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

critics to want to give a restaurant something to strive for, room to improve. So a great restaurant opening will often get three and a half stars rather than four out of the gate.

I was in southwest Michigan for a family trip with friends when we suspected the Trib review would be in the paper. I couldn’t contain myself, so I woke up early, drove to the market and got there before the newspapers were delivered. When the stack finally arrived shortly after seven, it didn’t take me long to realize the review would be four stars—there was a box on the cover of the paper directing you to a four-star review in the dining section. I flipped the paper open and the entire dining section page was filled with photos and a giant headline: Alinea Plays to Perfection.

From the first line to the last it was more of a love letter than a review. I skimmed it quickly and then got to the last paragraph:

It seems silly to suggest that a three-month-old restaurant has matured, but that’s the sense I get from Alinea these days. The restaurant has lost the jittery atmosphere of its early weeks and has mellowed into a calm, self-assured and highly polished operation. Alinea has found its rhythm, and what a spectacular rhythm it is.

I quickly bought five copies, sat down in my car, and read it again and again. I was overjoyed not only because my efforts had paid off, but also because this is the review that Grant had been waiting for his whole life. His restaurant, the restaurant he built and owned and created, had joined the elite in Chicago. I picked up the phone to call him, knowing he would still be sleeping.

“I got the paper, Grant,” I said. “It’s not good. It’s fantastic.” I read the review to him and described just how much real estate they gave us. His reaction was muted.

“Awesome. That’s great,” he said sleepily. “I’ll talk to you later.” It was a curious reaction, but one that I came to realize meant that his goals were much, much bigger.

This was only the necessary first step.

When the Esquire Top 20 New Restaurants of 2005 list finally came out, it wasn’t a surprise that we weren’t included. Nor was it a surprise that Mariani managed to get in a dig at us.

Chicago is presently in the sensationalist grip of a few hocus-pocus chefs trying to make headlines based on things like burning incense next to a dish of venison and forcing desserts into squeeze tubes—a total misunderstanding of the experimental cuisine of Spain’s Ferran Adrià.

That inaccurate nugget—we never used any incense—was tucked into his review of a restaurant named Butter that would fail quickly and close permanently within two years. While Butter proved to be less than stellar, its talented chef Ryan Poli went on to open Perennial with the BoKa Restaurant Group, our neighbors next to Alinea.

We were livid about the treatment in Esquire for about a day. We wondered to ourselves how well Mr. Mariani knew chef Adrià’s cuisine, and we bitched about our inability to say no to him when we knew it was the right thing to do.

And then a shit-storm with Mariani at the center hit the Internet and was picked up by the L.A. Times. Mariani was accused of getting complimentary meals, making demands upon restaurants, and having his travel expenses paid for by visitor bureaus and groups of restaurants. He dismissed the accusations, but the damage was done, raising doubts about the Esquire list and the selections made, as well as ethical considerations regarding the reviews.

The Internet played a huge role in the controversy, and by not being included on the list, Alinea benefited more than if it had been. In many people’s eyes, exclusion of a few restaurants in the Chicago area lent credence to the complaints. And the fact that we were online posting up our business plan six months before we opened put us squarely on the side of the interested public.

The Mariani flap made me all the more excited when I found out that Jeffrey Steingarten was coming to dinner. I loved his writing and his surliness and was confident that he would see through the exotic presentations straight through to the flavor and technique. But I also knew he would try to ruffle our feathers.

Shortly after he sat down I headed to his table and greeted him with unabashed enthusiasm. “Mr. Steingarten, it’s not a stretch to say that one of the reasons that this restaurant got built is because I love your writing and it helped me understand and love food.”

“Jesus, I am so sorry,” he deadpanned. “Listen, is snow going to begin falling from the ceiling or something? Because I expect some strange stuff here tonight,” he said, and smiled at his joke. “Call me Jeffrey.”

“Jeffrey, if you want snow I am sure we can arrange it. But that would be an odd and tacky request,” I replied. “Enjoy your meal, snow or no.” He was laughing, which was good, so I left quickly. When I came back two hours later he was about sixteen courses in and had his napkin tucked somewhere near his chin. He patted the banquette next to him and I sat down awkwardly.

“Nick, I don’t say this often, but Grant is just a genius. How did you know? I must have written well.” He giggled at me.

I explained how I met Grant and how I simply helped to facilitate things and that our staff was just drinking the Kool-Aid and loving the place. It felt fantastic to see someone whose food writing I respected so much really understanding the whole place.

We knew that when he returned to New York he would begin spreading the word there.

Alinea settled into a steady pace over the first year as we expanded reservations to full capacity. The restaurant was booked solid except for January, when Chicago turns into a tundra