Life, on the Line (39 page)

I tried to answer, but Grant stormed off to the front dining room. I had to agree. When the
Times
photographer came in, we had high hopes that Melissa was going to do a puff piece on our opening. But we didn't expect an overview of avant-garde cuisine in America, with Alinea at its center, penned by Bruni. Grant came back in.

“And you know what? Trotter has never once eaten my food. Never once. He had reservations at Trio a few times and canceled every time. How can he say that?”

“Well,” I offered up, “perhaps the
New York Times
hasn't featured him much despite his success, and he's simply jealous. Or he's threatened. You won't be part of the old-boys club until they're forced to admit you. Then they'll come running.”

Grant stormed off again.

And then the e-mails and phone calls started pouring in.

Friends who I hadn't spoken with in years e-mailed me from California, Colorado, New York City, even Colgate. All of the e-mails were the same: Is that your restaurant in the
New York Times
? Amazing pictures. Great article. I can't wait to try it. Congratulations.

I forwarded all of the e-mails to Grant, along with a note that read, “I guess people just look at the pretty pictures and don't mind Bison Bongs. And the phones are ringing like crazy.”

Grant was already back to work. There would be no convincing him that the
New York Times
article wasn't a disaster. But he realized better than I did that Trotter was right about one thing: Alinea would be a marathon, not a sprint.

 

I arrived at the restaurant around noon. We had been open only a few weeks, but already my role was diminishing. I felt more in the way during service than I felt needed, and the final construction elements that were cobbled together in order to open on time had been tightened up. For the moment, there wasn't much for me to do, so I turned my attention to seeing how the business was progressing. Our primary concern until now was the push to get open. Now it was time to focus on making Alinea a business.

I set up my laptop in the front dining room and poached some Wi-Fi from our neighbors. A man, about fifty, abruptly entered the room, seeming agitated and rushed. Wearing a gray suit, a bit rumpled, he looked like he was going to sell me something, so I didn't introduce myself.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I'm here to see Grant.”

“Do you have an appointment? Is he expecting you?”

Grant appeared quickly from the kitchen, stepped between me and the salesman, and led the man upstairs. I went back to the task of building a spreadsheet to track our daily sales and forgot about the exchange.

After an hour had passed I had a few questions regarding how detailed Grant wanted to track food inventory, so I headed back to the kitchen. He wasn't there.

I could rarely get an hour with Grant alone since he was simply too busy tweaking the menu and trying to put out fires. I figured it was a reporter, not a salesman, who had cornered him, and he was unable to get away. So I went upstairs with the pretense of grabbing Grant for a phone call.

He was seated facing the stairway at Table 25. The man's back was to me, and as soon as Grant saw me arrive at the top of the stairs he shot me a look that told me to back off. I gestured with a shrug, “What's going on?” and got nothing in return. This was serious. The city? Another inspector? If that were the case then certainly he would call me in. An attorney, perhaps.

I went back downstairs and sat behind my laptop, but I couldn't work. I was concerned that something odd was going on up there. Another fifteen or twenty minutes passed before Grant came down, shook the man's hand formally, and turned toward the kitchen. The man headed for the front door. Never shy, I stepped in front of him and introduced myself.

“Hello, I'm Grant's partner in Alinea, Nick Kokonas.”

The man smiled broadly at me, grabbed my hand with a genuinely crushing, aggressive handshake, and said, “Good to meet you, Nick. I'm Grant Achatz.”

It took me a few moments to process that. Grant Achatz?

“You mean Grant Achatz, Sr.?” I mumbled.

“Well, not senior really,” he said, finally releasing my hand after having thoroughly proven that he was far stronger than I. “But I am his dad.”

I looked toward the kitchen, caught Grant's eye—he was watching the exchange—and he just shook his head and let out a small laugh.

“Mr. Achatz, I'm really glad you came by today. Pretty amazing what your son built here, huh?”

“I suspect he had some help. I'm eating here tonight . . . it should be . . .”

“—you're eating here?” I interrupted.

“If it's okay with you, yes.”

“Of course it's okay. It's more than okay, I'm happy to have you.” I tried not to sound shocked, but it wasn't working. “I think you'll be amazed how wonderful it is. Your son is a truly gifted chef. You must be very proud of him.” I said this more as a suggestion than a question.

Grant Achatz, Sr., turned and walked out the front door. I stood for a second and thought, “How long has Grant known that his dad was coming here, and why had he never mentioned it to me?”

“So that's your dad, huh?”

“Yep. He looks older, but that's him all right.”

“Did you know he was coming by?”

“Yeah, he's eating here tonight.”

Grant said that so matter-of-factly that I was offended. To me, after not seeing your dad for seven years, this constitutes real news. “You didn't tell me,” I said.

Grant looked at me as if to say, “Why would you care?”

“I think it's a great thing that he came by. Whatever's happened, life is short and he's your father. I would kill to have my dad walk through that door right now and see this. I know it's not the same, but you'll feel better about things in the long run. I'm glad he's eating here tonight. You're going to blow his mind.”

“He won't like it. Not really. Whatever.”

N
early every culinary magazine in the United States and most major newspapers wanted to cover Alinea beyond simply mentioning its food or decor. Profiles of Grant began to proliferate, but increasingly, other than the local papers, we were becoming wary of letting some national critics in. The kinks were still being worked out, and the
New York Times
article taught us that reviews of the restaurant were great, but associating ourselves with the broader movement in what the press termed “molecular gastronomy” could backfire. We were willing to wait for profiles that singled us out.

