KC's Iron Chef

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.

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.