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

One particular night we had very rough service. It was one of those times when absolutely nothing went right. In the midst of trying to push out a large pickup of lamb, one of our purveyors, Kate Lind of Sustainable Greens, walked in the back door right on schedule. Every week she drives the five hours to Chicago with a van filled with fruits, lettuces, herbs, and vegetables that were picked that morning; and every week she walks in while the kitchen is at full speed. If it were anyone else I would send them away to come back at a more convenient time, but after all this time, Kate was part of our family.

I turned and smiled at her as she plunked down a flat of red raspberries on the counter. The very moment the sweet, roselike perfume wafted in my nose I heard the shattering of multiple wineglasses hitting the cement floor. Breaking anything in the Alinea kitchen is a big no-no, but breaking glass is a mortal sin. A front-of-house team member was carrying a tray full of glasses through the busy kitchen. He ducked and dodged as a few of his team members hurriedly moved food out to waiting diners and cooks quickly moved from one task to the next. As he spun to avoid a collision, the tray tilted and sent the wineglasses crashing to the floor. The kitchen went silent, and everyone looked at me to see what I would I do. I slowly closed my eyes, pursed my lips tightly together, and turned to the sound. The cooks knew what kind of night we were having. I was being very vocal with them—in other words, I was kind of yelling—and Kate’s delivery broke any rhythm that we might have been getting back.

The back waiter who had dropped the glasses was shielded from a verbal lashing by Kate’s presence. I simply opened my eyes, looked at him, and pointed to the back door. He knew what that meant and seemed to be thankful for this quiet dismissal. He put his head down and walked out.

Three hours later, alone in the downstairs dining room, I put my head down on the table for a second to rest. I was beat. I was already almost seventeen hours into that day and more than seventy hours into the week. And it was only day four. I was forcing myself to work on the fall menu—it had to be done—but I just couldn’t focus. As my mind drifted and I started to recall the day and where we went wrong, I remembered the wineglasses breaking, and I smelled raspberries. And just like that it happens. Raspberries that are fragile like fine glassware, maybe even clear like stained glass. They smelled like roses, so we’ll pair them with roses. I walked back into the kitchen, pulled the tray of raspberries from the cooler, and looked at them.

“How the hell do I do that?” I thought to myself.

The idea was the easy part—it practically landed right in my lap. Now I had to figure out how to actually make it, and then how to serve it. The rush of excitement that the good idea produces started to fade after I realized it was almost 4:00 A.M. and I needed to at least get some concepts down on paper for the next day so the team would have a starting point. I pulled the various pectins, starches, and hydrocolloids out from the spice cabinet, then e-mailed Martin the idea so he could get a jump on a service piece for the raspberry course, in case we actually figured it out.

In a conversation with Anthony Bourdain, he asked me why I took this road. He noted that it was clear to him that I was a good cook from my connection with Thomas at The French Laundry, the meal that I helped cook for him while I was there, and his friend Michael Ruhlman’s opinion of me in his books.

“Man, I mean, I think you’re a genius, but you’re being sort of stupid by taking the hard road, no?” Bourdain laughed in my direction. “Surely you could cook great French food, or contemporary American food without killing yourself to reinvent the wheel. What’s up with that? Why do it?”

I looked at him for a second, sighed, and shook my head.

“I don’t know, it’s just what I do. And . . . in some ways it controls you. One thing leads to another and to another.”

It was a terrible answer. The reply itself was true, but my lack of explanation made me pissed at myself for not articulating it after I walked away. Bourdain threw me the lob and I didn’t swing. A lot of people criticize the type of food we do at Alinea. Many don’t even know what we do, others don’t understand it, and some think it’s bullshit. Here I had the chance to explain “the why” to a guy that not only liked to talk and has the ability to reach many people, but who stands on the opposite side of the philosophical fence.

All of my life I was surrounded by success. My parents owned their own restaurant before they were thirty years old, and despite their relationship and personal issues it provided for them very well. Through their generosity it gave me a springboard. I was exposed to Trotter’s pursuit of excellence and his standing at the top of the U.S. dining scene. I watched Thomas grow into an international culinary giant who will undoubtedly be heralded as one of the greatest American chefs ever. The whole time I wanted to be as good as all of them. I knew the only way to come close to that was to do something different; otherwise, I would always be in their shadows.

Once I made the decision to do something different there was no going back.

And now, after the accolades poured in, the work just continued.