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

We were being very public with the development of every aspect of the restaurant, and because of our postings online the world had a front-row seat to the risks we were taking with the project. There was no denying that no restaurant had ever put so much out there to create something so conceptually different in this country, especially right out of the gate. And with that came the speculation.

Food & Wine stated in a profile that Alinea was the new best restaurant in the country—and that was two months before we even opened. Conversely, people posting on food forums predicted we would close after two months, failing miserably.

The day had finally come, the construction was just finished, and boxes of food were whittled, pureed, foamed, gelled, and simmered down to tiny components of intricate dishes. The energy was high. I had a ton to be nervous about. Not only was this the first day of Alinea, but it was also make-or-break time.

Gourmet magazine sent in a writer named Tom Vanderbilt to pen a feature specifically on the presentation of the food, focusing mainly on Martin and the Crucial Detail pieces. Michael Ruhlman was dining to gather the final material for his book The Reach of a Chef. The dining rooms were filled with super-foodies with giant cameras in hand ready to capture every detail of the experience. For some it was a race to see who could get the most comprehensive report about the restaurant posted on the Internet and into print first. For others it was about documenting something important. Regardless of the future of Alinea, and more fittingly because of the seemingly unpredictable nature of it, everyone could not wait to step into the hallway, be seated at the bare wood tables, and taste the food that had captured so much attention before a single meal was served.

Even the New York Times.

Two months earlier, Melissa Clark from the New York Times had called and requested a table for opening night. When I spoke to her on the phone she explained she had tried to secure a table via the reservation line but was told we were full. She went on to say that she was in town visiting her cousin Edward and really wanted to try Alinea. I cleared a table that we had blocked in order to keep the reservations modest in an effort to maintain quality. It was the New York Times after all, and Melissa was quite nice.

Chris Gerber nervously asked if I was ready. The kitchen was on fire with activity. People were scrubbing the stainless countertops, others were vacuuming the black rugs, and yet others were still frantically preparing their mise en place for the night’s service.

“No,” I said angrily. “Does it look like we’re ready?”

“I know it’s only five twenty, Chef . . . but . . . but there are at least ten people waiting at the front door. I have to unlock it; it’s raining out there.”

“Fine. Open the fucking door.”

I whirled around while my eyes scanned the kitchen to access our status and to find Curtis or John.

“You hear that!” I yelled to the team. “The door is open. We have guests in the house. Are you READY?ʺ

Some answered by calling back, “Yes, Chef!” But it was not in unison, and it was not everyone.

I turned to Curtis. “This is going to be rough. We need to carry this.” He simply looked at me and nodded.

The family and friends dinners had been less than stellar, but I expected them to be. And while I knew we were going to be far from perfect tonight, I also knew that we had to be far better than any other restaurant’s opening night. Or at least that was the expectation I shared with the guests who had watched us practice, train, and document for the last six months online.

Joe had created a reservation template that spread the diners evenly throughout the evening, making it manageable for the staff to process the load. That plan failed immediately when the line started to form outside the locked door. People were showing up an hour early for their reservations, and what should have been a smooth buildup turned into a smackdown as soon as Chris flicked the dead bolt on the front door.

I told Chris and Joe to try and slow the speed that the tickets came into the kitchen by stalling certain tables, but there was only so much they could do. The people were here, and they wanted to see the show.

Every couple of minutes I was interrupted. Nick would swing through and ask how it was going, Ruhlman was in the kitchen taking notes and asking questions, and known Trio guests like Anthony Marty wanted to say hi and offer congratulations. Because Melissa had booked the reservation under her name and was not a critic and therefore had no reason to be anonymous, I told Joe and Chris to bring her into the kitchen before the meal so I could meet her and say hello.

In between pickups I kept glancing at the door, knowing she was going to arrive at any moment. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Chris walking a woman into the kitchen. She was by herself.

I walked over to the corner of the kitchen to find Michael in friendly conversation with the woman.

“Chef, do you know Melissa?” he said.

I introduced myself, trying to act as calm as possible, but I was listening to the sounds behind me to determine how the service was going. After some small talk about the opening I asked where her cousin was.

“Oh, he must have had to use the bathroom,” she said, turning around to see if she could spot him. I glanced at the foyer with her to see Chris chatting with a man in the shadows.

Michael sensed that I wanted to get back to the plates, so he gave me the out.

“Chef,