Life, on the Line (52 page)

A few weeks earlier I had been fitted for a harness to secure my head to the table during the radiation. This would prevent me from moving during the treatment and spare the areas of my head and neck that didn't need the radiation and subsequent savage burning that the beams produced. Dr. Haraf asked me at the time, “Are you claustrophobic?” I replied, “No, I don't think so,” although I wondered what he had in mind. He laughed and replied, “Well, by the end of this we'll know for sure!” I guess if your job is to benevolently burn people from the inside out you develop a unique sense of humor. I smiled but didn't laugh. I had no idea what he was talking about.

At my first appointment, Dr. Haraf and an assistant came in with the fiberglass harness, which was crafted to my exact dimensions and resembled the head restraint that kept Hannibal Lecter from, well, eating someone. It was intimidating and scary, but not claustrophobia inducing. Instead, I was far more scared that the radiation would hurt as it was being applied. But that fear was unfounded, and the treatment lasted less than thirty minutes. I got up, walked out as I had come in, and drove back to Alinea. One down, sixty-three to go.

I settled into a routine. I would wake up in the morning, try to force down some food, a protein drink, some Ensure, and head to Alinea to make my presence felt. Then I would send off a few e-mails about the book to Martin, the designer, or Lara, the photographer, then head to radiation. For a few weeks I deluded myself into believing that it wouldn't be so bad. But then the scariest moment came.

The third week into my treatment I drove back to Alinea on a Friday afternoon. It was a typical night for us with eighty-eight confirmed reservations, thirty-eight of which were for the twenty-six-course Tour menu. Doing the math, that means that 1,688 dishes would need to leave the kitchen in the span of about seven hours. Three new dishes were hitting the menu that night, and a chef was visiting us from Spain. I arrived to find the kitchen humming, but not totally in sync.

At this point, the effects of the radiation were minimal. A light burn on the outside of my skin had begun to form, and I could feel a constant dull pain in my mouth again. Eating began to hurt more, but it was tolerable given the amount of painkillers I was on. As soon as I arrived at my station, right in the middle of the line, a
chef de partie
came up with a beige-colored sauce on a spoon. “Chef, is this what you were looking for?” he asked. This happens continuously whenever we introduce a new dish. We refine and refine until the recipe and plating are second nature, tasting constantly along the way. I grabbed the spoon, put it in my mouth, swished it around, and winced slightly from the pain. But that was not the issue—I was used to the pain by then. I looked at the chef, checked his face to make sure it was not some sort of joke, and then grabbed another spoon and took a second taste out of the pot. I called over to sous chef Dave Beran, and said, “Chef, give this a taste and tell me what you think.” A few on the line noticed and worried briefly that something was amiss. He hurried over, tasted it, shrugged, and said, “Seems fine to me. Maybe a bit more salt.” I shrugged, tossed the spoon into the
bain-marie
, and said, “Seems perfect to me.”

But mentally, I was panicking. My mind raced at a million miles an hour. I grabbed five tasting spoons, walked over as casually as possible to the stove and randomly tasted a few of the sauces simmering there. Nothing. I grabbed a pinch of salt, put it directly on my tongue, and it tasted—no, felt—like slowly dissolving sand. And just like that my sense of taste was gone. I had no idea how to react, other than to try to hide it from the kitchen staff, at least for the time being. I called together the sous chefs in the front dining room and said, “As I go through this treatment, I'm going to need to begin relying more on you guys to taste the nuances in the food.” Dave looked at me and knew the truth. He had seen it in my eyes. I couldn't taste, and he knew it.

I walked back to my station and continued to prepare for the evening. Would everything be okay tonight? How would I know if it were off? For the first time since the treatment started I was genuinely scared.

And the hard part had not even begun.

 

Alinea was hanging together. Chef Pikus and the core group of sous chefs had absorbed the initial blow and were putting out the same quality that Grant demanded. New dishes were being introduced, and on a nightly basis diners would finish their meals, come down to the kitchen, and be shocked to see chef Achatz standing at the pass. He didn't often come over to greet them and ask about their meals—he could barely talk—but he was there, standing and working. More than a few teared up at the sight.

