Life, on the Line by Grant Achatz (book club reads .txt) 📕

in Prague, where he graduated with an MFA in metal sculpture. He married an American, Lara, who was living in Prague, and returned with her to the United States, founding Crucial Detail design studio in San Diego in 1998.

Martin’s response was cautious, deliberate, and inquisitive, completely in line with what I was to learn was his analytical personality. He was very interested in identifying the problems we faced in the current service lineup available to chefs, and to determine whether there were ways to find better solutions.

We started an e-mail exchange to get to know each other better, and it became apparent that we had similar goals in two entirely different disciplines. We quickly became comfortable with the process and settled on our first project, a holder for a lavender-flavored Popsicle.

Martin got to work, and a few days later sent me some sketches outlining his initial ideas. Even though Martin and I had never met in person, I could tell from these early designs that this was the start of something very exciting. The thought of having original service pieces to complement the food made me downright giddy.

His initial set of ideas was fairly mainstream and pretty much what my first idea would have been. A concept he called the “Folded Sheet” was simply a piece of stainless steel with holes bent at a strong angle, each of which would hold the handle of the Popsicle, which now looked more like a lollipop. The next, “The Caterpillar,” was something akin to a bottom-weighted heat lamp, with the heavy base positioning the Popsicle vertically to prevent it from falling over. “The Shadow” was a more conceptual version of the folded sheet that used the silhouette of the Popsicle itself to create the final form. As the designs came in I could see the direction he was going. Each one was a bit more abstract, yet still cohesive. They started to meld aesthetic concerns with functionality in a way that made it hard to determine which was the priority. After every e-mail I would tell him that I loved the idea and that he should start making the piece as soon as possible, and each time he would encourage me to be patient, explaining that he had a few more ideas to flesh out. I was eager to get moving in order to have it completed for Trio’s tenth anniversary celebration event we had planned in three weeks. The restaurant was hosting a giant open house that included a large tented area in the adjacent yard, and many local chefs were coming up to cook a course in honor of Henry and the restaurant’s birthday. We would have a captive audience, and it would be a perfect opportunity to show the local industry where we were headed.

Martin finally sent me his finished design. In the e-mail he hinted that he’d had this idea in mind all along, but that he hadn’t shared it because he thought it might be a stretch for me to accept right off the bat. “The Tripod” wasn’t a Popsicle holder at all—at least not in the way I would have ever envisioned one. In fact, in many ways, it was the anti-holder, because it wasn’t a drilled tray, plate, or object that grouped the sticks together.

Martin had rethought the entire idea. The sphere of frozen lavender became the locking mechanism for a set of three collapsible legs that when unfolded displayed the Popsicle four inches above the table. When the guest grabbed the three legs and squeezed them into one stick, they became the handle that the guest would use to eat the frozen tea. It was smart, witty, original, and brilliant.

Trio’s budget was very tight, so I had to ask Henry for permission to wire Martin a check to get started. The total was $300 for a one-hundred-piece run, and Martin wanted a $100 deposit.

An incredibly important collaboration and friendship was born with “The Tripod.”

Chefs are human, and while few want to admit it, they cook with varying degrees of enthusiasm for different people. Regulars of the restaurant, serious foodies who are enjoying their meal profusely, colleagues, and of course key journalists all get a little extra effort and a different level of gusto put into their meals. While our baseline standards were incredibly high at Trio, we did have another gear we could kick into.

We recognized that we were still climbing a tall mountain and that it was important to take a step with every person who walked into the restaurant. We were far from being in a position of complacency. The kitchen often sent out extra courses to seemingly random tables, and I would urge the front-of-house staff to alert me to any tables that seemed particularly into the experience so I could ratchet it up even more.

William Rice, a longtime supporter of Trio and an extremely influential national food writer, was coming in. Rice had eaten at Trio right before his retirement from the Tribune, and he subsequently wrote a feature on me for the paper. I connected with him right away. His eyes were both gentle and piercing at the same time, making him look like Sean Connery, and his dry, whip-sharp sense of humor made him incredibly fun to talk to.

I had no idea who Bill was dining with even after he introduced his friend David to me. And at that point Rice was retired, so this wasn’t a meal for an article and I wasn’t under the watchful eye of an active food critic. But for me this table was even more important.

My connection with Bill was strong, even though I didn’t really know him as a person. I respected his open mind and appreciated that he saw promise enough in what we were trying to achieve during my early days at Trio to support it, and now to bring his friend all the way to Evanston to experience it. It was a huge compliment, and I