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

“Did you go broke in the last week, Nick?” Steve asked with a smile.

“No. But we want this to work as a business. We’ve found a place on Halsted Street that is residential in size. We want it to be very modern, but with a comfortable scale. I think you would both be fantastic at making that happen. But if we treat this like one of the homes you design, we can never make it work financially.”

“But it isn’t a home, is it?” Tom asked. “A restaurant is much more like creating a stage set. You have all of these people interacting, moving about the space: the waiters, the food carriers, and of course the patrons who literally put on costumes of a sort to go out to a dinner like that. They want to be seen. But they aren’t living in it. They come for a few hours and leave. It’s very much a set piece.”

“And does that mean it can be done more cheaply than a home?” I asked.

“Of course,” Tom answered. “But I assume you’re trying to build a grand restaurant here. It will need some scale, some central themes. Too often, I think, chefs who have great food that is like art—like yours, Grant—simply strip everything else away and say ‘the food is the important thing,’ and you’re left with a blah room. I’m thinking modern but plush and sexy.”

Nick seemed encouraged by this discussion, but I was getting a bit annoyed. Who was this guy, and what did he know about my vision for my restaurant? I fell totally silent and let them talk.

“I agree,” Nick said. “But all of that is moot if we can’t build the whole thing at a reasonable cost. We want to spend $1.25 million all in. Soup to nuts.”

“That includes things like the computers, forks, phones, kitchen, everything?” Steve asked.

“Yep. The whole thing.”

“Nick, we spent almost that much building a simple chain restaurant grill on North Avenue. That’s nothing for a four-star restaurant.”

“I know. Which is why I am going to ask you to do the entire project in exchange for a piece of ownership. We will, of course, cover your expenses. But the rest we get free for the design, and all of the furniture, tables, lamps—anything like that—we don’t pay a markup on. In fact, ideally, you would call in some favors or find the best guys who’d want to do it to be involved with the project.”

Steve began to giggle. Then it went into a full laugh. “And we want to do that why, exactly?”

“Because in five years this will be the best restaurant in the country, and you will have been the architect of record. And if we do it for that cost, it will actually make money.”

The fact was, Nick was always talking about a budget of $1.6 million, but I assumed he was lowballing the number to get a reaction and to account for the usual slippage.

“I see,” Steve said, still laughing. But he wasn’t laughing at us. Instead, it felt more like he was laughing at the audacity of the proposal—but with a sense of respect. Tom was more reserved and said nothing, and was instead doodling on a pad—apparently already thinking about high-end restaurants.

“Well, that’s really all we have for now. We don’t want to start the process yet and we haven’t even raised any money, at least not formally. But if you’re willing to look at our proposal, we’re sending something out in a few days.”

“Absolutely, Nick. And Grant, I have to tell you that that was the best meal of our lives. Truly. I get to travel to a lot of wonderful places, and that was just exceptional.” Tom seemed genuinely moved.

We left and hopped in Nick’s car. “Well, that went well, I think,” he said.

“Nick, don’t take this the wrong way, okay? But that did not go well. It didn’t go well at all. I feel like this whole thing has slipped out of my control. I appreciate your efforts, but look, these are your people. The potential investors are your people. I’m over here by myself, and yet this is my restaurant, something I’ve been planning my whole life. Three weeks ago you had never thought of doing this. Now you’re discussing the proper flow of customers. It’s . . . well, it’s kind of insulting.” I didn’t mean that to sound as harsh as it did. But it needed to be said. The only person I wanted designing Alinea was me. I wanted a hand in everything.

Nick paused a second, then kind of smiled. “Do you eat out much?” he asked.

“Obviously not, but that’s not the point.” I could see where he was going with that. “I’m in the kitchen ninety-nine percent of the time, but I still know what makes a great restaurant.”

“Exactly. You have been in the kitchen for the last twenty years. Meanwhile, I’ve been lucky enough to eat all over the world, to travel through Europe, Asia, the U.S. To stay at great hotels with amazing service. I fully admit that I have no idea how to build a restaurant. But we will both be better off once you admit that as well. We need an architect. It doesn’t have to be Rugo. Feel free to suggest someone else. You can draw the kitchen on a piece of graph paper all you want, but at some point an architect is going to need to put it in a blueprint for the City of Chicago to approve, and that guy has to be licensed. I trust not only that these guys are willing to help, but that they’re more capable than you might imagine.”

The rest of the car ride was a bit frosty. I think we both made our points. I wanted a hand in everything. Nick knew that I couldn’t do it alone.

“So let’s head to an art shop and figure some things out for the investor package,” said Nick.

“Yeah, okay.