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

participating. In addition to being preoccupied with my predicament, my doctors had also asked that I not plan any travel, just in case. I had participated in many of these types of events around the world and always found it challenging to decide what to show my colleagues. The audiences consisted of the leading names in the industry, and the goal is to show a totally original concept that would blow everyone’s mind. Once I was officially removed from the docket, I joked to Heather that I was completely at ease now that I didn’t have to rack my brain for a brilliant idea to show the industry. Cancer was a terrific excuse for mediocrity. But the reality was that I wanted desperately to go and prove that I was still alive, still working, still creating food. And I also wanted to show support for Heather’s efforts in producing this event.

My body was in steady and rapid decline at this point, and I hadn’t even started radiation yet. A rash resembling pubescent acne began to cover my face and arms, my skin was dry and cracking, and I was temporarily sporting a Mohawk on my way toward baldness. Going to work in this condition was uncomplicated. I spent sixteen hours a day around the same group of fifty people. They knew me well and they viewed me as the same chef I was before I got cancer. The staff worked harder than ever to maintain standards, even while it must have been hard on them to look at me as a daily reminder of their own mortality. But they didn’t show it. Alinea was the most comfortable place for me to be every day, because I had exactly the kind of support I needed.

I didn’t, however, want to embarrass Heather or myself. I looked terrible. Heather had last seen me prior to shaving my head—when I still looked fairly normal. Over the subsequent ten days the shit had hit the fan. The rash had come on strong, I had lost ten pounds, and my head was now completely shaven. For the first time, I looked like a cancer patient. She knew I wanted to come to the conference and encouraged me to attend, but I worried she would freak out when she saw me.

The nausea was near constant now and my energy was waning as well, but I decided nonetheless to go. Heather was moderating a panel called “From Kitchen to Cookbook” with Jeffrey Steingarten, publishers Ann Bramson and Will Scwalbe, and literary agent Lisa Queen. I was invited to join the discussion. I needed to prove to myself and the culinary world that I was still relevant.

I arrived at Seven World Trade Center and called Heather so she could come out and meet me. She greeted me in the lobby with a giant hug and kiss, burying her face in my shoulder to try to hide her sudden tears at seeing me look so frail and sick. Then she grabbed my hand and led me up the elevator into the mass of people milling about on the conference floor. Most people didn’t recognize me, and I was incredibly self-conscious. I couldn’t believe Heather wanted to be seen showing affection toward me looking like I did. It gave me strength to press through.

The panel was scheduled just after I arrived, so I jumped right in. I’m sure at least part of the crowd had no idea who I was until Heather introduced me. I kept a bottle of water by my side and hoped my voice wouldn’t give out. I did reasonably well and even managed to crack a few jokes and earn a few real laughs from the audience. After the discussion, a few of the attendees came up and asked for photos with me.

Other chefs greeted me throughout the night with a hug and a pat on the back, followed by conversation as usual. Everyone went out of his or her way to act as though nothing was different, but not in a way so as to not acknowledge the elephant in the room. Ultimately, I was grateful to them. I even agreed to join in as a judge on a “Best Pacojet Dish” competition, even though I know some people wondered if I could even taste.

At this point, taste was not an issue.

CHAPTER 25

I had dreaded the chemo because I had heard about all of the nasty side effects. The reality was that I was in far better shape after twelve weeks of Erbitux and traditional cancer therapy drugs than I was before I started the treatment. Yes, I had a case of acne that would rival that of any adolescent, as well as some issues with basic human functioning (some of the drugs make a bowel movement nearly impossible). But the tumor had shrunk, the morphine patches on my arm controlled the pain, and I was able to speak and eat better than I had in months. I felt like it was working—and I was told by doctors that I was responding well—so emotionally I was on a high.

Then came the radiation.

I was told from the beginning by everyone on the medical team that they were going to “take me low”—almost kill me—while trying to rid me of the cancer. This included weeks of intensive targeted radiation treatment on my tongue, jaw, and neck that would burn the inside of my mouth and throat like a severe sunburn. The skin covering my tongue and throat would peel off like wrapping paper, taking with it my taste buds. Of all of the side effects of treatment, this is what I feared the most. If I couldn’t taste, could I really be a chef?

I knew that the most important aspect of what I did came from within, not the ability to taste or evaluate the completed dishes. After all, I had a team of more than twenty highly trained chefs in the kitchen, some of whom