Page 89 of Aftertaste

Michel wouldn’t have taken that. Even Frankie, after a drink, might have offered him the door. Kostya only nodded.

“I take it you know who I am?” Dan asked.

Kostya nodded again.

“Then you’re less of a dolt than half the people I review, at least.” Dan removed his glasses, examined them in the dim light, then put them back on. “I don’t like bullshit. You like bullshit?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “So why don’t we cut right through? This isn’t going to be a rave, pal. No Disney movie happy ending where I eat your ratatouille with tears in my eyes. I despise gimmicks; you should know that. Consequently, I refuse to participate in the farce that is this restaurant. I’m here only because my editor insisted and I didn’t feel like a fight tonight. So here is my proposal: I will order from your standard menu only. I will skip the Chef’s Tasting—I’m not ingesting some parboiled dish you’ve got waiting in the wings, pretending it came from my great-aunt Mabel. And I will judge DUH by the same standards I use to judge every other establishment: on the merits of your food.”

Kostya let this wave of disdain wash over him.

“We don’t prepare any of the Chef’s Tastings in advance,” he said carefully. “Only made to order. Based on what the spirits feed me.”

“Speaking of your menu,” Dan continued as if Kostya hadn’t spoken, “and I say that in the most elastic sense of that word, what sort of cuisine is this, would you say? Bastardized American?” He perused the sleek sheet of black vellum, the dishes printed there in silver. “Knock-off Japanese? Some sort of Mediterranean fusion, heaven forbid? I mean, pick a lane.”

It took every ounce of Kostya’s restraint not to break something.

“What we serve at DUH goes beyond any one culinary tradition. We help people say goodbye. That’s the cuisine. Grief, and closure.”

“Didn’t Ijustsay I don’t appreciate bullshit?”

Kostya looked at Dan, at the meticulous white button-down that had been tailored to fit his proportions, at the fancy fountain pen laid neatly beside him, its nib already inked with venom, at the way his face arranged to form the nastiest version of himself. Something had hurt him. Someone. Kostya could see it.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said slowly.

“What loss?”

“Patrons come to DUH because they’ve lost someone special to them. I only assumed the same was true for you, Mr. Evans.”

“You assumed wrong. My old man died in May”—he barked out a laugh—“but quite frankly, good riddance.”

Kostya looked at him differently now. For all his bluster, Dan was just like him. A kid without a dad. Lashing out.

“I see. When I lost my dad—it made me feel alone in the worst way. I’m very sorry.”

“Like I said, it wasn’t much of a loss,” Dan countered. “Now what do you recommend for starters? Nothing seems to appeal.”

And then Kostya tasted it.

Scorched. Bitter. Unpleasant. Just like its intended recipient. A once-flaky crust turned brittle with char. Inedible. The hint of cinnamon sugar not enough to resurrect this break-and-bake disaster.

“Thanks for your feedback,” Kostya said. “I’ll have the server bring you out some selections.”

KOSTYA SPRINTED DOWNthe stairs.

“Mica! I need a run! Pillsbury dough—the crescents. Get every kindthey make. Go, go, go!” He turned to Rio. “Get all the ovens preheating. Four-fifty. We’re gonna burn ’em.” He stopped his lead server on the stairs. “And Mikey! Slow down service. Tell everybody. One dish at a time.Crawl.We have to keep him here until his aftertaste’s ready.”

DAN EVANS ATEexactly one bite of each dish he was served. A spoonful of Sister Stacy’s buffalo chowder. A nibble of NamastayHigh’s sardine tartine. A morsel each of mini-wieners with sautéed sauerkraut, and Peking duck ragout, and jammy strawberry bread. By the time he’d shoved aside the spaghetti with peas (not even a sniff), the crescent rolls were beginning to brown.

Kostya had doctored them—cinnamon, sugar, a brush of egg white—and set them in the oven to burn. He sampled a roll every few minutes to get just the right level of ruin. When they were finally blackened to order, he pried one from the sheet pan with a butter knife, and carried it to Dan himself.

“What, and I mean this sincerely, the actual fuck?” Dan asked, squinting at the plate.

“A burnt crescent roll. From your father, if I had to guess. He’s knocking. It’s up to you whether you open that door.” Kostya turned to go, then added, “Oh, and for the record? I don’t adjust the aftertastes to taste good. Sometimes, spirits are bitter. What they need to return, that’s what I make. Down to the charred crust.”

KOSTYA WATCHED FROMthe dining room, Rio by his side. For a while, nothing happened. Other patrons departed—raving! thrilled!—leaving the last tasting chamber in shadow, Dan Evans deciding what he wanted to believe.

When the mercury glass encasing his room exploded with light—orangestrobes setting the dining room aflame—Rio threw his arm around Kostya’s neck.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Can’t nothing stop you now.”

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