Too haute to handle?

I’m standing in the middle of my kitchen, sweating, while my blender whirs menacingly and the dog paces nervously around the living room. I don’t know what to do next. I don’t know why I can’t get my methylcellulose to work. Actually, I don’t even know what methylcellulose is. But I do know this: Grant Achatz is superhuman.

Achatz, the chef of Alinea, does what I’m doing—or rather, what I’m attempting to do—five nights a week. And he does it dozens of times over, for dozens of people who pay hundreds of dollars to dine in his world-renowned restaurant.

Two weeks ago, Achatz (pictured) released a 396-page cookbook, "Alinea," containing recipes for 107 dishes he’s served at the restaurant since it opened in 2005. The book is gorgeous, filled with glossy photos and eloquent essays. It is also, at this moment, my undoing.

An Alinea meal consists of 13 or 26 courses. Each one demands scientific precision, with ingredients measured to the exact gram and temperatures controlled to the degree. I am attempting to create just three courses from the Alinea cookbook, and any delusions I had of precision disappeared hours ago when I rinsed a handful of salted peanuts in cold water to approximate the unsalted peanuts I couldn’t find at Whole Foods.

Things started off well enough. Earlier in the week, I’d contacted Achatz through his business partner, Nick Kokonas, and told him my plan. I’m a decent cook, but I knew I’d be in over my head with recipes that called for ingredients with names like Ultra-Tex 3 and Methocel F50. Would Achatz be on call in case I got stuck? He agreed: I’d get three calls to the Alinea kitchen any time Sunday afternoon.

Early Thursday morning, I start shopping. Soon, the more esoteric ingredients in the book will be available at postmodernpantry.com. For now, I’m left to my own devices. With help from the message boards at alinea-mosaic.com, the book’s interactive component, I find two online stores, L’Epicerie and Chef Rubber, that stock what I need. Shipping kills me. I shell out $164.84 for the culinary equivalent of a chemistry set.

Other ingredients require some legwork, but at least they’re available in Chicago. Friday after work, I pick up some citric acid at the Spice House in Old Town. Saturday morning I cruise down to Beverly to Cakewalk Chicago (1741 W. 99th St. 773-233-7335), the only place in the entire city where I could find powdered glucose. On my way home, I swing by Gepperth’s Meat Market (1964 N. Halsted St. 773-549-3883) in Lincoln Park for a duck breast and foie gras.

By 2:45 p.m. Sunday, my foie gras is prepped and my duck is brining in, among other things, juice I’ve extracted from a whole pineapple using mostly my bare hands—it was just too much for my little Braun Citromatic to handle. In less barbaric fashion, I’ve roasted a butternut squash, deep-fried 16 pumpkin seeds and dusted them in homemade curry salt, coated 150 grams of peanuts in cayenne glaze, and made 210 grams of caramel base that will eventually combine with something called tapioca maltodextrin to become dessert.

Then things start to unravel. Late Friday I’d brewed cinnamon tea that would—God and Grant Achatz willing—meld with a white powder called Methocel F50 to create cinnamon puffs I’d fill with foie gras and seal with bits of apple candy. But the next part of the recipe calls for several things I don’t have: an immersion blender, a silicone mat and a dehydrator. I’ve got about $40 worth of foie gras seasoned with Himalayan pink salt chilling in the fridge, and I’m not about to risk it on an equipment malfunction. I reach for the phone.

"Rhymes with rackets," I mumble to myself while it rings, though mispronouncing Achatz’s name is really the least of my worries at this point.

"Alinea kitchen," says the guy who picks up. It’s Achatz himself, and I get the impression this is the easiest question he’s had all day. In lieu of an immersion blender, he says, just put the stuff in a regular blender and then transfer it to a mixer. To simulate a silicone mat, spray some wax paper with cooking spray and wipe it down to remove any residual spray. Instead of a dehydrator, set the oven to its lowest setting and stick a couple of damp dish towels in the door to bring it down to the desired 150 degrees

"OK, I think I’m set," I say. "Hopefully, I won’t have to bother you again."

But about 45 minutes later, I’m back on the phone. I’ve been mixing for more than 15 minutes, and the puffs aren’t puffing. Not even a bit. After a round of questions—Did I measure everything to the exact gram? Did I bring the tea to a simmer? Does my powder look more like fine sea sand or more like baking soda?—we determine that I probably bought the wrong kind of methylcellulose. Turns out there are several different kinds, and each reacts differently at different temperatures. I might be able to get my methocel to work if I let the tea cool, Achatz explains, but when I put the puffs in the oven, they’d melt. In other words, I’m screwed.

"So what would you do at this point?" I ask.

"I’d make some crostini and do kind of like a tapenade," he says. "Spread the foie gras on the crostini and put a cube of apple candy on top."

I try not to sound too defeated. "OK, then, that’s what I’ll do."

I save my third call for the culinary equivalent of the apocalypse, which I’m now certain is close at hand. But my luck changes, and I don’t need it. My duck tenderloin sears perfectly. My candied lime zest curls gracefully. My banana froth froths. I’m not patient enough to let my apple candy set, but since Foie Gras has become a different dish entirely, I decide not to sweat it.

At 8 p.m. Sunday, roughly 85 hours after I started the project, I serve my first course to a small group of patient friends. The duck, though not nearly as pretty as the picture in my cookbook, is an undeniable hit. Dessert goes swimmingly. And you know what? Foie gras and gooey apple candy crostini is a fairly impressive dish. Alinea should really consider it for the winter menu. If they call, I’ll gladly give up the recipe.

M. Kathleen Pratt is the Metromix dining producer. kpratt@tribune.com