Life, on the Line (16 page)

One night, while scanning the fine-dining category on a job site, I stumbled across an ad for a tiny restaurant in Evanston, Illinois, called Trio. I had never heard of the place. According to the ad, Trio was a nationally acclaimed restaurant formerly run by Rick Tramanto and Gale Gand. It went on to describe the food as eclectic-fusion, offering some of the most innovative and visually dazzling presentations in Chicago. I copied all of the info down and wrote a cover letter to the owner, Henry Adaniya. But before I sent it off I figured I should ask some people about the restaurant.

I contacted Dan Swartz, who owned a company that specialized in smoked salmon and was based just outside Chicago. I had met him on one of my winter breaks from the Laundry while working with chef Stallard at a dinner at Midland Country Club. I figured if Trio was “nationally acclaimed” then a purveyor from Chicago ought to know about the restaurant and its owner.

Dan heaped praise on Henry's character but noted that the restaurant was experiencing some recent growing pains. He told me that its current chef, Shawn McClain, was moving on to open his own place in Chicago called Spring and that information had leaked out, causing Trio to slow down. Still, on the whole it was a positive review. I thanked Dan and hung up with enthusiasm.

It sounded perfect. Henry wasn't a chef, and from what Dan said, Trio had a history of embracing each chef's vision for the restaurant. Certainly, the transition from Rick and Gale to Shawn produced radically different cuisines. And the restaurant did indeed garner four stars from both the
Chicago Tribune
and
Chicago
magazine.

I e-mailed my cover letter and résumé to Henry. Ten days passed with no response.

I wasn't devastated, but I was certainly annoyed—and surprised. I had by this time developed quite an ego. I was a sous chef at The French Laundry, dammit! “This guy doesn't know what he's missing,” I kept telling myself. But really I was worried that perhaps my résumé was not as solid gold as I had thought.

A few more days went by when I received an e-mail from Dan telling me that he saw Henry and took the liberty of recommending that he consider me. It worked. The next day I got an e-mail from Henry introducing himself and opening a line of communication. Clearly, he was far from sold on me, as he suggested that we take the first steps via e-mail.

Our exchanges started simply with quirky questions from Henry: “What is your favorite junk food?” I didn't really have a sense of humor about that. My response was, “None. I'm a workout fanatic and eat very healthy.” He followed that with, “You're only twenty-five years old and have never run a kitchen by yourself. What makes you think you can possibly be ready?” And: “What is your vision for the restaurant you want to create?” I followed with lengthy replies and our dialogue continued for a month. I liked Henry's frank and playful questions, and he must have appreciated my earnestness. At the end of the month he admitted that he had virtually no other serious candidates and he agreed to fly me to Chicago for an interview and tryout.

Because the dining experience I described in my e-mails sounded much different than what Trio was known for, Henry said it was imperative that I try to create for him a three- or four-course menu that was indicative of the style I wanted to serve. I would be cooking for a committee of one: Henry Adaniya.

It was unlikely that another opportunity like this existed anywhere in America. I knew I had to nail it.

I spent the next two weeks coming up with a seven-course menu. I was very calculated in my process. The menu would be composed of dishes that were based on flawless execution—things I could do perfectly. I would do a saddle of lamb roasted on the bone that I could present tableside and then carve. That would show that I knew the classic technique cold. But then I also wanted to show him flashes of new concepts that he had never seen before. The menu would start with the known and end with the future.

I e-mailed all of the ingredients I wanted Trio to have on hand before I arrived, followed by a precise equipment list to confirm what would be available to me in the kitchen. I wrote prep lists to prepare prep lists for the prep lists and arranged them in chronological order from the moment I stepped into the kitchen. I was thinking of every contingency I could possibly conceive of happening. Because I knew one thing for sure: when Henry saw me, he was going to think that I was sixteen years old. I looked really young and was constantly reminded of that in the Laundry kitchen.

I told myself that even if I walked into Trio and knew that it wasn't the right place for me I would still try to blow him away. I wanted that job offer even if I didn't want the job. That way, the choice would be mine.

I was ready.

 

“And by the way, Grant. I think I'm pregnant.”

My hand fell off the doorknob as I froze. My mind flashed back to a moment when a girlfriend's mom once asked me when she would get grandchildren. I looked her square in the eye and said, “Never.”

Still facing the door I said to Angela, “That's unlikely.”

A quick drive to Target in Napa, an hour, and a little red line would confirm it.

There is no doubt in my mind now that if I had walked out that door that day without hearing “I'm pregnant,” I would have only walked back in to gather my belongings. The relationship we had was over. I was ready to move on, to take on my future and my career.