“It's just so fantastic and so sad at the same time,” one woman said to me as she gripped my arm. “Please tell him it was a wonderful experience and that we are all praying for his recovery.”

I heard this over and over, and yet I still did not believe the food could be the same. An entirely new fall menu was conceived at a time when Grant could barely eat and executed while he could not taste. I made a reservation to come in and eat, something that I rarely did.

Grant knew why I was there, even though I claimed that I just felt like going out to dinner.

The meal was different. It was certainly Alinea-like in its appearance, but it was richer, more earthy, and more decadent. Nothing was too out there or too challenging. And everything, but everything, was fantastically delicious. It was, quite simply, the best food I had ever eaten at Alinea. I was shocked.

When I got down to the kitchen I walked up to Grant and smiled. “Sorry. I guess I should have known.”

I hadn't heard him speak in a few days, but he looked at me and said, “You know, we know what we're doing here.”

We both laughed. “Well, you must have been keeping those up your sleeve for a rainy day. It was like French Laundry meets Alinea. Completely safe but visually unique. A brilliant move. No one could not like that.”

I e-mailed everyone involved with the cookbook that night to set up a meeting for the next afternoon. We'd put our plans on hold, not knowing how Grant's treatment would affect his ability to work. But it seemed that it was possible to move forward after all.

 

Mark Caro, Martin, Lara, and I sat down at the “rock and roll” table in the back dining room—so-called because for some reason that is where all the famous musicians have sat at Alinea.

None of them had seen Grant in a few weeks, and the changes were huge. He had lost a substantial amount of weight, his face was pockmarked with pimples and burned from the radiation, and he was largely bald. His lips were bright white from the lotion he slathered on to keep them from bleeding, and he had to coat his mouth with gelled painkillers just to drink water, let alone talk.

“What are we here for?” Mark asked. “I mean, you told us to hold off for a while.”

I explained that while the book was a priority for Grant, it wasn't a priority for me. I wanted to make sure he kept his focus on his treatment and health first and Alinea second. The book could wait or not happen at all. But I wasn't entirely honest with Grant about where I'd left things with the rest of the team. I'd told him that they were proceeding with the writing and design, when in fact I'd confided to them that I thought it was unlikely that the book would happen that year. I didn't want them spending their time on something that wouldn't come to fruition; it wouldn't be fair to them.

We sat down at the table and Grant joined us. Nobody said anything. Grant looked around. “So, what's everyone been doing? Nothing?”

Mark tried to dip a toe into the conversation. “Grant, we're all concerned about you and your health, and it seems that the book can wait. I'm working on writing, but obviously we haven't had the chance to talk and connect over the past month or so.”

Grant looked at Martin, who shrugged his shoulders a bit. Lara couldn't photograph anything that wasn't being made in the kitchen, so it seemed as though she was probably off the hook. But Grant didn't see it that way.

“Who has cancer here, me or you guys? Why hasn't anyone done anything? This is pathetic. We'll never get this done at this rate. I don't understand it. If you don't want to do the book, tell me and I'll find someone else to do it.”

With that he stood up and walked downstairs back to the kitchen. I apologized to everyone for allowing the meeting to take place. I should have known this was going to happen. I headed downstairs.

Grant didn't want to talk to me, but I pulled him aside. “Look, just because you have cancer doesn't give you the right to be an asshole. They're concerned about you. This doesn't just affect you; it affects everyone around you—Martin, Lara, the kitchen, me, your mom, your kids. None of us have cancer, but it's still an emotionally trying time. I'm the one who told them not to do anything. I didn't want to waste their time. I didn't expect that you'd still be in the kitchen working. Now that I see I was wrong we can get going. Put together a shooting schedule and I'll make sure we get Lara in here to photograph every day if necessary. But don't yell at them. Yell at me.”

