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

knees to my chest in the fetal position. The doctor explained that the first poke would be the painful one. It was the local anesthetic to numb the area. It wasn’t bad. I glanced over at the needle he picked up next to extract the cerebrospinal fluid.

“Relax,” he said. Which was pretty funny given the size of the needle.

“Do not move. Don’t even flinch while I’m doing this. And try not to tense up or hold your breath.”

Yeah. Right.

The doctor worked quickly, and I tried to remain calm. “That wasn’t so bad,” he said. “The fluid looks clear, which is a good sign. But it will take a few hours to get the results. Take a rest.”

I reluctantly spent the night in the hospital, and even though my test came back negative the next morning the doctor strongly recommended that I stay away from work for an entire week in case the virus I was carrying was contagious.

I was totally depleted and really couldn’t argue. I let chef Keller know that I was fine, but that I couldn’t come in. I hadn’t eaten in days and had lost nearly ten pounds. My energy level was zero. But my most pressing concern was that four days from now I was supposed to travel to Chicago for my tryout with Henry at Trio.

Henry had already paid for my plane ticket, and the thought of canceling or postponing made me feel even worse. I was also freaking out at the thought of missing a week at The French Laundry, then following that up with three days off so I could find a new job. I called Henry the next morning and told him I wasn’t sure I would be able to make the tryout. He immediately thought that I had changed my mind or that chef Keller had persuaded me to stay at the Laundry. I explained my stay at the hospital and my illness, but it sounded phony. After all, I wasn’t diagnosed with anything in particular. Henry kindly told me to rest up and feel better. I promised to call him within two days to let him know for sure.

I tried to go back to the Laundry early, but Thomas wouldn’t have it.

When I finally returned, I pulled chef Keller aside and explained my precarious position. Chef knew about the tryout and had agreed to provide me with all of the ingredients I needed to prep ahead. In fact, he wouldn’t even let me pay for them. The Elysian Fields Farm saddle of lamb, black truffles, truffle stock, lobster, and foie gras would all need to be partially prepared and brought along. Of course, all of these arrangements had been made before I got sick and missed work.

“Bad timing, Grant, but you should still go. It isn’t your fault you got sick. Don’t worry about missing the extra days here. But the real question is whether or not you feel well enough to pull it off.”

Having chef Keller’s blessing was all I needed. I felt guilty but relieved and called Henry to tell him that I was well enough to make it to Chicago.

I headed into the Laundry kitchen to prepare the mise en place, not for dinner that night, but for my future.

I landed at O’Hare and headed to the baggage claim to retrieve the box of food that I’d brought along. I headed outside to meet Henry, who had come to pick me up. We exchanged pleasantries and drove toward Evanston.

“I couldn’t help but think that you were some punk kid who got cold feet. But man, you genuinely look sick. You’re white as a ghost.”

I assured Henry that I felt fine and we began to chat about other Chicago restaurants. The month of e-mails gave us a certain comfort with each other. He mentioned that he wanted to set up a dinner somewhere on the last night I was in town and asked where I wanted to go.

“Blackbird,” I said. “I met Paul Kahan when I was in Spain and he seems like a great guy. I hear good things about his food.”

“Blackbird it is,” he said. “But tonight I want you to eat at Trio with me.”

We exited the expressway and started east down Dempster Avenue toward Evanston. The road pierced a series of strip malls and some low-rise office building sprawl, with the not so occasional fast-food chain in the mix. Compared to the vineyard-covered mountains flanking Napa Valley, the view was depressing. I was worried that Trio would be in the third strip mall to the left.

Finally, though, the suburban grunge gave way to grass, trees, and beautiful homes. This was encouraging. We turned on Hinman Avenue and I recognized the name from the Trio website. It was a beautiful tree-lined street within the community of Northwestern University. Even in March, the Midwest had some beauty and charm.

We walked up to the inn that housed Trio, which looked like it could easily fit in rural New Hampshire. A sign hung in front of a white pillar: THE HOMESTEAD. “Nice,” I thought.

As soon as we walked in, however, things felt a little dated. In the lobby area was an old green event sign—the kind where you pop in the plastic characters to announce private dining events in the restaurant. The gray carpet on the floor was dirty and worn. Henry had made arrangements for me to stay there for the three nights, so I checked in and went up to my room to catch my breath and get cleaned up. We agreed to meet in an hour.

The room was less like a hotel room and more like a studio apartment, complete with small kitchen. It was clean, but I couldn’t help thinking that it was incongruous with a four-star restaurant.

An hour later I met Henry in the lobby and he led me through the front door of Trio. I got a glimpse of the small dining room as we walked toward a screen door