KC's Iron Chef

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.