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

I read everything I could get my hands on about the markets, great traders, historical economics, and most of all, personal psychology. I made sure I was the first guy in my pit every day and the last one to leave. I was hazed mercilessly because I was young, overly serious, and about 150 pounds dripping wet. And since I was the first guy in the pit who had a computer in my pocket, I was also eventually seen as a threat.

Dagmara’s father is a patent attorney and was not keen on having his daughter live with, let alone marry, someone who was falling short of their intellectual capacity. But one Christmas I was invited to ski with them in Aspen, Colorado. And there a wonderful thing happened.

Dagmara’s parents were both born in Latvia, and food-wise they were the polar opposite of my parents. Constant travel and cultural exploration were the norm, and new food experiences were celebrated. One night we headed to a restaurant that sounded like a nightmare to me. Krabloonik, just outside Snowmass, bills itself as “Fine Dining & Dogsledding.” I didn’t see how that combination could work. In addition, their seasonal menus specialized in local game meats like elk, buffalo, caribou, and wild boar. I had to be on my best behavior, but I was dreading the dinner.

There are two ways to get to the restaurant. You can ski there crosscountry—or snowshoe—or drive in through a beautiful but snowy country road. We drove in, parked, and then walked down past the dog kennels, where dogs were howling wildly in the snowy evening. The log-cabin restaurant was like a set design for the Rocky Mountain lifestyle: glowing fire, thick-beamed ceilings, warm lighting.

Dagmara’s father ordered a bottle of red wine and some appetizers. I glanced through the menu and realized I would have to order a steak, because it was the only thing that looked familiar. I closed the menu quickly as the appetizers arrived.

Dagmara put caribou carpaccio on my plate and I glared at her accordingly. But this, she knew, was her chance to make sure I tried something new. She gave me that look that told me I better just go along. I took a big forkful in order to slug it back with some water, but as soon as it hit my mouth I paused. It was delicious. A silky texture mixed with capers, olive oil, and balsamic gave it everything at once—sweet, salty, and savory. I took another bite. “This is delicious. Caribou, huh?”

“Try it with the wine, Nick,” Dagmara’s father, Tali, suggested. “It’s Australian. One of my favorites.”

I had never had a decent glass of wine in my life. My parents were not wine drinkers, and I’d never had any in college. I took a sip. It was literally life-changing. I had no vocabulary to describe what I was tasting, so I just said, “Wow, what is that?”

“Penfolds Bin 707 Cabernet. You like it?”

I had already finished the glass along with the caribou. When the waiter came by I ordered the wild mushroom soup, a house specialty, along with seared elk tenderloin. Dagmara assumed that I was already drunk.

Tali and I polished off a few bottles of the Penfolds and, noticing my newfound interest, he decided to up the ante and ordered a bottle of vintage Bordeaux, as well. The entire experience was like a light switch being flipped. I had no idea that food and wine could be so intriguing and delicious.

I began reading about wine the way I read about trading. It was a fascinating subject simply because it was so vast and entrenched in history. I heard about a wine auction that the Chicago Wine Company was holding on a Saturday morning in the same building where Tali worked. I thought it would be a great way to find something we had in common and to spend some one-on-one time with my future father-in-law. I invited him along and he readily accepted.

The auction took place on the coldest Saturday morning in something like twenty years. It was well below zero outside with severe wind and snow. I woke up, looked outside, and called Tali. “That’s too bad, I was looking forward to it,” I said.

“Nonsense. I’ll pick you up in a few minutes. I have a parking space in the building. You won’t even need a coat.”

We arrived in the dining room of the restaurant-club in the Prudential Building to find eighty bottles of vintage wine open and four people standing in a room with 150 seats. A man from the auction company with a British accent approached us and asked if we had purchased tickets to the pre-auction wine tasting. Tali looked at me, but I shook my head. I hadn’t known about it.

“Well, never mind then. This dreadful weather has kept everyone away. No sense in letting all of this go to waste, and despite how I might try, I can’t drink it all myself. Come along with me; I’ll show you the highlights.”

We spent the next ninety minutes sampling 1982 Bordeaux, Burgundy from three decades, ports, sherries, and all manner of California cult wines that were just gaining prominence. By the time the auction started I was inebriated enough to purchase a single case of 1983 Grand-Puy-Lacoste, not great vintage, but a good one and a good value. I was hooked. And I enjoyed tremendously the opportunity to get to know Dagmara’s father one-on-one.

In 1995 Dagmara and I were married.

I spent ten years trading.

I got faster and faster at making markets, of doing the math and calculations in my head, and working on models and programs for new trades and risk analysis. After two years with Frank I left with a single employee and a great friend, Jim Hansen, and together we backed ourselves with very little money and not much experience. But we were willing to outwork everyone else.

Over a period of six years we built a company by