Grant explained his theory to me, and I in turn let our publicist Jenn Galdes know that we would, for a short time, be taking a hiatus from any further press coverage and instead remain focused on the online forums and emergent blogs, media vehicles that would allow us to showcase the unique experience that Alinea provided and that were increasingly becoming the go-to place for customers who wanted to research restaurants and read reviews. This is the last thing a publicist wants to hear, so she kept pushing. Time after time we said no, insisting instead that we wanted to wait for the truly big hits that could make a difference in Alinea's long-term worldwide reputation.

This seemed absurd by almost any standard. Restaurants normally kill for any PR, and it was true that the
New York Times
article did far more good than harm for our business and reputation. But Grant was adamant about controlling the flow this early in the game.

Then Jenn called me and said, “Grant doesn't want to let John Mariani in. I can't tell you how stupid that is. He does the national list of the Twenty Best New Restaurants every year for
Esquire
. You guys are a shoo-in, right? You'll probably get the number-one spot. He wants to come in next Friday. I have a reservation at the ready and Grant wants me to cancel it. I'm not sure how I can do that. I haven't come up with a viable excuse yet.”

Grant did indeed cancel the reservation. But later Mariani was back in town and Grant was convinced to let him in. The only opening we had on short notice, however, was at 5:30, when the doors opened. Grant would be preparing our smaller menu for him, not only to get him out the door in time for the reservations that we already had booked, but also because after extensive research and reading Mariani's reviews for years, Grant knew full well that the man was not a fan of anything resembling molecular gastronomy.

While I didn't typically spend much time at the restaurant during service, I made sure to be there as Mariani arrived with Jenn. I greeted him warmly and walked him back to the kitchen to say hello to Grant. He looked at me and said, “I haven't eaten dinner this early since I was a child.”

I didn't quite catch what he meant. “Pardon me?” I said.

“Don't you think it's a bit early to be eating in a civilized fashion?” he glared at me.

“Well, this is all we could do on short notice without kicking someone out. Just think of it as a late lunch and I am sure you'll be okay.” I smiled warmly and was met with a half grin.

He shook Grant's hand stiffly and was led upstairs. I told Grant what he had said. Grant looked at me. “Jenn's an idiot for bringing him here. He'll hate it even if he loves it. It was a mistake to let him come. He couldn't write anything positive without changing his opinion in twenty previous articles.” He shook his head and went back to cooking.

I went downstairs and killed time for an hour and a half, then headed upstairs to check on their table. When I got there, Jenn had a forced smile on her face and was raising her eyebrow at me. “Mr. Mariani, how is everything tonight?”

“It's interesting. What do you call that thing that you served the, uh, what was it on it,” he said, looking at Jenn, who of course had no idea which course he was referring to. It was then that he started going back through his notes, which were, to my horror, written on our wine list.

Martin had crafted four wine lists for us since we couldn't find a binder that we felt fit our quality and aesthetic considerations. So he created four sets of steel bands with custom-made screws and fittings, then made the Excel spreadsheet template that would place the margins just right. Since we only had twenty tables and they were staggered seatings, and since most of our customers chose our wine-pairings program, four wine lists were enough. But just barely enough. And now one of them was about to walk out the door.

“Mr. Mariani, perhaps I can bring you a notebook to use?” I asked.

Jenn glared at me, and I back at her. Mariani ignored me completely and kept writing. I was appalled and getting angry. Critic or no critic, this was simply rude and entitled behavior. I walked away before saying anything further, headed down to Grant, and said, “You were right.”

“Why, what'd he say?”

“He's using our wine list as a personal notebook.”

We sent a check to the table that was promptly paid. Jenn couldn't believe we did that, and clearly thought it was another strike against us. Our attitude is that reviewers pay for their meals or else the review is biased. We had never comped a member of the press or any bloggers, nor did we intend to.

John Mariani walked out the front door of Alinea that night carrying our wine list and a handmade, one-of-four stainless-steel binders.

 

On August 18, 2005, the first major critical review of Alinea was to be printed.

Online at eGullet, from 10:05 on opening night, the reviews and page views poured in. Chef Sean Brock wrote,“We were the first table sat at Alinea on opening day....Alinea will change the way people look at restaurants forever. I can't even imagine what this restaurant's future will hold.” Yellow Truffle posted pictures that were better than our promotional shots. He analyzed the menu construction and visual design, and even created a spreadsheet of wait times between courses versus bite size. These obsessive reviews ensured that the foodies of the world and anyone who Googled “Alinea review” would read firsthand accounts from diners about their experiences.

More important, the national and international press could quickly gauge our daily changes to the menu, the evolution of the food and service, and the reaction of patrons. This real-time access to a restaurant and constant reviewing was a new phenomenon, and we were among the first to not only embrace it but to encourage it. A great deal of the interest drummed up about Alinea in the mainstream press mirrored directly the phrases, comments, and thoughts that these forum-posters created. We started playing a game where we would post something in a forum and see how long it took for the mainstream press to pick up the story. It usually took less than a week. Still, in 2005 the “food blog” as we know it today did not yet exist, and these forums were the provinces of mostly hard-core foodies. A bad review in the
Chicago Tribune
—which for us was anything less than four stars—would be crippling to our business and our goals.

Grant was adamant about trying to spot Phil Vettel, the head critic of the
Tribune
, knowing he would be in soon after opening and likely several more times before he wrote a review. The goal was for there to be no more surprises like the Bruni fiasco on opening night. Reservation books were scoured for odd-sounding aliases, common phone exchanges, and bogus credit cards for confirmation. Every single reservation name was Googled. Headshots of every major and minor critic in the United States were posted in the office. Grant personally watched every diner come in. Anyone who seemed a bit too interested in minor details or spent time jotting notes regularly was suspected of being a critic.