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

blow and were putting out the same quality that Grant demanded. New dishes were being introduced, and on a nightly basis diners would finish their meals, come down to the kitchen, and be shocked to see chef Achatz standing at the pass. He didn’t often come over to greet them and ask about their meals—he could barely talk—but he was there, standing and working. More than a few teared up at the sight.

“It’s just so fantastic and so sad at the same time,” one woman said to me as she gripped my arm. “Please tell him it was a wonderful experience and that we are all praying for his recovery.”

I heard this over and over, and yet I still did not believe the food could be the same. An entirely new fall menu was conceived at a time when Grant could barely eat and executed while he could not taste. I made a reservation to come in and eat, something that I rarely did.

Grant knew why I was there, even though I claimed that I just felt like going out to dinner.

The meal was different. It was certainly Alinea-like in its appearance, but it was richer, more earthy, and more decadent. Nothing was too out there or too challenging. And everything, but everything, was fantastically delicious. It was, quite simply, the best food I had ever eaten at Alinea. I was shocked.

When I got down to the kitchen I walked up to Grant and smiled. “Sorry. I guess I should have known.”

I hadn’t heard him speak in a few days, but he looked at me and said, “You know, we know what we’re doing here.”

We both laughed. “Well, you must have been keeping those up your sleeve for a rainy day. It was like French Laundry meets Alinea. Completely safe but visually unique. A brilliant move. No one could not like that.”

I e-mailed everyone involved with the cookbook that night to set up a meeting for the next afternoon. We’d put our plans on hold, not knowing how Grant’s treatment would affect his ability to work. But it seemed that it was possible to move forward after all.

Mark Caro, Martin, Lara, and I sat down at the “rock and roll” table in the back dining room—so-called because for some reason that is where all the famous musicians have sat at Alinea.

None of them had seen Grant in a few weeks, and the changes were huge. He had lost a substantial amount of weight, his face was pockmarked with pimples and burned from the radiation, and he was largely bald. His lips were bright white from the lotion he slathered on to keep them from bleeding, and he had to coat his mouth with gelled painkillers just to drink water, let alone talk.

“What are we here for?” Mark asked. “I mean, you told us to hold off for a while.”

I explained that while the book was a priority for Grant, it wasn’t a priority for me. I wanted to make sure he kept his focus on his treatment and health first and Alinea second. The book could wait or not happen at all. But I wasn’t entirely honest with Grant about where I’d left things with the rest of the team. I’d told him that they were proceeding with the writing and design, when in fact I’d confided to them that I thought it was unlikely that the book would happen that year. I didn’t want them spending their time on something that wouldn’t come to fruition; it wouldn’t be fair to them.

We sat down at the table and Grant joined us. Nobody said anything. Grant looked around. “So, what’s everyone been doing? Nothing?”

Mark tried to dip a toe into the conversation. “Grant, we’re all concerned about you and your health, and it seems that the book can wait. I’m working on writing, but obviously we haven’t had the chance to talk and connect over the past month or so.”

Grant looked at Martin, who shrugged his shoulders a bit. Lara couldn’t photograph anything that wasn’t being made in the kitchen, so it seemed as though she was probably off the hook. But Grant didn’t see it that way.

“Who has cancer here, me or you guys? Why hasn’t anyone done anything? This is pathetic. We’ll never get this done at this rate. I don’t understand it. If you don’t want to do the book, tell me and I’ll find someone else to do it.”

With that he stood up and walked downstairs back to the kitchen. I apologized to everyone for allowing the meeting to take place. I should have known this was going to happen. I headed downstairs.

Grant didn’t want to talk to me, but I pulled him aside. “Look, just because you have cancer doesn’t give you the right to be an asshole. They’re concerned about you. This doesn’t just affect you; it affects everyone around you—Martin, Lara, the kitchen, me, your mom, your kids. None of us have cancer, but it’s still an emotionally trying time. I’m the one who told them not to do anything. I didn’t want to waste their time. I didn’t expect that you’d still be in the kitchen working. Now that I see I was wrong we can get going. Put together a shooting schedule and I’ll make sure we get Lara in here to photograph every day if necessary. But don’t yell at them. Yell at me.”

Grant was annoyed and having none of it. “We need to get the book done,” was all he said. What was unspoken and understood was that this was his legacy now, not just a book.

He wanted to document everything before he died.

My mother took the train from Michigan to stay with me during the hardest part of my treatment. Until now, I had tried to keep her away, and I’d done a reasonable job of taking care of myself. I was proud that I had made it this far. But she called and told me