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

it was anything but formal: Pick up the vanilla bean with your hand, tilt your head back, bite the shrimp off the end. The Husband liked this one, I am sure, as his only statement was, “Holy shit.” We all laughed and the waiters smiled because they knew—they had seen this many times before. And they also knew what was coming next.

As the table fell into a blissful silence, four waiters quickly appeared, each carrying a long, slender plate.The first thing I saw was a giant hard-boiled egg. The waiters placed the plates before us in synchronized fashion, and three of them disappeared, leaving Scott at the end of the table. “Any guesses?”

“An ostrich egg.”

“Hell, an elephant egg!”

“No. This is a new one,” he paused for effect and smiled. “Balloon of Mozzarella with heirloom tomatoes, some basil puree, olive oil, sea salt, pepper. Inside the mozzarella balloon you will find tomato water, and that will serve to incorporate all of these garnishes. Enjoy.” With that he left the four of us staring at this work of art on a plate, wondering how to deface it properly.

The plate was beautiful. The balloon of cheese was absurdly large, and the heirloom tomatoes—red, yellow, green zebra, brandywine—had been cut into geometric shapes that temporarily obscured their identity as tomatoes. There were green streaks of basil puree, and a pile of sea salt, itself composed of tiny pyramid-shaped crystals, sat in a far corner of the plate. I gingerly cut into the bottom half of the mozzarella balloon, surprised to find not a huge hunk of cheese, but rather a thin, indeed balloon-like, shell. The tomato water poured out and the mozzarella deflated slowly. The tomatoes were exceptionally well chilled, the basil and olive oil perfectly combined, the tomato water sweet and salty.

“This guy is a frickin’ genius. Seriously.” The battle for The Husband was over. And it was won with, essentially, a really fancy caprese salad. Genius indeed.

Of course, at this point in the meal we had not even gotten to anything resembling a main course. These were but the preliminaries. They were clearly designed to set the stage, to awaken not only the diners’ palates but also to open their minds. Here is caviar—from Michigan. Here is a jumbo fried shrimp—with a vanilla-bean aroma. Here is a caprese salad—though you won’t figure that out until tomorrow. This was my third or fourth full dinner under chef Achatz, but I was starting to understand, however faintly, his method. And it was illuminated not by reflecting on my own experience, but rather by watching a reluctant diner be won over completely. I sat there silently cheering on the kitchen, wondering what would happen next.

The meal continued for four more hours, twenty-four courses in all. The Husband did not want another bite, he assured the waiters. If he did, no doubt the kitchen would have made sure he didn’t leave hungry. We were the only patrons left, and it was near midnight on a Thursday—late for suburbia. And perhaps to ensure that we would eventually leave, chef Achatz appeared from the kitchen, sauntered over to our table, put his hands on his hips, and said, “So, how did we do?”

A twenty-year-old kid cooked this? You have got to be kidding me!

We all had that reaction. Grant Achatz looked much younger than his years, and he was young to begin with—only twenty-nine. He was thin, not particularly tall, good-looking and clean-cut, but in every way—and not in a bad way—average. I suppose we were expecting a middle-aged, overweight, Hollywood casting version of a mad chef. The ladies were smitten. A waiter appeared with a glass of champagne for everyone, including Chef, and he pulled up a chair and sat with us. We all talked at once, telling him with great inebriated enthusiasm what he must have known we’d say: we loved it, it was great, how did you do that? But as the conversation became more natural he asked questions that were more probing: Why do you feel the shrimp is such a powerful course, when after all it’s just fried shrimp? Were you put off by the fact that there were leaves and sticks in a bowl surrounding your food? He listened to the answers and you could see that he actually cared. Sure it was nice to get compliments, but here was a rare chance to measure his audience, to see if intent met with reaction.

I like to talk and often unintentionally dominate a conversation, and yet this time I became unusually silent. I watched him listen—it was an unusual situation, this young artist who is not only talented but also measured and smart. This was the first moment that I thought that Grant would one day soon be far from here, and that perhaps, vaguely, in some way I should be involved.

The next morning I searched the Internet for the book Blue Trout and Black Truffles: The Peregrinations of an Epicure, which was then out of print, found a copy on Alibris.com, and had it sent to chef Achatz as a way of saying thank you. That book began an e-mail correspondence between us.

The week before Dagmara’s thirty-fourth birthday, I sent chef Achatz the following e-mail:

Chef:

As you know, we are coming in again next Wednesday. Sorry to come back so soon, but there is nowhere we would rather celebrate Dag’s birthday.

Incidentally, she is ethnically Latvian, speaks Japanese, and loves Thai food.

Good Luck!

Nick

I knew the e-mail would ruin his weekend, and I felt bad about it. There was no way he would read three disparate ethnic references and simply give us the set menu. He had five days to construct a meal for Dagmara based on those hints, and he would also have us as an audience for the first time because we had reserved the kitchen table on Henry’s recommendation.

We were seated at a table that was elevated and directly across from the pass. Grant’s and the sous chefs’ backs were