By Jess Bauldry
A few years ago, my partner and I visited London for the day and went to an upmarket restaurant beneath a grand building called the Royal Exchange. We’d spent the day chugging down the Thames on a tour boat, enjoying foggy views from high-rise buildings and eating cakes in twee marketplaces.
It was already dark outside but, as I descended a staircase into the brightly lit room, it felt like it was daytime. Leafy vines coiled around lampshades hung from the vaulted ceiling, above a chessboard floor where fresh-faced serving staff ferried food and drinks from the bar that snaked through the cavern. The place looked fancy. I immediately felt under-dressed.
We were seated on a curved, velvet banquette. As a fan of upholstery, I was admiring the different fabrics that had been used for the seat when an older man dressed like a waiter approached.
“You are American?” he asked.
We shook our heads, and I wondered if he got that impression from our casual attire. Located in the heart of the Old City of London, presumably, the restaurant attracts its share of tourists. At that point, I realised I was also a tourist. The idea bugged me. I was born in the UK and lived in London before moving to Luxembourg. I didn’t want to be pigeonholed as a tourist (aka overcharged).
The older man continued: “I am Alberto. Where are you from?”
It is a question I always dread because people make assumptions. Sure, Luxembourg is a rich country; it boasts the second highest GDP in the world. But it also has its share of poverty and, well, just regular people who try to get by on a modest income. Aka us.
Alberto didn’t seem in much of a hurry to take our order, so I asked where he was from. He told us with a slight accent that he was 60 and originally from Madeira.
“But that’s where we went on holiday!” my partner explained.
The old man’s eyes lit up. He took our order and left.
“Do you think he’s the owner?” My husband asked.
“Maybe,” I replied. But it didn’t seem the kind of place where the owner would serve customers. Especially when he had an army of young wait staff.
Minutes later, Alberto returned, nearly toppling a tray of drinks in our laps. I felt sad watching this old man, who should be winding down for retirement, struggling with heavy trays.
During the meal, my partner and I discussed why the poor man was still doing such a physically demanding job at 60. We imagined all kinds of reasons: he had lost all of his money in a cryptocurrency scam; his home had fallen into the sea; a golddigger robbed him of his life savings and now had to start again.
I longed to ask Alberto more but, between each course, a younger waiter would approach the table and efficiently clear our empty plates. When it was time to order dessert, Alberto waddled over.
“How was the food?”
“Wonderful!” we both nodded, ready with our answers to the next question: “What would you like for dessert?”.
The question never came
Instead, Alberto started talking about work, lamenting that the other waiting staff didn’t know how to speak to customers. They didn’t speak at all. They just executed their work robotically. Discreetly. He sighed. “I believe that people want to talk, to have connections,” he said.
I nodded, sensing a familiar leap in my heart from this exchange, the kind a journalist searches for in all their interviews: someone was about to tell a personal story. And I had a feeling it would be good.
Alberto told us about growing up in Madeira as a child who was so shy he couldn’t even talk to strangers. How he studied at hotel school. “It was hard.” He told us how he learned languages and worked his way up in different hotels and restaurants in Europe. Of how he built himself a house in Madeira. “It’s worth €1m. My wife lives there, and I go home during the holidays.”
He talked of how, while holidaying in the Philippines, he encountered an orphaned teenager sleeping rough and built him a house.
“Housing is cheaper there. I would retire, but I said I will pay for his university fees.”
Alberto had taken this job to pay for the boy’s education. A child who wasn’t his. What is more, he was only on probation at this job.
At that point, I wanted to invite Alberto to come and sit with us. To offer him a drink.
Before I had a chance to ask he leaned in closer and said: “If you could do me just one favour.”
“Of course,” my partner and I nodded enthusiastically.
“Could you please leave an online review and mention me? It would mean so much.”
A small request that suggests trust
What Alberto was asking us to do was minuscule. Writing a Google review was easy. Sure, we didn’t do it very often. But we could do it. What is more, Alberto was much more than a waiter. He was a good soul. A saint. And possibly a masterful storyteller.
Whether or not his story was true, what was real in this exchange was how he made me feel: as though we had invited his confidence. As though we were special enough for him to share his personal story. As though he trusted us.
I would say that trust is an overlooked part of storytelling. Sure, we have to trust what the person telling us is true for them. We might switch off or scoff if the fish they supposedly caught was the size of a bus or they were the hero in every tale. But we also have to believe that the teller trusts us, the listener, enough to share something personal and thus create this experience that remains with me years later.
In this case, Alberto used a psychological phenomenon known as the Ben Franklin effect, in which a person likes someone more after doing a favour for them. It is thought that this is because, even if they don’t like the other person, their minds struggle to maintain logical consistency between their actions and perceptions. Influencers frequently use the “hey, I’ve got a secret to share” gambit to draw in followers. And it clearly works.
Flexible communication with strangers
To understand the far-reaching implications of storytelling in communication, I recommend reading or revisiting the book “Sapiens”, by historian Yuval Noah Harari. In it he explains that the key factor differentiating homo sapiens from the rest of the animal kingdom: humans are able to cooperate flexibly with strangers. How? By creating and believing fictional realities (stories) and accepting them. Religious tell stories which outline the values which devout followers will live and die by. Stories and belief systems aren’t just limited to religion. They include modern constructs such as corporations and money.
Alberto shared a hero’s journey story with us. But there was also the story of capitalism (you work then you retire) and a good samaritan story, not to mention the myth of money.
Fictional realities have become so powerful so that today “the most powerful forces in the world are these fictional entities,” Harari said in the TEDTalk below, adding: “Today the very survival of resources: trees, plants and elephants (objective reality) depends on the decision and wishes of fictional entities like the US, Google, and the World Bank, entities that exist only in our imagination.”
A fictional reality you can get behind
Put another way: the world has been shaped by our imagination rather than what exists in nature. It means that anyone can control populations by leveraging fictional realities or stories, if people get behind them. Sadly not all storytellers use their skills for good. The result is conspiracy theorists who believe the earth is flat, the moon landings were a hoax and that 9/11 was an inside job, among other things. Research suggests that they hold onto these beliefs in order to feel like a hero in their own narrative (the hero’s journey again). Ultimately though they become the pawns of misinformation designed to disrupt communities.
Storytelling can, of course, be used for good, and given the huge geopolitical and social divisions we are living in, this is particularly important to think about as a writer.
Rutger Bregman’s “Humankind: A hopeful history” is a great example of this. It cuts through fear-mongering and myths that humans are at root selfish, and argues that on the whole, humans are pretty decent. It’s a fictional reality I can get behind. And Alberto knew that. It’s why, after our dinner in that chic restaurant, my partner and I left a big tip and a glowing review about the restaurant in which we mentioned Alberto.
If you really want to engage with a specific audience for good, and I hope that you do, reflect on their fictional realities, beliefs and, myths and find one that you can get behind. Then, reach out in a way that leverages an element of this reality. Maybe you want to ask for a favour. Maybe you want to share a secret. Maybe you just want to hear their story. Let me know how it goes.
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