Life, on the Line by Grant Achatz (leveled readers .TXT) 📗

that sucks,” I said. “But we don’t know much yet. I know a few people who have skin cancer and it’s been no big deal—the kind of thing they cut out then monitor over time. Just make that appointment with the ENT and I’ll be down there in two hours. Okay?”

“Yeah. I already made the appointment for Monday. Stay up there. I’m going to the restaurant—we have ninety-eight booked tonight with forty Tours.” He was referring to the large number of customers we had coming in that night for dinner and the intricate “Chef’s Tour” menu that had been requested ahead of time.

“Grant. Don’t worry about that.”

“What am I supposed to do, go home and die?”

“Good point. I’ll see you at Alinea.”

“What for? Stay up there. I need some time to myself anyway. I need to think.”

I hung up the phone and looked over at the first tee to see Bruce, Chris, and Andy watching me. I headed over directly to Andy. “Well?” he said.

“It’s cancer. Squamous cell carcinoma.” Tears began to well up in my eyes and I was trembling. I had a hard time keeping it together.

Andy grabbed both of my shoulders and looked me square in the eye when I lifted my head. “It’s going to be fine,” he said. “Look at me. I’m here. He can beat this.”

I hit my tee shot down the center of the fairway. I walked alone the first few holes, thinking, “This cannot be happening.” Then I spent the rest of the match with Andy, asking him about his ordeal and his treatment. It sounded like pure hell.

But Andy was here playing golf.

I left the oral surgeon’s office in a daze.

Cancer.

I had no profound thoughts; I just wandered toward my car and marveled that everything seemed so normal. Even my tongue wasn’t hurting that day.

I drove to Alinea, parked behind the restaurant, and entered through the kitchen door. The place was already humming with chefs who had come in early to get ahead on their prep.

I walked over to my station, grabbed a cutting board, and started turning artichokes. I had plenty of time to lose myself in the prep. I was like a zombie.

I thought of Kaden and Keller. I thought about what I would tell my mom. I looked around at all of the employees and worried about them.

And then I turned more artichokes. Slowly, methodically, I pressed through the day.

Three o’clock staff meeting. Introduced the new dishes. Choked down a bit of food at 4:00 P.M. staff meal. 4:30 cleanup. 5:30 doors open.

Ninety-eight guests with forty Tours. One thousand eight hundred seventy dishes to go out.

I thought to myself that I did not want to leave Alinea that night.

I thought I might just stay there until the next morning.

My third nine-hole match concluded that day at nearly 7:00 P.M. I played remarkably well, considering that I didn’t think about golf for a second. The caddie would hand me a club, I would look at the target and hit the ball. I genuinely didn’t care. It was a state of golf I had been trying to achieve my whole life: complete dispassion.

I walked the course thinking about my dad and his life and death. I thought about my mom’s struggle over the past few months and whether or not I had made the right decision in giving the go-ahead for her brain surgery. I thought about the cruel irony that the best young chef in the world had tongue cancer and what that meant. I fought back tears for all of those things that day.

I explained to Bruce that I was going to head back to Alinea and skip the dinner that night. “For sure, Nick. Go ahead.”

I arrived at the restaurant at 10:00 P.M. I had to remind myself before I walked in the kitchen door that no one there knew yet. I had to compose myself. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and looked in.

There was Grant at the pass plating a dozen dishes at once with five chefs gathered around him. The kitchen was cranking. He is still here, still alive, I reminded myself. I was calmed by the normality of it all.

I walked up to Grant. “Hey. How’s it going?”

He turned his head, gave a smile and a raised eyebrow, and said, “Fantastic! What are you doing here? I thought you had a golf tournament to play.”

“Yeah, well. I thought I’d drive down and say hi.”

He looked good, but I must have looked like shit. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

I never ate Alinea food during service, and Grant never offered to cook for me. I found myself saying, “Actually, yes,” despite my better judgment.

Grant called out, “Curtis, do we have any of that duck breast left over?”

“Yes, Chef. My station, third shelf in the back.”

Grant walked over to the flattop, grabbed a pan, and made a perfectly cooked duck breast. He then heated up morels, stock, and some garnishes from other dishes while slicing up the breast. He put it all in an oversized, shallow bowl, and as if on cue, Curtis reached over and ad-libbed some freezedried peas, micro greens, sea salt, and my favorite, Thai long pepper. They did this in a few minutes right in the middle of a crushing service. The dish looked worthy of the best French restaurants in the world.

I was dumbfounded. “Why is it that I can’t get that down the street at some French bistro? If we opened a place that did that we would kill ’em.”

“Eh. It’s easy ’cause we do everything right,” Grant replied. “The stock. The mushrooms. No one does it like that. You know that. Boring though, right? Where’s the challenge in that?” He smiled and handed me the plate.

I took it to the downstairs office, snapped a picture with my phone, locked the door, ate my duck, and tried to remain calm.

It was delicious. Just perfect.

And so terribly sad.

E-mail to the investors of Alinea:

Gentlemen,

I am truly