She knew I was leaving.

Now, I knew, I was staying. I said nothing about breaking up. How could I?

 

The week before my tryout at Trio I woke up one morning feeling like a truck hit me. A deep throbbing ache coursed through my body and I was shaking uncontrollably while sweating profusely.

I had felt increasingly ill over the past few days, but of course I had gone to work as usual. This, however, was a new level of sick. Something was really wrong.

I forced myself to the bathroom and got the shower as hot as it would go in an effort to stop the chills. I stood there shaking like I had hypothermia. I got dressed and walked into the living room, ready to go to work, when Angela felt my forehead. Despite my chattering teeth and uncontrollable chills, I was burning up.

Angela put the thermometer under my tongue. When it beeped I pulled it out and squinted to read the number. Angela peeked over my shoulder. “Grant, holy shit, 104.3! You have to go to the hospital. This is ridiculous. I'm taking you right now.”

Calling in sick to work was not an option in my book. I had never once done that in my life. Never. Then again, I was incapable of arguing with her. My body felt completely out of my control. We drove to the emergency room at Queen of the Valley Hospital.

When I walked up to the registration desk the nurse looked at me oddly. “What's the problem?”

“Well, I c-c-can't stop shaking. I'm freezing, but I'm sweating. I have a fever.”

“What's your fever, sweetie?”

“It was 104.3 a few minutes ago, but I feel worse now.”

She looked worried. Never a good sign in a hospital, I thought.

I was led to a small room, and a minute later a nurse came in to do a series of diagnostic tests. She started by taking my temperature.

“It's 104.7. Hmmm. You have a nice one going there, huh!”

“It's climbing,” I mumbled. “It was 104.3 a while ago.”

She flashed a look of concern but continued taking my vital stats. The doctor entered shortly, looked at the chart, and led me immediately to a different room. He poked and prodded me, then ran me through a series of odd exercises, like lying on my back and instructing me to lift my head and legs at the same time. “I'm not really into yoga, doctor.” He chuckled.

“We won't be doing yoga today. We are going to draw some blood and run some tests. It will take time for the lab to process the results, so you just rest here for a while and we'll keep an eye on your fever.”

“How long will that take?” I asked. “I have to be at work in three hours.”

“You won't be going in to work today, that much I can assure you.”

The nurse returned with some medicine to reduce the fever. “Does that phone work?”

“Sure. Do you need to call some relatives?”

“No. I need to call work and let them know I'll be late.”

The nurse looked at me like I was nuts and said, “Just dial seven first. I'll get the blood while you call.”

I held off calling, giving her my arm instead. I knew I had to tell chef Keller I would be late, but decided to hold out in case my fever went down or my blood tests came back quickly.

They led Angela in and we sat in silence, waiting. The nurses came back every thirty minutes to check my fever. It wasn't going anywhere. Two hours in, the doctor came back. “Well, we don't know what you have yet, but you certainly have something. Your white blood cell count is through the roof, and that means your body is fighting some type of infection. Because you have such a high fever and chills, we want to test you for meningitis.”

I had no idea what meningitis was, but it sounded serious. The tone the doctor was taking was equally serious. I was still more worried about work, however. “How long will that take, doctor?”

“You ever heard of a spinal tap?” he asked.

Holy shit, did he just say spinal tap? The doctor explained that they would have to put me on an IV drip and stick a long needle into my back to collect some spinal fluid. “It won't hurt, but most people find it a tad scary.”

“Then what?”

“We take the fluid to the lab and have it analyzed.”

“So I can leave after the tap and have you call me with the results?”

Clearly the doctor thought I was stupid. No one leaves the hospital with possible meningitis. “Ha. No. You'll spend the night here.”

I looked at Angela, and she could read my mind. “I can call him if you want,” she said.

I used Angela's cell phone to call the French Laundry kitchen only twenty minutes before people would begin to wonder where I was. Eric answered, “Hey, where are you?”

“Queen of the Valley. They are running some tests on me. I have a high fever. Is Chef around?”

Thomas came to the phone, “Grant? Everything okay? Where are you?”

“Yeah, I'm at Queen of the Valley. They are running tests.”

“You didn't look good last night. What are they saying?”

“They are worried about meningitis and are giving me a spinal tap. But I might be in later tonight if they let me go.”

“Grant! You're in the ER. You can't come in here if you might have meningitis! We'll manage. Have Angela call us when they figure out what's wrong. Feel better.”

Moments later a couple of doctors and a nurse came into the room with what looked like veterinary needles. They were huge. And just like the doctor said, I got scared.

They instructed me to lie on my side, facing away from them, and to pull my 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.