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

the city, with design that aligns with the modernity of the food . . . well . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to seem rude.

We paid the absurdly reduced bill and left a hefty tip that we hoped would be shared with the kitchen.

I wasn’t expecting that to be my last meal at Trio under chef Achatz. I also wasn’t expecting the e-mail from Grant that I received a week later.

Dear Mr. Kokonas,

I very much enjoyed cooking for you and Dagmara on her birthday. I hope you both had a great time.

Chris Gerber had told me previously that you inquired about speaking to me and I had only assumed it was because you wanted to discuss business. The truth is, that happens with some regularity. I have been approached by several customers who wanted to invest in a restaurant with me. I have had some offers from other restaurants who want me to move to New York or Los Angeles to take over their restaurants. I wasn’t terribly interested in either opportunity—one because I was not ready to build my own restaurant, and the other because I did not want to be fit into someone else’s vision.

Last night I had a chance to watch you just as you had a chance to watch us. I noticed that you and Dagmara cared about the food and considered the technique and presentation. I admit that I listened in to your discussions intently. It was therefore not surprising when you mentioned to me that you would want to talk to me about building a restaurant. When I asked you what kind and you answered that you had no idea . . . well, that was the perfect answer.

If you are serious I would welcome the opportunity to speak with you about my business plan. If not, no problem.

I will always welcome the opportunity to cook for you both and genuinely appreciate your support of Trio and me.

Sincerely,

Grant

I read the e-mail from Grant at 6:00 A.M., ran upstairs just as Dagmara was waking up and said, “We’re going to build a restaurant with Grant!”

We scheduled a meeting at my house.

What do you cook for lunch for a world-class chef? I was far more worried about that than I was about the business at hand. After considering various intricate menus, I settled on not cooking at all—that was safest. I bought fresh honeydew melon, prosciutto di Parma, some aged Parmesan reggiano, some olives, and prepared a basic antipasti plate. At the last minute I decided to make some pasta and fresh marinara as well.

Grant strolled up my front walk, took off his peacoat to reveal a plain white T-shirt, black pants, and clogs, and shook my hand formally and with purpose. In the other hand he carried a business plan. We intended to impress each other.

He handed me a packet entitled “Business Plan for AG” and I invited him into my kitchen. I casually served up the melon and prosciutto that I had painstakingly arranged. He was quiet and reserved, sizing me up, looking over my house to see if I was the type of guy who could afford the restaurant he wanted to build.

“Do you know why four-star restaurants have tablecloths?” Grant asked me as we started into our conversation.

“I suppose it’s because it feels luxurious. Fine white linens look and feel good. They are soft to the touch, beautifully made . . .”

Grant interrupted, “No, not really. It’s because the table under the tablecloth is shitty. It’s usually a piece of plywood bound to a wobbly base that is cheap and barely balanced. You may not recognize that consciously, but you know it, you can feel it.”

“You know what I want?” Grant asked, not waiting for my answer. “I want beautiful tables. Bare tables. Black ones.”

And so began the design process for our restaurant.

After the antipasti we retreated to my home office and sat down. I leafed through his business plan and could tell that he had spent time writing it. It was fourteen pages long, clearly organized, and well thought out. But it lacked a certain analytical rigor and was made from an online template. I was impressed with his effort, but I only put so much credence in business plans anyway.

Grant wanted to walk me through the plan, but I stopped him and said, “Look. We can get this done, I don’t think it will be a problem to find the money or time or the space to do it. But I need to know that we will be friends. I need to learn more about you. If we can’t be friends then I don’t want to do this. The process of building this from scratch will suck at times. It will be difficult and stressful, and if we don’t trust each other implicitly and see eye-to-eye, then I don’t want to be involved.”

For the first time since he walked in the door Grant seemed at a loss. He spoke slowly, choosing his words. “I’m not really friends with any of my coworkers. We work. We don’t really hang out.”

“We won’t be coworkers. We’ll be business partners. That’s different.” I could tell that he thought I was nuts, so we adjourned back to the kitchen and I heated up the pasta with marinara.

Grant sat down in my dining room and took the first bite. Looking up he asked, “Would you be terribly offended if I asked for some salt?” I realized immediately that I had forgotten to salt the marinara. None. Zero. “Not at all,” I said, retreating to the kitchen to grab some sea salt. Grant looked up at me as he vigorously salted the pasta. One big pinch, then another. There was a shit-eating grin on his face. He openly mocked my sauce.

Apparently my pasta lacked a certain . . .rigor. I smiled—the friendship part wouldn’t be a problem.

“Totally bare tables?” I asked.

“Yeah. It would look really striking and different. The plates and stainless