optimism and help restaurants fill empty tables. A journalist from the Danish Financial Times wrote that I was giving the financial crisis the middle finger. I thought that captured the spirit perfectly.
The idea grew quickly. I started collaborating with Michelin-starred restaurants and, in 2011, Noma agreed to let me host a monthly dinner in its private dining room. At the time, it was the world`s most sought-after restaurant. Suddenly I had sixteen seats that brought together entrepreneurs, ambassadors, collectors, artists and travellers from across the globe. The dinners became about much more than food. They sparked conversations, friendships, and a sense of belonging among people who otherwise would never have met.
After twenty or so events, I wanted to create something bigger than a single dinner. I imagined an entire weekend built around extraordinary restaurants and unexpected experiences. People immediately told me it couldn’t be done. You couldn’t reserve Noma, Geranium and AOC for the same group of guests. It was impossible. So, I called it Dining Impossible. My vision quickly expanded beyond Denmark. After Copenhagen came Barcelona, with restaurants including El Celler de Can Roca and 41°. Then came invitations from cities across Europe and beyond. Without ever starting with a business plan, the dinner parties evolved into an international community united by a shared love of hospitality, discovery and human connection. Looking back, Bon Vivant was born around a dinner table.
Chapter VII •The Ambassador of Pleasure
“Food is a language we all speak, just in different dialects.”
Dining Impossible continued to grow until 2022. What began as a handful of dinner parties gradually became something much bigger. We travelled from Copenhagen to Paris, San Sebastián, Monte Carlo and beyond, bringing together extraordinary restaurants, remarkable people and unforgettable experiences. Some weekends included helicopters, private jets and places few people ever have the chance to visit, but the real luxury was never the logistics. It was the people around the table. Over the years, others began creating similar concepts. I never minded. If more people wanted to bring strangers together over great food and wine, I saw that as something positive. Guests who had joined us from the beginning often told me the same thing: “Kristian, nobody hosts a dinner quite like you.” Perhaps that is because I never thought of them as events. I thought of them as friendships waiting to happen. I have always believed hospitality should give more than it takes. We never asked restaurants for discounts or expected special treatment. We paid full price, ordered great wines, and tipped generously because I wanted everyone, from the chefs to the dishwashers, to feel appreciated. Restaurants dedicate their lives to creating memorable experiences. They deserve guests who value that effort.
The most beautiful part of every dinner always arrived a few hours after the first course. The food brought people together, but eventually the conversation became more important than the menu. People shared stories, ideas, ambitions and failures. Business partnerships were born. Lifelong friendships began. Some people fell in love. I even met my daughter`s mother during one of those dinners. Moments like that remind me that the most important thing served at a great table is never the food. It is human connection. Travelling through gastronomy also taught me how to understand the world. I have shared meals from the source of the Mekong River to the Kremlin and the streets of Guadalajara. Every table offered a different culture, a different history and a different way of seeing life. Food is a universal language. We all speak it. We simply speak it in different dialects.
For many years I described myself as a culinary Indiana Jones, always searching for extraordinary places and extraordinary people. Today, my role has changed. My greatest responsibility is to my team, our partners, and the chefs, hoteliers, and restaurateurs who trust us with their life’s work. Watching them succeed has become every bit as rewarding as discovering another extraordinary restaurant. When I was young, I wanted to become a man of the world. Today, I understand that being a bon vivant has very little to do with luxury. It is about curiosity, generosity and creating beautiful moments that people carry with them long after the table has been cleared.