Page 21 of Aftertaste

What they make is fleeting—edible raptures that last only as long asit takes to consume them. But the recollection, the conversations about these morsels, the sweet nostalgia of the best things their clientele have ever eaten—thoselast forever.

Frankie told Kostya all this between huge bites of a street cart bagel and sips of burnt coffee as they made their way to the restaurant. There was a gleam in his eye, and he spoke with the kind of awestruck reverence normally reserved for places of God.

It was 6:00 AM (decidedly ungodly).

A Monday (Satan’s day, if ever there was one).

The sun was shining (and hot as Hell).

And the more Frankie talked, the more Kostya wanted to crawl into a hole and forget the whole thing.

There was an opening at Saveur Fare for a dishwasher, and Frankie, who’d been a line cook beneath Michel Beauchêne right out of culinary, had put in a good word (and several lies) to get Kostya an interview. He’d done it partially out of self-interest—if Kostya didn’t find work soon, they’d be short their next rent check—but also as a form of apology. The night they’d messed around at Wolfpup, trying to re-create Kostya’s dad’s liver, had been an unmitigated fuckfest—and all Frankie’s idea.

He could still see the hope draining from Kostya’s face each time he plated a new variation and handed him a fork—this one sautéed, this one flash-fried, this one with a squeeze of lemon, this one with preserved lemon reduction, this one with Kosher salt, this one with flaky Maldon. Kostya had been so certain each time that they’d gotten it, and each time the disappointment had shone in his eyes when it was just another bite of liver, entirely off from what it was supposed to be. By the time they called it, Frankie felt like he’d just kicked the emotional shit out of him. And then he’d heard through the grapevine that his old mentor was hiring.

“Youknowthat I don’t know all that much about food, right?” Kostya protested.

Frankie waved him off, sending coffee crashing over the edge of his paper cup.

“No one’s gonna give a shit if theescueleriecan’t boil water. You got one job in there—spotless plates.”

“It just seems… intense. Like, really high stakes.”

“Itisintense. It’s at the best of the best! That’s why the pay’s so good.” He took a long sip of his coffee. “I’d give my left nut to cook in that kitchen.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Man, Rio’s been a fucking prince to me. What kinda piece of shit would I be to jump kitchens?”

Hilario Torres—Rio—was the executive chef at Wolfpup, and Frankie was his sous. Their relationship, Frankie liked to say, was like having a wife he’d never get to fuck or fuck over. Frankie was Rio’s ultimate partner, his trustee, his gofer, his confidant. If Rio needed something—any time, day or night—an ingredient they’d run out of on Frankie’s day off, a replacement part for the walk-in, a resolution to the beef between the grill guy and the bartender, Frankie found a way to work it out.

It got attention; chefs all over town tried constantly to woo him away. But Frankie was loyal, a real ride-or-die. Rio had mentored him, had helped him figure out what he wanted to say with food. They’d opened Wolfpup together and, so far, it was a smashing success.

“When I go, it’ll be for my own place. Besides,” Frankie added, “my act’s not clean enough for these guys. I like the hustle. The ball-busting. That half-life we got going on at Wolfpup, just shit talking and bullshitting and dicking around. We charge forty bucks an entrée, and we’re just a bunch of fuckers hanging out debating who’s got the biggest man nuts.” He took another bite of his bagel. “And it’s me, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

“I wasnotwondering, but thanks for that prize mental image.”

“You ever see a durian, man? Just like that butsmooth. I do that landscapingperfect—”

“Fuck, I am never going to be able to unsee that!”

“But got your mind off the interview, right?”

AT SAVEUR FARE,Frankie wished Kostya good luck, told him to call him after, and left him waiting in Michel’s office while he went to say hey to some people he knew in the kitchen.

Kostya stared at the framed memorabilia on the wall—culinary school accolades, awards so prestigious even he had heard of them, clippings from big-name papers and magazines. Maybe, he thought, he could learn enough here to try his dad’s dish again. Maybe he could get good enough that he could make any dish he tasted. And wasn’t that what he was after? Control over his taste buds and his destiny?

He closed his eyes and told himself that he could do this.

The interview went horribly.

WHEN KOSTYA PICTUREDMichel Beauchêne, he’d imagined a refined French gentleman in his early sixties, hair going slightly grey, belly round with years of buttering, a soft accent on the tongue, and kind, fatherly eyes that would see into Konstantin’s soul and take pity on him.

The real Michel Beauchêne was not old, or fat, or even particularly French. He was young (an executive chef at just forty-two) and built lean and strong (body by Jivamukti) with cold, calculating eyes and a flat, New York edge to his voice. His parents were French expats, and he’d grown up in Manhattan, attended prep school in the city, and then slummed around Paris for a few years, living off his parents’ dime and apprenticing in some formidable kitchens—this from his well-rehearsed opening spiel.

He wasn’t interested in Kostya’s familial connections to cuisine—Vanya’s Victuals was nowhere near the stratosphere of Saveur Fare suppliers—and Beauchêne was decidedly unimpressed by Kostya’s experience dishwashingat The Library of Spirits. (“But that’s a bar, isn’t it? So did you actually wash anydishes, like from food service?… I see.”)

After about ten minutes of excruciating Q&A, Michel closed his notebook, the page empty except for Kostya’s name, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

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