KC's Iron Chef

During that 14-month program, he learned in all kinds of kitchens: the Napa Valley burger stand Taylor’s Automatic Refresher; an upscale French eatery called La Toque; a restaurant in Florence, Italy. When his schooling was finished, Dalzell opted to stick around in Napa, which he considers a mecca for chefs, for about four years.

The chefs he worked under made him feel like a scolded dog, but he says he got the most from the harshest trainers. As a student at Catahoula Restaurant and Saloon in Calistoga, California, Dalzell says he got some of his toughest criticism from chef Jan Birnbaum. At just over 5 feet tall and weighing 400 pounds, Birnbaum said Dalzell was too skinny to be a chef. When Dalzell put all of the ingredients for redeye gravy in one pot instead of keeping them separate, Dalzell says Birnbaum asked, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

With four kitchens of his own now, Dalzell demands perfection, too. "I'll be the first to admit, not all of the employees like me," he says. But he tries to inspire his staff with his standards and energy.

"Hopefully," he says, "five years from now, people will look back at me as a mentor."

On a typical Monday afternoon, Dalzell chases Izzabella, his nearly 2-year-old daughter, around the pizza shop he named after her.

Giggling all the way, she runs up and down the long, wooden bench that bisects the dining room. His feet on the floor, he stays parallel to her, also laughing, his white chef tunic flapping. His arm shoots out when the toddler teeters or tries to drop a half-eaten breadstick back into the table centerpieces. They also engage in some of her other favorite activities: hanging from the coatracks across from the restrooms and printing out never-ending sheets of receipt paper, which Izzabella swirls around and hands to people.

Pizza Bella is open for business. But for at least two hours, Dalzell has no customers. His devotion to downtown Kansas City leaves him dependent on a clientele that hasn't entirely moved into the urban core yet. That's obvious on dead afternoons like this. Souperman shuts down at 3 p.m., and though 1924 Main and Pizza Bella serve lunch and dinner, the Crossroads doesn't have the foot traffic to keep the restaurants hopping — or patronized at all, really — between 4 and 6 p.m.

"All day long, all day strong" is Dalzell's ultimate vision for Chefburger, with breakfast sandwiches and upscale doughnuts served in the morning and burgers built from lunch right through the rush when the bars close. But the burger shop needs to open first; initially, it will serve only lunch and dinner. The $15,000 fryer he ordered hasn't arrived yet, so in the meantime, he focuses on what's right in front of him.

For a man who barely sees his family, these afternoon lulls provide an opportunity. On this day, Margarita captures some of the playtime on video and laughs intimately with a couple of employees waiting for the dinner rush. Dalzell's mother-in-law, Alice De Castro, moved to Kansas City from Las Vegas to help care for her grandchildren. She cradles Izzabella's infant sister, Elohra.

Like Dalzell, 30-year-old Margarita is a workhorse. She works full time as the assistant director of financial aid at the Kansas City University of Medicine and Biosciences — on top of running the business end of Dalzell's restaurants and helping with table service in the evenings.

The couple met in August 2002 when they were both employed by the University of California-Santa Barbara. He worked in the catering department, his first job with benefits and a salary after culinary school; she was the office manager for housing and residential services. Within eight months, he was offered a job at Turtle Bay Resort in Hawaii, and she agreed to move with him.

The couple didn't see much of each other in paradise, either. She commuted two hours every day to the other side of Oahu. In 2004, after a year and a half of scraping by, they moved to Kansas City — where rent was cheaper and they could afford to start a business and raise a family.

Eventually, Dalzell wants Margarita to work full time for Eponine, the parent company of his restaurants. Theoretically, they could spend more time together then — at work.

Margarita and her mother bring the girls to Pizza Bella or 1924 most afternoons. Dalzell might miss a lot of his daughters' firsts, but he won't miss the chance to make them cheese pizza. Izzabella likes pizza better than the fancier fare she has to eat on 1924 days.

Dalzell holds her up to the brick oven as she works the long handle of the pizza paddle. When it's done, Izzabella's pie is just dough and cheese. Dalzell asks Margarita if Izzabella likes marinara sauce. Neither one is sure.

On January 15, before the lunch rush, Dalzell takes Chrystal Tatum, his No. 2 at Souperman, to the Power and Light District.

Chefburger is located in the courtyard of the H&R Block complex, directly behind Chipotle. They enter through one of the glass doors covered in brown butcher paper. Less than two months before the tentative opening date, the space is still nearly vacant.

Inside, five or six young construction workers seem to be between tasks. They stand around and steal glances at Dalzell before acknowledging this man with spiky, graying hair. One of the construction workers — no more than 20 years old — pipes up: "So, this place is gonna be like Fuddruckers?"

Dalzell and Tatum look at each other and laugh uncomfortably.

"Fuddruckers has nothing on us," Tatum finally shouts.

Dalzell makes a crack about the wilted lettuce at the burger bar at Fuddruckers and promises that everything will be fresh at Chefburger — prepared for the customer, how the customer dictates.

