Life, on the Line (42 page)

I was sitting in my home office reading e-mails when my cell rang with Grant's familiar ring-tone. “Hey Chef, what's up.”

When he finally got to the punch line I quite literally jumped in the air. “Number one? Are you sure?” I whooped and yelled and swore when Grant confirmed what I was hearing. “That is huge, Chef. Just huge. I can't believe it. I mean, top ten would be an honor, right? Number one is insane. Do you know anyone else on the list?”

“Nope. That's it. Just that we are number one.”

I really couldn't believe it. That was a ballsy move and would definitely be controversial. I could see putting Alinea top five if they wanted to make a statement, but number one seemed, quite frankly, not possible.

We had very specifically stated that we wanted Ruth Reichl to declare that Alinea was number one in the United States just as she did, essentially, for The French Laundry. But that seemed like an unattainable goal, the kind you set out there as a benchmark that you will likely never reach. Alinea was only eighteen months old.

I was also keenly aware that achieving goals very quickly could produce unexpected emotional results. It happened to me in my trading career, and I immediately thought that the aftereffects of the listing could, ironically, be detrimental to Grant's well-being.

“Chef, I don't want to sound negative, but this is too soon.”

“What? You're nuts. Can't you let me enjoy the moment? What is wrong with you?”

I explained that I very much wanted him to enjoy the moment and that I was on my way down to celebrate with him and the staff. “Still, you need to guard against a letdown. You just achieved a major goal of yours. Alinea, your restaurant, listed at number one in the country is something you have always wanted. It is still a young restaurant and financially we are just getting rolling. I am worried about you, frankly. I want this to happen, but in some ways it is too soon. You just have to trust me on this.”

He clearly thought I was crazy, so I dropped it for then. “Okay. Whatever. Look, I am going to go to the bank and withdraw ten thousand dollars. I think we need to give our entire staff a cash bonus. Nothing says thank you like money, Chef.” I drew up a quick spreadsheet and divided out the money by the number of days an employee had been with us, including during our build-out. Even staff members that had been hired a week before got something. Several came up to me and told me that they had worked years in other top restaurants without so much as a thank-you. Grant told Joe and he ordered up a huge bottle of champagne.

The staff was summoned to the front dining room, and they could tell it was good news by the fifty champagne glasses being filled. As always, Grant gave a genuinely inspirational speech, then turned it over to me to hand out the money.

“Let's remember what got us to this point,” I said. “We have to keep embracing the vision of Grant to constantly change and reinvent Alinea. However, for a moment, let's just drink.”

 

Most people think that the constant evolution of Alinea's cuisine is the result of one person—me—being struck by original ideas at every moment of the day, even when I sleep. Some diners speculate aloud while visiting the kitchen after their meal, wondering how we come up with the food. Sometimes that happens, but it's very rare. Most of the time the ever-changing menu, the tireless pursuit of being constantly new, is the result of hard work.

 

The Grind.

In the kitchen we often refer to “The Push.” In our world, the push is the exact opposite force of the grind. You have to push to overcome the tendency to grind to a halt. It is a willful act.

It used to be that the next idea started late at night after all the cooks had gone home, the kitchen was clean, and the orders for the next day were called in. I would grab my laptop, some notebook paper, and a few key cookbooks that I use for ingredient referencing and hunker down in the dimly lit dining room. The staff always joked to the guests seated at Table 14 that they were sitting at my desk, and it was true.

When we were building Alinea, Tom Stringer asked quizzically while glancing over the blueprints, “Grant, where's your office? I don't see it on here.”

I laughed, pointed to the 900-square-foot kitchen and said, “Right there, Tom. If I'm behind a desk somewhere, I'm in the wrong place.” From 2:00 A.M. until around 4:00 I read the notes that I had jotted down on c-fold towels throughout the prep day, scan restaurant websites and food forums, and stare at a list of seasonal ingredients that we planned to focus on for the upcoming menu change. Occasionally, when I was really excited about an idea, I walked back into the kitchen and started to work out the idea right then. At 3:00 A.M. Some of my most personally fulfilling dishes came from being aware of my surroundings and recalling instances in a day that I somehow, in the moment, related to food.

And so, after the
Gourmet
edition came out and the news flashed Alinea as number one, I took Nick's constant haranguing to heart.

I would not lose The Push to The Grind.

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. The Grind.

Alinea was less than two years old. We had a ton left to prove.

 

I had attended a few culinary congresses that were popular in Spain over the previous couple of years, starting with one in Barcelona when I was at Trio, and then a couple in San Sebastián after Alinea was up and running. I always found these events enjoyable. It's never bad to travel to Europe, especially Spain, and professionally it was a chance to meet some of the world's greatest chefs and gain inspiration from their cuisine and restaurants.

Held every winter in Madrid, Madrid Fusion is one of the largest and most highly regarded events of this type in the world. Chefs fly in from as far as Brazil and Japan to take the stage and show their peers their innovations. In January 2007 I decided to take sous chefs John Shields and Curtis Duffy with me to Madrid Fusion.

During the four-day-long event the congress is generous enough to organize a series of dinners for the presenting chefs in various restaurants in Madrid. These dinners were a chance to connect on a personal level with the media, the sponsors, and the host chefs.

Toward the end of the congress, John, Curtis, and I decided to go to the last of the organized dinners. When we arrived we were seated with a group of American journalists and chefs that included Joyce Goldstein. I immediately found myself engaged in conversation with Joyce as she told stories of cooking “back in the day.” I was fascinated by her tales of Alice Waters and Judy Rodgers and the origin of what would become known as California Cuisine. It was way better than any history gastronomy class that I had attended at the CIA. I barely noticed Curtis and John hovering around the table next to us in between courses. As the meal was winding down, John literally pulled me out of my chair and away from Joyce.

“Dude, what are you doing? You should hear these amazing stories she's telling over here.”

“Yeah, well, read it in a book,” he said with a smile. “There are some people over here I think you should meet.”

As I approached the table I recognized a woman with whom I was all too familiar: Antoinette Bruno, the CEO and editor in chief of the culinary webzine StarChefs.com. Antoinette and I had had a bit of a run-in during StarChefsʹ rising-star award search in 2005. She had approached us about coming to the restaurant for a tasting, which after the Mariani incident translated to “free meal” in my mind. I hadn't really heard of StarChefs at that point, and her personality was, well, let's just say demanding. She wanted to come in during off-hours, eat tasting or reduced-size portions, and take pictures. This is not what we did. We politely declined, and she insisted. We declined again and she insisted. And then I turned it over to Nick to be the bad cop.

Nick explained to Antoinette that we didn't feel like I should be positioned for a rising-star award from StarChefs since
Food & Wine
had given me one of their ten Best New Chef awards more than three years earlier, the James Beard Foundation had given me their rising-star award in 2003, and I had won countless local awards. Just for good measure, he quoted the
New York Times
in a September 2005 article: “Astonishingly self-assured at 31, he will be, I believe, the next great American chef, up there with Trotter and the French Laundry's Thomas Keller.”

Losing his patience with the assertive Bruno, he simply said, “Grant's star has already risen, you missed the upswing, and we're looking for bigger things.” Nick then went on to diplomatically suggest our pastry chef Alex Stupak, which she willingly accepted.