Page 52 of Aftertaste

Aperitif—Spectral Sour (Library of Spirits, Fall 2016)

Amuse-bouche—Sautéed Liver & Onions (Saveur Fare, Winter 2016)

Potage—Buffalo Chicken & Baked Potato Chowder (Hell’s Kitchen, Winter 2017)

Entrée—Fried Sardines with Preserved Lemon on Toast (Hell’s Kitchen, Winter 2017)

Special Seatings—Chef’s Tastings (Limited)

Once he realized what it was, Kostya had to take a minute.

They were all aftertastes, dishes rooted in the Dead that he, Konstantin, had shepherded back to life. Frankie had seen the possibilities; he’d believed in him. Always. So much, apparently, that he’d imagined what a restaurant serving Kostya’s food would look like. How he could structure his courses.

Longing gathered in Kostya’s gut, making him simultaneously empty and full.

He wished more than anything that Frankie were there. He wished he could ask him about this menu, about what to do, whether he should choose the ghosts or the girl, a shot at a legacy or a shot at love. Most of all, he wished he knew what had happened that night at Wolfpup. Whether Frankie was okay. How he’d died.

“I miss you, man,” he whispered, the room growing colder in response. “So damn much.”

Kostya shivered, pain and loss moving within him like a physical thing, a finger burrowing into his chest, paralyzing his lungs.

And then, air. A puff, hitting the back of his throat. Melting into flavor.

Irish Whiskey. Not Jameson. Not Teeling. Sexton. Strong and toasty, honeyed fruit stinging his nose. Sweet sponge cake. Soft, so soft, sopping with booze, oozing into his throat. Coconut Cruzan. Flavored Dominican rum, the scent of an island breeze. Beeswax, from a birthday candle, crackling between his teeth.

He’d know that rum cake anywhere. Warm and heady, half-Irish, half-Dominican, with the promise of a good time. Just like the man himself.

In all the time they’d lived together, Frankie had never had a sweet tooth—preferred heat and spice, salt to sugar—but whenever he went home to his mama’s, he’d come back with a Tupperware of this. It was what she made every birthday, every holiday, every time her baby visited. It was the stuff of Frankie’s childhood memories, the magic of his sweetest moments baked into a bundt and soused with sweet booze—a shot of Cruzan for his ’lita,his mama’s mama; a shot of Sexton for his grandmam—and served to him in increasingly large slices as he aged up and learned to hold his liquor.

Kostya could almost see him, coming through the door with the container swinging in a plastic bag, digging a spoon out of the drawer, leaning over the kitchen counter to shovel it into his mouth, no plate, no chair, just a look of ecstatic nostalgia on his face.

Y’all can have the foie and lobster, he once said, scooping crumbs into his mouth.This is my death row dish. Want a bite?

“F-Frankie?”

Kostya’s heart beat six cups of coffee. He knew what he’d promised Frankie. That he’d sworn never to raise him. But after all these months of nothing, the sudden appearance of his aftertaste might mean a change.Maybe Frankie had reconsidered. Maybe he was in trouble. Suffering, like Sister Stacy had said. Maybe he needed Kostya’s help.

The heat rushed back into his fingertips. He disentangled himself from the sheets, found his shoes, jammed his feet inside. He was tracing a mental map to the nearest grocery store when his pocket lit up, vibrated.

Maura.

He stared at the screen, tearing in two. If it had been anyone else, he’d have already sent them to voicemail. Instead, he stood there, the hint of whiskey on his breath, rereading her name.

It rang for a second time, his thumb hovering just over the slider.

Frankie or Maura.Maura or Frankie.

Would Frankie wait? Would he come back again if Kostya didn’t act now? Or was this his only shot? He could already feel him starting to slip, the tingle of sugar dissolving from his tongue. If he sprinted, he might make it to the bodega for ingredients. Or it might already be too late.

Maura’s name flashed up at him again, and he recalled what she had said.

It’s repeat offenders that get on the naughty list.

They’d probably come for you.

“No Dana, only Zuul.”

Maybe it was a bad idea, bringing Frankie back before he could at least investigate those claims. He might cause more harm than good. He might piss Frankie off. And besides which, he reminded himself, he’d promised not to.

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