The worker puts it together. "So, like Fuddruckers and Chipotle, but Chefburger," he says.

This is Tatum's first tour of the facility she's going to manage. In her black Souperman garb, Tatum wanders wide-eyed through the area that will be an open kitchen. She marvels at the windowless rectangular room that will be her office. It looks big now, but it won't when one end is full of dry storage.

"Chrystal views it more like our business and less like my business," Dalzell says later. That makes her a model employee — the kind he relishes seeing rise through the ranks of his growing little empire. "The thing with business is," he says, "if you have a No. 2 and you never make 'em a No. 1, they'll go somewhere else." And at the rate Dalzell is expanding, he's going to need a lot of competent No. 2s in the wings.

If Kansas City were bigger, he says he could see "eight to 12 Soupermans speckled across the metro." He could also see Pizza Bellas and Chefburgers sharing space around sports arenas.

The Cordish Company, which is building the Power and Light District, could help Dalzell realize his franchising dreams. With a drink in hand at 1924 Main on February 1, Dalzell's father, an investor, talks about expansion as if it's inevitable. He says "the Cordish deal is for real" and that "Pizza Bella and Chefburger are going to St. Louis."

Three weeks later, over coffee at 1924 Main, Dalzell chalks up that big talk to his dad being his salesman. Dalzell says he has no deal with Cordish beyond the first Chefburger. "It just really depends on how things go this first year," he says. "It could be a relationship that grows."

Chefburger's success will be tied in part to how well the Power and Light District fares. If interest in the area wanes, chains such as the neighboring Ted’s Montana Grill or Gordon Biersch Brewery have the means to survive longer.

Finances will determine whether Dalzell continues to expand. "Do we have the capital right now to open another one right now? Hell, no!" he says. "Do I want to do it again? Yeah, but I'm going to have to make a lot of pennies."

His venture doesn't consistently show a net profit yet. "There are some months when we lose money, some where we make money and some when we break even," Dalzell says. Eponine lost $14,000 in January.

By February 28, it's clear that construction delays will prevent Chefburger from opening on schedule. But Dalzell doesn't want to miss the crowds that will descend on the Sprint Center this week for the Big 12 basketball tournament. He insists on training his staff for at least two days before what could become a busy March. "I don't even know how many burger patties to order," he says, laughing.

His ever-cool demeanor hides real anxiety. The last time Dalzell opened a restaurant was, he says, one of the worst days of his life. Having served just 25 people on Souperman's first day, Dalzell expected a similar turnout for Pizza Bella. Five times that many showed up. "We ran out of everything," he recalls. "We couldn't even stay open for dinner because I ran out of dough. I was so embarrassed."

Dalzell swears that won't happen again. He'll have 12 people working on Chefburger's first day, he says. And, eyes gleaming, he promises that will be on March 10, with or without a liquor license.

But on March 5, a city inspector blows him off. And without the inspection, Dalzell can't schedule visits from health or fire inspectors. "The city is like a giant octopus," he says. "But the thoughts aren't conveyed from one arm to another." As he explains this, his brows furrow and, for a second, he's visibly perturbed. Then he smiles again, and three employees head his way with questions, taste-test reports and phone messages.

"If it was my first restaurant," Dalzell says, "I'd be frustrated and scared."

Chefburger finally opens on Monday, March 10, and Dalzell is beaming. The beer's on tap, the grill's hot, and some of Dalzell's most trusted employees stand behind the counter, rapidly building burgers. At the top of the assembly line, his wife takes orders. At the bottom, Dalzell checks them.

The bright, clean room evokes a 1940s cafeteria, updated with blond wood, cooks in white tunics and a milkshake machine. The $4.99 shakes come straight or, for $3 more, spiked with flavored liqueur. Burgers, which cost an average of about $6, are made to order or available from a list of eight "Signature Burgers." Some of the combinations migrated from the 1924 Main menu, including the BLFGT — bacon, lettuce and a fried green tomato. The fried green beans from 1924 Main are on the menu at Chefburger for $2.99.

The first lunch rush starts at 11 a.m. with a trickle of folks Dalzell knows. Two 1924 regulars are the first to order. A few minutes later, three young, well-dressed men stroll in; one reaches over the counter to pat Dalzell on the back. By 11:30, Dalzell's father stands in a line of customers that curls behind the cash registers.

Although Dalzell is too busy blotting grease and making milkshakes to say much more than "hi," familiar faces are good for an opening day. Friends forgive early hiccups, like a 15-minute wait for food or the occasional sandwich mixup; one woman who wants a beef burger gets a black-bean patty instead.

An hour into Chefburger's existence, Dalzell struggles to keep up with the tickets spitting out of the machine at his station. He rifles furiously through a stack and then sets it down gingerly. He has a line of trays with tickets on them, waiting for burgers to finish cooking on the open grill. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly and goes back to figuring out who gets what. The long sigh is a rare sign of exasperation from a man who rarely shows how stretched he's become. There's a slight kink in production flow, but it's not a disaster.

This is the kind of moment when Dalzell reminds himself that he could be busier.