My daughter turned 18. We took her to the rotating restaurant at Mövenpick for dinner—part metaphor, part celebration. Eighteen is movement. Turning. Ascending. She wore a long silky black dress, the kind that suggests she knows things now. Her hair fell to her back. Beautiful girl. Exceptional genes.
Not one to betray great emotion, I asked her what she thought once we were seated. She looked around, scanned the skyline, and said, “It’s really nice.” Which, in 2026, translates to: Instagrammable.
All the way on the 24th floor, The View rotates. Slowly, like the sun. The View rotates slowly, ceremonially, like it has nowhere urgent to be. Nairobi stretches beneath you—glass, headlights, mystery. It’s fine dining without music. Perhaps they believe the skyline hums enough on its own. Maybe they’re right. What didn’t rotate was the service.
After being seated and handed menus, we entered a period of long reflection. We admired the city. We pointed out the Expressway. I walked to the maitre d and said, “Do you think we could get a waiter to serve us?”
A waiter materialised. Drinks arrived. The ladies had cocktails. I observed Dry January with moral superiority. Conversation improved. Hunger deepened. My son who had school the following day started nodding off. The food finally appeared close to 9.30pm—we had been seated at 7:45pm. To its credit, it looked excellent and tasted even better.
The kitchen, at least, understands timing in theory. But celebrations are about rhythm. And ours had been interrupted.
When the birthday cake arrived, we had one foot in the elevator. Still, the birthday girl was pleased. The evening did not unfold perfectly—but then again, neither does adulthood. Maybe that was the metaphor after all.
