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

she wanted me to come along. I was incredibly apprehensive. After all, I was nine years older than her, had two sons from a previous relationship, and, oh yeah, stage-four cancer. That was a good amount of baggage to bring into any relationship, and no parent could be happy that his or her daughter was bringing that guy home. Despite that, I suggested I stay an extra day and head down with her to see them.

We pulled up to the curb and got out of the cab to see her parents, sister, and grandmother excitedly squeezing through the doorway all at once to come out and greet us. Her mother hugged us both simultaneously and all of my fears about not being accepted vanished.

After the general introductions and small talk, Heather and I got right to work. Dinner, of course, was the plan. We quickly dispatched Doug, her stepfather, on a shopping mission while we started kneading pasta dough and making a marinade for the fish he was picking up. Her mother set the table on the back patio, lit candles, and gathered basil, oregano, and rosemary from the garden.

We banged out dinner in record time, all the while sipping wine and chatting with her family: fresh pasta with tomatoes, garlic, and herbs; scallops grilled over rosemary branches; grilled bass marinated in orange juice and herbs. Heather roasted some grapes with Pedro Ximenez to spoon over Greek yogurt for dessert. As we sat on the back porch eating by candlelight in the peaceful summer night, Chicago and cancer felt far away.

Thomas and Laura had commented on my normal appearance during our meal at Gramercy a few weeks earlier, and I had even felt bold enough to tell Nick and Heather that I thought maybe, just maybe, the drugs wouldn’t affect me at all. Nick told me I was delusional. He was always trying to prepare me, but I thought he was wrong. Turns out, he was right.

After dinner Heather and I laid down on the couch, unable to do much more since we were stuffed. She was rubbing my back and running her fingers through my hair as we chatted with her mom when she stopped and I heard her say, “Uh, oh.”

I turned to see her staring at her hand. It was full of light red hair. The drugs were starting to take full effect. My cells were starting to divide more slowly, to die off.

I returned home the next day and decided I had to shave my head. My hair was pouring out of my head in a steady stream and even a slight breeze would leave a blanket of hair on my shoulders. I couldn’t risk it coming out in the food while I worked. Facing the inevitable, I decided to try to have fun with it.

With Kaden and Keller flanking me on the couch while we watched Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel, I asked them if they wanted to do something crazy. Of course they said yes, so I encouraged them to pull out my hair. Keller was the first to take me up on my offer. With a devilish look he pinched a small amount between his thumb and index finger and tugged. He winced, anticipating my reaction to what he thought was a painful act. He didn’t even notice the hair between his fingers.

“Holy cow, Dad, look at your hair!” Kaden shouted, pointing at the clump in Keller’s hand. “Can I try?”

The boys took turns yanking hair from my head, each grasp becoming larger and larger as they laughed hysterically. They could only reach the sides, right above my ears, so after a few minutes I got up and looked in the mirror. I had the start of a Mohawk. Perfect. I figured I would take it a step further and surprise the Alinea staff with a cleanly shaven hawk. That was more than a bit out of character for me, but perfectly in character for many of them. The boys helped me shave the sides and back as best as we could and then we walked over to a cheap chain barbershop to have them clean it up.

When I sat in the chair and removed my baseball cap the hairstylist recoiled visibly. “I told them they could give me a trim,” I said, pointing to the boys, “but they didn’t do such a good job.” The guys howled with laughter as she tightened up our handiwork. I slapped my cap back on and returned home. I snapped a pic of myself with my phone and e-mailed it to Nick. The phone rang ten seconds later. “You look like a serial killer. Psycho, man. Love it,” he said.

I walked into Alinea the next day with a full-on Mohawk. For me it was a simple attempt to lighten a serious situation and put the team at ease. Of course at this point, everyone knew I had cancer and was undergoing treatment, but this was the first time the side effects of treatment made it obvious that something was happening to me. The staff responded in an act of solidarity and either shaved their heads or crafted Mohawks of their own. Sommelier Scott Norman, an employee I’d worked with since Trio—and who himself is without kidneys and has been through countless surgeries—Mohawked his goatee, since he already had a shaved head. We may have looked nuts to our high-end customers, but I had never felt a tighter bond in the restaurant.

Each fall StarChefs.com holds the largest culinary industry conference in the United States, bringing the top names in food to New York for three days to share ideas and socialize. Heather worked for StarChefs, and she persuaded me to take part in the conference that year. The planning for these events happens months in advance, and I was scheduled to give a demonstration on the main stage. But after my diagnosis, Heather let the organizers know that I wouldn’t be