Weak Signals
On November 16, I sent a spontaneous application to Quan. I was aware the restaurant was attached to a hotel, but only during my trial shift did I fully realize the extent of its integration within a 4-star hotel.
Many of my early questions—about dishware, trolleys, or food storage—were answered with “it’s for the hotel.” I deduced that the entire food and conference service, including breakfast, was run by the same company, but no clear onboarding ever explained these overlaps. The structure remained opaque.
Her familiarity felt disproportionate coming from someone I’d never met. I responded politely but awkwardly, unsure who she was. When she and Henrik entered the meeting room together, she naturally led the conversation. That’s when I assumed she was in charge of the restaurant—someone with practical authority beyond her official title.
No one introduced her or confirmed her title. Later, colleagues casually referred to her as “the boss.” I had no reason to doubt it. I only discovered much later she was formally listed as Deputy Board Member—a position that carries no formal management authority in Sweden.
That gap between perceived authority and official status didn’t strike me immediately, but it shaped a subtle confusion. I adapted to her leadership as if she were the founder or legal manager. At no point was I told otherwise.
That ambiguity had immediate consequences: moments earlier, I had greeted several team members, including a floor manager I’d bonded with during my shift. He ignored my handshake. In retrospect, I interpreted this as a reaction to my rushed greeting to her—possibly seen as a lack of deference to the executive lead.
The session itself was warm. Henrik showed visible enthusiasm, while Sahar remained measured but positive. Both seemed relieved to have found someone “reliable”. I, too, felt I had landed in the right place, though I sensed a slight mismatch between Sahar’s informal posture and the authority she embodied.
The tone was enthusiastic. They expressed visible relief at finding someone “reliable.” They emphasized three principles: punctuality, exclusive availability, and attention to detail—framed as missing virtues in their previous hires.
I was offered an hourly rate of 160 SEK/h on the spot, based on my CV and the trial performance. I disclosed an existing weekend job, which Sahar acknowledged without hesitation, even framing it as a sign of integrity.
During that meeting, Sahar mentioned a digital contract would be sent. I expected it within days, but no document ever arrived. No login credentials, no confirmation, no follow-up. The promise remained unfulfilled despite clear mutual agreement.
I also raised a condition: receiving a share of tips. They said the matter would be discussed with the floor and bar managers. A few days later, both confirmed their approval individually. No contract followed, but Sahar briefly mentioned one would—possibly via their internal system. That mention was never repeated.
Throughout this period, my only point of contact was Henrik. His number was the only one I received. Any attempt to address questions or follow up—about schedules, duties, or documents—was redirected: “I'll ask Sahar.” Eventually, I stopped asking. He often seemed embarrassed or reluctant.
When he was absent, I was told to ask the sous-chefs. That proved even more difficult. Their responses felt dismissive, and I quickly sensed that pushing further was unwelcome. I began submitting written questions to the restaurant’s general email. These were not challenged, but I knew they fell outside accepted channels.
The meeting lasted approximately 30 minutes, between 13:53 and 14:28, as confirmed in my Google Timeline. Though informal in tone, it set the essential terms of work and gave rise to what I interpreted as the start of formal employment.