Life, on the Line (30 page)

“Well, you know what they're really selling is the liquor license, occupancy permit, and the value of the lease if it's submarket. It can take six or eight months to get a liquor license and costs, well, a lot of money. I've heard forty or fifty thousand dollars to get one these days.”

I looked at Nick and he didn't seem surprised by this. We got back in my car and headed toward Lincoln Park, where there was one more space he wanted to show us, which wasn't a restaurant. When we got about halfway there I spied something across the street.

“You know, hold on a second. Pull over here. The other day I was driving around here and saw a sign hanging off a building . . . there!” I pointed at a building on Halsted Street and Nick pulled over. Kim was in the car behind us and he pulled over as well. We hopped out of the car. “What does that say?”

A sign hanging off the building read: FOR LEASE. 1,000 TO 5,000 SQ. FT. DIVISIBLE. It was indeed a stand-alone building, but it was ugly. A woman sat at a desk in the front window. “Let's go have a look?”

“Sure,” Nick said, though he and Kim looked skeptical.

I knocked on the door and the woman came around to open it. “Can I help you?” she said.

“Hi, I was just driving through the area and saw your sign. We're looking for a space for a . . .” Kim cut me off.

“Hi. I'm a real estate broker representing some clients who are looking for a building in this area. If it's convenient could we come in and look around? Is the owner on premises?”

The woman paused a second and looked at the three of us skeptically. “I'm Denise Trammer and I own this building. I'm an attorney, and I lease out space to a number of small businesses—some of them may be moving.” She glanced over her shoulder like she was sharing a secret. “You can come in if you want, just please don't tell any of the tenants that you're looking to rent. Some of them may be kicked out, and I don't want them to know yet.”

The exchange felt really odd. First of all, here was Kim sticking himself in the middle of the situation and cutting me off. Then there was Denise, who was renting her building, but maybe not. We were supposed to pretend like we were clients of hers and talk to no one.

There was a small hallway with drapes that covered some stairs, then we turned left down another hall and saw a small travel agency in the front half and what looked like a computer drafting firm in the back. We walked quickly through the first floor, barely glancing in, and no one gave us any notice. Then we headed up a back stairway to the second floor.

Wow. The second floor was completely empty—just one big open space with a drop ceiling and those awful ceiling tiles like they have in high school. Giant bulbous skylights dotted the ceiling. We walked toward the front of the building where a bunch of computers, each with ten screens, sat on desks. Printouts and papers were strewn all over the place. A huge marlin hung on the wall.

“Trading firm,” Nick said.

“That's what trading firms look like?” I asked.

“Yep.” Nick peeked at the screens, still on, and smiled.

Ms. Trammer piped in, “They moved out last week, and I believe I have a tenant taking over this floor soon. Their stuff should have been out of here by now.”

“I doubt that,” Nick said. “No way they would leave these fired up and walk out the door, except to go to lunch. According to the P/L line at the bottom of MicroHedge they're up twenty-two thousand dollars on that position today.” Nick walked casually out of the room and down the front stairs through the curtain. Surprisingly, he kept going, right out the front door. I followed him out, while Kim was left to deal with the owner.

“It's perfect,” Nick said.

“You know, I was just thinking the same thing. And I have no idea why.”

We grinned at each other, not knowing that the next two months of negotiations would be pure hell.

But we had found Alinea.

 

“What's the next step?” I asked Nick as we got back in my car. We had said nothing to Kim about loving the space and had dutifully gone through the next building that was on Armitage right near Trotter's—we'd forgotten to tell him about the “Not Near Trotter's” rule.

“I think it's time that I invite Tom Stringer and Steve Rugo to dinner at Trio,” Nick suggested. “Can you arrange that for next week sometime?”

“Sure. Who are they?”

“They're the guys who are going to design the place. Steve is an architect. Tom is an interior designer. They do primarily high-end real estate, and I've worked with both of them on my home. I like them and trust them. But most of all, they know how to craft a true luxury experience.”

“Wait. That website you sent me to the other day? Those homes looked like they're for old people. Beautiful, to be sure, but not modern at all,” I said.

“I agree. But when I say they do the luxury home market, what I mean is that I am by far their poorest client. They're doing work on really high-end stuff. Ten million plus, that kind of thing. They'll be able to source materials, furniture, and fixtures that Martin wouldn't even know exist. We can't design every detail from scratch. Plus, ultimately, if we want to build something remarkable with good flow we'll need a supremely talented design group, and we can't afford to hire one. We've set the budget super low for what you have in your head. Alinea has to make money, but it has to look like there is no way it can.”

“Agreed. So how can we afford them if all they do is really expensive builds?”

“We're going to offer them equity ownership in the best restaurant in America in exchange for their services and the ability to purchase goods at wholesale. And it's your job next week to convince them that that's possible.”

“Sure. That's easy. That's what we do, Nick.”

 

A week later we were sitting in the lush office conference room—if you could call it that, since it looked more like a fabulous living room—of Tom Stringer Design Partners with Tom and architect Steve Rugo, who came over from his office. They had eaten at Trio two days earlier, and Nick had picked up their check but hadn't attended. “I am the architect of Henry's demise,” he had said. “No way I could eat there again.” Nick, like everyone, loved Henry.

As usual, our counterparts were impeccably dressed, while we both looked like we just woke up.

“So tell me, Nick,” Steve said. “I assume you didn't buy us dinner at Trio because you thought we under-billed you last month.” He laughed heartily, and we all joined him. “No. As you probably guessed, Grant and I are going to build a restaurant together, and we'd like you to be the architect and Tom to do the interior design. This in collaboration with Martin Kastner, the designer who is working on our logos, website, and service pieces. And with us, of course.”

“That sounds like a fantastic opportunity, Nick. We would love to be a part of it,” Tom said immediately.

“Well, there is a catch, Tom,” Nick said playfully. “We can't afford your services.”

“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.

 

We headed to Evanston to a small store near my house and searched for papers, folios, and boxes. Then we went to the Container Store to find something to put the food in. We settled on some small vials that were sealable and didn't seem overly lablike.

We headed to Nick's house and reformatted the business plan to fit the unusual paper size—eight inches by eight inches square. I wrote a quick cover letter, and a few hours later we had our prototype investor package: a fancy brown fabric box that had a simple “alinea” symbol on the cover in a gothic-looking script. Inside the box, on the top of the lid, were five small, neatly labeled vials filled with a dehydrated five-course meal: “Dry Martini” on the left, leading all the way through a “Lamb Essence,” and finally a “Powdered Crème Brûlée.”

Inside were three sections: an executive summary detailing my personal history, the goals for Alinea, and a brief overview of how we intended to manage the build-out; a series of spreadsheets detailing the operation of the restaurant and the structure and payout of the investment; and a press kit consisting of reproductions of some key articles about Trio.

Nick had already spoken to every one of the potential investors personally and assured me that they were all people who would be able to contribute something beyond only money. He stressed over and over, “We only want investors who are smart and for whom this is an inconsequential investment.” I had assumed we would have to find dozens of people who would each contribute $10,000. He was targeting the fewest number possible. “This entire package is unnecessary to get the investment. We could just send an e-mail. But I think this shows that we are very serious about doing something different and unusual. These guys see business plans all the time. I guarantee not one of them looked like this. But this won't get us the money. Yes, these guys are also my friends, but they'll negotiate a better rate of return. I would be disappointed if they didn't. It's critical that everyone looks at this as a business, not a restaurant.”