The Birth of a Grill Designer

A former dot-com executive learns what it means to save a family business, follow an unexpected path, and discover an unlikely passion for metalwork

One gift this past Christmas was a weathered little box. It was from my father, known for strokes of genius around holiday time—genius that often took the form of dried, mounted piranhas or nine-foot boathooks.

Marked "you can't properly run a grill company without your tools" in Dad's illegible reporter's handwriting, the cardboard was bound with cracked rubber bands that snapped as I worked them off the box. Inside lay a jumble of tiny metal pegs. These were what my 10-year-old self had used, along with a rubber mallet, to stamp the serial numbers into Dad's grills.

In those days Grillworks's corporate headquarters occupied Dad's bottom left desk drawer, and his framed patents were on the kitchen wall. Mom's scratchy answering machine message welcomed all callers to "The Eisendraths and Grillworks Incorporated," and the University of Michigan switchboard knew to direct grill inquiries to the journalism department.

But 25 years later, by the turn of 2000, the company was building only a trickle of new grills. And Dad's last metalsmith was to call it quits shortly, his back too worn to move the steel anymore.

Still, calls came, curious chefs showed up to meet Dad, and a few dusty grills stood waiting in the family barn. Grillworks drew shallow breath. So in 2005, 28 years after I hammered my last serial number, it was still trauma to hear Dad say he would officially shut down Grillworks.

Asked why, he answered simply: "I've had my fun." It was like hearing that the family pet would be euthanized. When I pressed him, Dad explained that he just didn't have the heart to look for new guys to build the grills. He was done.

A few months later, with Grillworks still languishing in hospice, brother Mark and I met Dad in Argentina for a fishing trip. This country, a grill-Mecca, was our home in the early '70s and remains the place that most inspired the Grillery's design. Since father-son talks in our family traditionally occur over water, this was also the setting for my career counseling. I'd spent 10 years at a major dot-com and was considering options farther along the tech path. The fishing proved excellent, but answers were elusive.

The Argentine lodge we stayed in hosted large, communal dinners. One night our table happened to include an entrepreneur who had married into one of the largest grill brands in the world. He knew the Grillworks name. Dad, seizing on his opportunity to close the final chapter, told him Grillworks was for sale. Cheap.

Horror twisted my gut.

"Dad. Wait."

And I had my answer.

Restarting Grillworks was far from an obvious career choice. Writers, professors, museum curators, lawyers, and artists dominate the Eisendrath family tree. To find ancestors who invented actual objects you have to look back a long way. And after his swashbuckling early career as a TIME foreign correspondent, Dad was perfectly content to "just" be a journalism professor. His personality and passion birthed the little grill company, but he (and he said this often) never wanted building grills to resemble work. And I was a liberal arts-educated technology exec—career maker of things you can't touch. Hardly the resume for a Grillworks phoenix to rise on.

But at last year's 60-strong family reunion, during a lecture about our entrepreneurial German ancestors, Dad looked around at the modern Eisendraths and leaned over to me with a look of wonder on his face. "Do you know you might be the only real businessman here?"

When you grow up with a family passion you form opinions about it. They pile up. You reach adulthood with a mountain of them: the "how it's done" things, "how it should've been done" things, and "that was idiotic" things. These could be about raising horses or competitive water skiing. Or they could be about designing open-fire grills. Given the right conditions—like watching their source offered to a stranger "cheap"—they cascade out. And the skills you picked up through actual education, no matter how seemingly irrelevant, shape the landslide into something you can use. Digital expertise transforms oily shop scribbles to 3-D renderings. Music event fliers become brochures. And thousands of hours of PowerPoint become "that was idiotic."

As a child I offered Dad awful model name suggestions at the dinner table. I am deeply, adult-ly relieved that he ignored me, but remain smug that one of those dumb names is now a large fast-food chain ("Dad, you have to call it the Sizzler!"). The suggestions got better, so today those "things," and countless other new ones, adorn the new Grillworks lineup—with Dad happily admiring from the peanut gallery.

People say follow your passion. I say do what comes out of you.

Image: Ben Eisendrath

Presented by

Ben Eisendrath is the president of Grillworks Inc., maker of Grillery wood-fired grills. Early Grillworks grills were used by James Beard himself, and today their designs are the favored grilling platform for many other live-fire chefs. More

It was a world-cuisine education begun early. After a childhood that began in London, moved to France, then grill-Mecca Argentina, Ben and his family were finally deposited by his journalist and grillmaster father in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Ben studied Environmental Sciences, Literature, and Psychology for his BA at the University of Vermont�where environmentalism joined live-fire passion to form his philosophy of ecological and food-chain participation. Also a technophile from birth, out of college Ben was swept up by the digital wave and ultimately found himself living in Washington, D.C., directing product design at AOL headquarters. But his well-worn, Dad-built Grillery always waited at home, and after his 10-year AOL tour she finally won his full attention. �After all,� Ben says, �you can touch a grill.�

With the company fully reborn, today Ben designs Grillworks grills to be tactile, visually striking tools for amateurs and pros alike. They're now found in restaurants, kitchens and backyards all over the world�and since Ben believes grilling to be a seminal morale-builder, also at the forward operating bases of U.S. troops deployed abroad. The little grill Dad built, called "Magnificent" by James Beard himself, is thriving once again.

Ben writes and speaks about artisanal grilling and travels extensively to ensure his designs best harness the world's open fire techniques. He calls Washington home but still builds his grills near the family farm in northern Michigan.

Join the Discussion

After you comment, click Post. If you’re not already logged in you will be asked to log in or register with Disqus.

Please note that The Atlantic's account system is separate from our commenting system. To log in or register with The Atlantic, use the Sign In button at the top of every page.

blog comments powered by Disqus


Confessions of Moms Around the World

A global look at the hardest and best job ever


A Stop-Motion Tour of New York City

A filmmaker animated hundreds of still photographs to create this Big Apple flip book


The Absurd Psychology of Restaurant Menus

Would people eat healthier if celery was called "cool celery?"


This Japanese Inn Has Been Open for 1,300 Years

It's one of the oldest family businesses in the world.

More in Health

Just In