Grant was annoyed and having none of it. “We need to get the book done,” was all he said. What was unspoken and understood was that this was his legacy now, not just a book.

He wanted to document everything before he died.

 

My mother took the train from Michigan to stay with me during the hardest part of my treatment. Until now, I had tried to keep her away, and I'd done a reasonable job of taking care of myself. I was proud that I had made it this far. But she called and told me she was coming down whether I liked it or not.

I thought that having her there would mean more stress, not less. It wasn't that she was bad at caring for me; in fact it was the opposite, to a fault. My apartment had never been cleaner since she started mopping the floors, cleaning the bathrooms, and washing my bedding every day. I just didn't want to accept her help. It made me feel as though I was reverting to my childhood, and it made my deteriorating physical situation all the more real. There she was, sitting on my couch thinking of things to clean, so nervous, scared, and upset that she was unable to sit naturally. I felt guilty. Nobody wants to be the cause of their mother's suffering.

It was late October and the radiation sessions had been bumped up to twice a day. I was burned badly then, singed bright red from my upper lip down to my lower neck. My skin was leathery and stretched taut, and if I turned my head too quickly or too far it would simply crack and bleed.

My mom came with me one day as I went through a five-hour chemo session followed by the second radiation treatment of the day. I explained to her that it was a waste of time, but she sat quietly with me, looking glum.

I knew I was in trouble when we headed in to the routine follow-up appointment at the end of the day. I had triple-layered my shirts, tucked my cell phone in my back pocket, and left my shoes on hoping to pick up a few ounces as I stepped on the scale. The nurse tapped the counter balance to the left until the needle started to float. I looked up. One twenty-nine. Shit. The nurse shot me a look of disapproval and shook her head.

Dr. Vokes entered the room with my chart and introduced himself to my mom in his characteristically warm, confident way. Throughout the treatment he had an incredibly calming effect on me. He always had an aura of assurance no matter what the circumstances were.

“Well, Grant, you seem to have forgotten our little deal,” he said. “Have you been eating?”

I had a ploy all worked out, but before I could say anything my mom cut me off. “Tell him the truth, Grant.” Her tone was angry and sympathetic at the same time. The tone only a mother can pull off. I told Dr. Vokes that it had been tough, but I was feeling better and would start to eat.

The doctors had warned me of dramatic weight loss and its consequences. Most head and neck cancer patients end up with a feeding tube at some point in their treatment, since normal ingestion becomes impossible. I began the treatments at 172 pounds and was told that when I reached 140 I had to do whatever possible to maintain that weight. I fought against the thought of the tube not because I was afraid of it, but because it was a point of pride. But there was no denying the scale no matter how hard I tried to convince them that it was a different, miscalibrated scale and I was wearing fewer clothes. The pain of eating was not the only thing preventing me from getting enough food. I could taste nothing. Eating had gone from embodying every possible emotion for me to only one: loss. I was reminded at every meal that I could not taste, could not cook, could not be a chef. It was mental agony.

“Give me three days and I promise I'll bring it up over one thirty.”

My mother then reminded me that I couldn't even drink water without throwing up. She began suggesting to Dr. Vokes to give me a feeding tube. I was getting more and more annoyed with her and simply stood up, grabbed my coat, and told Dr. Vokes that I would be over 130 in three days. He agreed to give me the chance as long as I went to a nutritionist.

I was fairly well versed in removing texture from pretty much any food. That was not the problem. I couldn't eat anything without vomiting five minutes later. I thought it was absurd to see a nutritionist. But I went.

Her intentions were good and most people would have found her suggestions helpful, but I was a special case and she knew it. She began by apologizing. “I can't believe I'm telling you how to manipulate food.” The irony of the situation was obviously not lost on her, which made the meeting more bearable.

She asked me about my eating habits and my estimation of my daily caloric intake. I explained that eating was impossible and even liquids would not stay down. She kept pushing for a caloric value.