Page 78 of Aftertaste

“Eleven Madison is an institution! We’re an unproven concept!”

“Concept is everything,” Viktor told him, then turned to Stella, who was replacing the napkins with samples for curtains, upholstery for chairs. “What you pay, Stellachka, to know love one is safe?”

“To—to see my mom again?” She fingered a piece of grey velvet, its sheen like moonlight.

Kostya blinked at her, asking himself the same thing. What would he have paid, at eleven, if someone could snap their fingers and bring back his dad? Or the moment he’d gotten that phone call, to see Frankie again?

The whole settlement check from Saveur Fare. Everything he owned. Years of his life.

“Anything,” Stella answered. “It’s why I took this job.”

“You see, Kostik?” Viktor exclaimed, triumphant. “You pay what it cost. I tell you what—we have troubles filling seats at this price, we can discuss change.”

“Fine,” Kostya moaned, grudging. “But we’re paying everyone a living wage. Plus benefits. None of thatstage-for-freeshit here. Oh, and Stella? How about next Tuesday? Come by around noon.”

She looked at Kostya like he had handed her a winning Powerball ticket.

“Oh my God.” She had tears in her eyes. “Thank you.I’ll be there.”

“That reminds me.” He turned back to Viktor. “I want a way to do more.”

Viktor raised a skeptical eyebrow. “For example?”

“One night a month, I want to open for people who can’t afford to spend rent on one meal. Twenty bucks a seat, to cover the ingredients.”

He thought of his dad, his love of pizza parlors. He felt almost ready to see him, to bring him back. Once his restaurant was open, once he could show his father all he had become, he thought he might finally find the words.

“Everyothermonth.” Viktor frowned. “And I have my guys clear names on wait list, make sure no one causing trouble.”

“Deal.”

“Speak of guys—you hire kitchen?”

HILARIO TORRES HADbeen Kostya’s first call.

They met in Harlem, at the modest one-bedroom he shared with his wife, two cats, and an ancient parakeet, and over Rio’s famouscafé de olla(the piss of actual angels) they caught up about Wolfpup (the insurance company still on their bullshit about suicide), Kostya’s new look (Look at those threads! You got some muscle on them bones, eh? And new ink! Good for you.), and Rio’s current gig (a guest chef stint at a chain of burrito places—an absolute waste of his talent).

“Well”—Rio took a long sip of hiscafé—“while it’s real good just to shoot the shit, I’m guessing that isn’t why you called. What you got, Bones?”

Kostya took a breath. “Actually… I’m opening a restaurant.”

“Yo,órale! That’s what’s up! Look at you, baby chef’s all grown.”

“Maybe. But I need help. You’re the best I know—the way you brought Frankie up, taught him how to balance a menu, how to run the business end—I need that, Rio. I know it’s not your own spot, and I can’t offer you EC, but the pay—”

“I’m in.”

“You—you are?”

“Hell yes. Mia’s been overtime since the fire, and I’ve been picking up what I can, but we got bills—I need something steady. Besides, whatever went down, Frank’s my brother. And he loved your dumb ass, so that makes usfamilia, too.”

“How about the other guys? Anyone looking to start a new line?”

“I’ll make some calls.”

Kostya grinned. “This is gonna be great! The kitchen’s almost built. Wait’ll you see; it’s a fucking Sistine Chapel. And I gotta figure out the menu, stuff people can order while they wait—”

“Wait for what?”

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