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

made all the more real by the huge amount of money it would take and the faith that these people had placed in me.

Trio’s last night was a riptide of emotion. I was incredibly excited to finally see the initial steps of my goal to open my own restaurant realized, and yet I was sad for the end of the current era at Trio and the dismantling of the amazing team we had created. The majority of the staff had been with me since the opening day back in 2001, and the personal bonds that had developed were the most profound of my life. A wet-behind-the-ears chef and a bunch of mismatched cooks had come together, and with sheer determination, a dose of naïveté, and a lot of true passion, created something that was both unpredictable and rare.

Three years in, we were a well-oiled machine. Everyone knew each other incredibly well. We could finish each other’s sentences and, more important in the world of cooking, step in as the other was stepping out.

We had learned the dance.

On the eve before our last performance at Trio we sat in our postservice meeting like we had every night for the last three years. Of course, we all knew this was the last time we would assemble together, and while there was some time spent reminiscing, the main focus was Trio’s last day.

I knew I didn’t have to address it directly—everyone knew what the goal was before I said it—but I think the group wanted me to voice it.

After I went through all of my thank-yous and acknowledgments of appreciation for the years of commitment and dedication, I threw around some jokes about some of the pointiest moments that we had all shared, and then I turned serious.

“We have come this far, and what we have accomplished is amazing; we should all be very proud. We cannot let our guard down,” I warned. “This is our last show—everything we’ve pushed for has come to this day. Keep it tight. Stay focused. The diners coming in tomorrow are expecting the best meal of their lives. We owe them that. We owe us that. Let’s come in tomorrow and do exactly what we have done for the last three years.” I was acting tough, like the leader that they had all come to expect, but inside I felt different.

It was important to take the next step, to take another risk. But this one felt far from risk-free. This time I had as much to lose as I did to gain.

The next day I showed up at 9:30 A.M. The night before we had identified the VIPs who were dining with us and how we wanted to give every table as many courses as possible. That made for a big prep day. Shortly after I unlocked the door the cooks started filing in. The call time was 11:00 A.M., but everyone was in and at their boards by 10:15. We had pledged to re-create some Trio signature dishes on our last night as a tribute to the restaurant, Henry, the diners, and us.

Mark Caro, an entertainment reporter for the Chicago Tribune who was interested in food, asked to be a fly on the wall during Trio’s last night. He planned to write a feature on the transition of Trio and give a few teasers about Alinea.

He showed up at eleven on the dot, wondering why the kitchen was already humming, and I showed him around and introduced him to the staff before settling in to my prep. He stood to the side of the kitchen, observing. Every now and then he would dart in and approach me with a few questions. He was trying to dig into my emotions. I was guarded with details of Alinea, telling him point-blank that the article should be about Trio out of respect for Henry and the restaurant itself. I did, however, slip a few times and tell him things I would have never told the staff, and he quoted me: “When I think about it, it’s like when you’re sitting there watching your girlfriend getting on the airplane,” the chef said. “You feel it here, in the pit of your stomach.”

We intensely pushed through the prep day, planning to give each table at least three extra courses, although many of them were slotted for more. We wanted to go out with a bang.

The front of the pass was covered with a large copper sheet. Eight feet long and four feet wide, it was only visible to the guests who might be at the kitchen table, and of course to all of the staff. Every day it would oxidize to an ugly green-blue color and every night the copper was polished with a homemade paste. The recipe came from The French Laundry, and was composed of lemon juice, distilled vinegar, flour, and salt. Most of the time I would do it myself, using a green scrubby and a deli of the paste; if I was busy doing something else, David, Nate, or John did it. But each night it got done without fail, even though on many nights nobody would notice except the staff. Tonight, on Trio’s last night, I made sure I had time to do it myself.

“The cooks wrapped up their prep work and, as the 5:00 P.M. opening time approached, they wiped down surfaces, swept, mopped. “You’ve got to start the service with a clean kitchen,” Achatz said as he polished the copper siding of his work area. “Otherwise it just doesn’t feel right.”

And that was it. This night was so different than any other night we’d ever had at Trio. Going back to the first day, right up until this one, we were always looking forward. On a bad night we would take comfort in knowing that we always had tomorrow to get it right. Other nights we would go home knowing how in the shits we were for the next day, but tonight