Page 30 of Aftertaste

He’d asked Louise several questions about her ghost, trying to discerna category of food to focus on. She was maddeningly cryptic—sister ate ascetic for years—which, after more prodding, and answers likeoh, no, she couldn’t have sugarandshe liked meat, but had it very rarely, Konstantin finally interpreted to mean that the poor woman had probably lived vegan or Paleo or some other equally Hellish half-life.

In the end, he decided that it was better to be overprepared than understocked. After all, maybe Louise’s sister, Stacy, half-starved on bone marrow soup and rice crackers, had once stumbled into a Moroccan hole-in-the-wall to scarf down a secret helping of real food, and so it was prune-laced lamb—and not boiled tofu curd—that she’d need to find her way back.

For this to work, Kostya had to be ready for anything. He made a list of spices—from fenugreek tofurikake—utilized in the myriad culinary traditions that someone living in New York City might encounter, and went shopping. By the end of his spice-gathering expedition, he felt like Vasco da Gama, unearthing new trade routes.

He’d wandered around Chinatown for a half hour before he found a place on Elizabeth without a single English character in the window. He bought star anise and red chili powder and Five Spice in there, plus a whole array of flavor enhancers that had no names, that he’d purchased on taste alone, dipping his pinky into tinctures and herbs and following his tongue. A few blocks uptown, on Broome, he snagged floralyuzu kosho, sinus-clearingkarashipowder,shichimi togarashi, and Moshio salt from a Japanese standby. He bypassed Murray Hill and went instead to Jackson Heights in Queens, to a tiny Indian grocery that a Bengali busboy from Wolfpup had recommended, to get turmeric and garam masala, wild mushroom powder, plastic baggies full of curries ground to the most brilliant colors, gold and red and green. He took an Uber to the Bronx for Senegalese and Moroccan, West African and Northern, forgejjand palm oil, harissa and smen,fufuflour and suya and berbere and black cardamom, plus scores of base ingredients for dukkah andbaharat, the blends so unique to each family that, if he needed them, he’d need the ghost to tip his hand. He hit up Ninth AvenueInternational for handfuls of Mediterranean manna—tarragon, sumac, oregano, thyme. He scored truffle powder andherbes de Provenceand bright strands of saffron from a small European market on Broadway.

And so on for seasonings.

The day before Louise’s dinner he gathered the groceries.

Kostya got up in the dark to Citi Bike to the meat market on Bowery for the first pick of beef and pork and poultry and lamb. He got some more exotic stuff, too—venison and ostrich and rabbit and quail, even squab, which always tasted much more delicious than you’d think, considering most pigeons you saw squawking around the city were barely more than rats with wings.

He’d had to lie and say he was shopping for Saveur to get the suppliers to agree to sell him such infinitesimal portions—just one or two pieces of each protein, since he was quickly running out of fridge space—but he figured Michel still owed him one or a hundred, so whatever.

For good measure, he threw in chicken feet and pig hoofs and tongue and liver and heart, offal and marrow bones; someone could totally be jonesing for ramen in gooey, jelly-rich stock, and it was always possible the ghost hailed from green Scottish pastures and was craving haggis.

Frankie, with some prodding and more than a little groveling, had agreed to hit South Street on his day off for fresh fish—You’re the only guy in the world I’d sacrifice my beauty sleep for. You know how hard it is to stay this fresh all the damn time?—while Kostya headed to the Manhattan Fruit Market in Chelsea for a truly staggering variety of produce.

Once that was deposited back in their apartment, Kostya caught the R train to Little Italy for canned Cuoco Milanese and San Marzano tomatoes in pretty glass jars, Nutellafatto in Italia(which put the American version to chocolatey shame), imported prosciutto and speck and ham sliced to translucent thinness. He scooped French bread straight from the oven at Balthazar. He picked up seven different kinds of rice, plus kasha, quinoa, farrow, and barley. And on his way home, he swung by the Food Emporiumfor dairy, tofu, tempeh, and seitan, as well as one of everything in the condiment aisle.

In the end, he’d spent a not-so-small fortune, but he’d grown increasingly okay with that. He felt empowered for the first time since he’d left Saveur Fare. He thought about his dad in his childhood kitchen, the way his whole face illuminated whenever Kostya guessed a mystery food, the way his mouth spread open, unable to contain his delight.

He was going to see him again, he swore, pushing a straining grocery cart forward on its broken wheel. He would find a way.

He’d do as many seatings at Hell’s Kitchen Supper Club as it took for him to understand every rule, every nuance of the tethers he commanded—what triggered the ghosts, what stopped the connections, what might prolong them, what might entice them to be summoned in the first place—so that he could bring his dad back, and make him stay, and learn how to do it over and over. He’d never lose another chance because he was afraid, or intimidated, or trying to please. He’d never lose sight of what mattered again.

When his spirited guests showed up, he’d be their gracious host, their fearless leader. Their P. T. Barnum, full coat and tails and freaky pyrotechnics. Their Virgil, a voice of calm as they navigated the unknowable. Their Pac-Man, drawing them stealthily out of the maze with delicious fruits and no whammies. He’d be the maker of their dreams, the miner of their memories, the mouthpiece for their taste buds and tongues and every gut feeling.

Their Chef d’Esprit.

THE NIGHT OFthe first dinner, that swagger was nowhere to be found. Kostya’s intestines formed a queasy knot.

“You look like you’re about to see a ghost.” Frankie grinned as he pulled a coat over his chef’s whites.

“You’re funny, man, anyone ever tell you?” Kostya said sourly.

“Oh c’mon. You got this. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“I dunno. Louise dies of food poisoning? Nuclear blast during dessert? Zombie apocalypse over apps?”

“Glad you thought this through.” He punched Kostya’s shoulder. “It’ll work out. Just close your eyes, deep breath, picture yourself doing it. You’ll be good, Bones.”

“What if I can’t be good?”

“Then be careful.”

AN HOUR BEFOREshowtime, Kostya positioned himself at the living room window. The street was deserted, already dark, the streetlamps casting ghostly halos in the night air. It smelled apple crisp and cold, like it was going to snow.

Kostya practiced his little opening speech under his breath, the words fogging the glass.

“Um, hi. Hello. Hey there. Welcome to the Hell’s Kitchen Supper Club. My name’s Konstantin, and I’ll be your chef this evening.”

Woof.

“Welcome, welcome!” he tried again, voice booming, “To a night of mystery, of enchantment, of otherworldly delights that will stun your senses and dazzle your…”

Jesus.

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