Page 61 of Aftertaste

And with that, he swept from the room.

The chefs settled down again, went back to mincing, peeling, grating. They all wore unsullied coats in solid colors, with their names embroidered over the breast pockets—Louis-Jean Volière,??Yume Kutsuki, Val Ibáñez—and moved with the untroubled ease of people unaccustomed to pressure—an inertia Kostya had never seen in a professional kitchen.

No, he decided, these weren’t restaurant vets; more likely personal chefs, the kind who made big bucks summering in the Hamptons and nine-to-fiving for flush Upper East Siders in the off-season.

“Welp,” Kostya said, hoping the others would somehow find him pathetic and endearing, “joke’s on me, I guess. So, what are we making? Where do you want me on the line?”

“We?” Volière sniffed, not even deigning to glance up from his station, where he was plucking an infinitesimal bird. “Mais non, mon ami.We are every man for himself.”

Kutsuki, to his left, put her knife down, and leaned below the counter for a cooler.

“We each bring our own dish,” she explained, hoisting the Igloo up, the sound of water sloshing inside. “The more exotic, the more impressive it tends to be. My employers—the ones with so much Botox their faces barely move?—they’ve been trying to win for over a year.”

“Win?”

“It’s their own personalIron Chef.” Ibáñez sounded disgusted. “They trot us out once a season for this freaking dog and pony. They love a pissing contest so much, why don’t they just buy some wild cocks and have a cage match? Keep us out of it.”

She slammed a cleaver against the top of a jar of caviar, Frisbeeing it across the room.

“What’s the winner get?” Kostya asked.

“Five thousand bucks.” Ibáñez shrugged. “Bragging rights. To keep their job.”

Kutsuki nodded; Volière pursed his lips.

“And youwantto keep working for the people putting you up to this?”

“You gonna point me to another easy six-figure gig? Plus benefits. Room and board on the Upper West Side?”

“I see your point.”

“You’re not on Viktor’s staff?” Volière asked. “This is your interview?Merde.”

“I’m not here to join his staff,” Kostya said. “I’m going to EC his new restaurant. If I win, I guess. What are you making?”

Volière didn’t answer, just kept plucking the pathetic creatures on his station, a dozen or so palm-sized birds, their feathers tan and black and bright, bright yellow, their beaks and feet still on, dead eyes glinting.

“Fugu,” Kutsuki cut in. “Hand-delivered from Tsukiji.”

She’d cleared her station of everything but a sharp fillet knife and the cooler, which she uncapped with a flourish. From inside, she withdrewan enormous, scaleless fish, grey on top, white bellied, thick lipped, still thrashing in her slender hands. She gave a squeeze at the back of its belly, and it inflated like a balloon, spikes extruding across its body like dangerous goose bumps. She laid it on its side and gave a quick, sharp slice through the back of its head before beginning to peel the skin away from the flesh. The fish bled out across the counter while her blade moved through its body, each cut surgical, designed to keep the poison in its liver and ovaries—more potent than cyanide; no known antidote—from tainting the meat.

“Blowfish,” Kostya breathed. “Wow. Well, try not to poison them before they taste our food. Or, actually, maybe do.”

Kutsuki gave a small, satisfied smile. “Don’t worry; I’m licensed. Took years of training, but it was the whole reason the Stolis hired me.” She frowned. “They like to surprise their friends on sushi nights. Have them think they’re eating fluke until their tongues go numb. Totally unethical.”

She sliced open the belly and scooped out the interior—the fish’s tiny heart still beating in the palm of her hand—then dumped the guts back into the cooler.

“But no one’s asking your opinion, right, sugar?” Ibáñez cut in. “Me either. You deal with one percenters long enough, you learn to look out for number one. That’s why I spent ten grand of their blood money on this.” She held up what looked like a shriveled old stone, greyish brown, streaked with white. “I like the idea of feeding them shit while they thank me repeatedly.”

Kostya squinted at the specimen. “I take it that’s no truffle.”

“Guess again.”

“Something calcified. Rotten porcinis? Ancient cheese? Dehydrated lung?”

“Ambergris.” Ibáñez gave a little bow. “The fecal matter of the noble sperm whale.” She took a sniff. “Got a nice musk, actually. Pairs great with Rocky Mountain oysters.” She winked. “If you’re gonna screw around, may as well go balls deep.”

It took Kostya a second to remember what Rocky Mountain oysterswere:animellesin Canada; meatballs everywhere else; bull testicles in plain English.

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