Page 12 of Aftertaste

She pressed her radiant mouth to his, fighting all the boundaries between them, time and space and life and death, to try to make him feel her there, the ghost of their love story, its arc complete.

When she pulled away, he lifted his empty glass.

“Here’s to you, bitch.”

“See you on the other side, loser.”

And he smashed the tumbler onto the floor, shattering the glass and spraying the minute particles of Spectral Sour across the speakeasy, releasing Anna along with them.

KOSTYA FELT LIGHT-HEADED.He had to grip the wall to steady himself. He waited until he stopped shaking (mostly) and then an extra couple minutes out of respect for the Dead before forcing himself to shuffle back out to the front-of-house.

He wanted to get Charlie’s hot take, to compare notes about what they had heard Anna say, to discuss the mechanics of the drink and the taste and how it had all worked because, hell, who else (except maybe Frankie; he lived for this supernatural shit) would believe this if he told them? He was exploding inside, aching to understand if he could do it again, if maybe,maybe, he could bring someone else back, just for a drink, a last conversation, an apology.

His father felt so close, suddenly. Manifest.Reachable.

But as Charlie began thanking him up and down—Look, I don’t know what that was or how you pulled it off, but you just saved my life. Thank you, man.Thank you.How can I repay you?—Kostya lost his nerve.

This—what had just happened—he’d done it, sure, but it wasn’t about him. It was bigger. Much bigger. Perilously large. And he’d have to uncover it on his own.

“It’s on me,” he told the Charlie formerly known as Steven Tyler. “Just, um—do me a solid? Don’t tell your friends.”

AMUSE-BOUCHEThe Konstantin Duhovny Culinary Experience

SO? SICK STORY, RIGHT?We got love. We got loss. We got glow-in-the-dark ghosts and some unexpected tasting notes! What y’all think? That enough to make believers outta you?

Dang, coming at it with some shade! That’s alright; we got a lot more stops to make.

The Library’s just a warm-up.

Still, that drink’s important. It’s our guy’s gateway drug. Kicked off this entire culinary adventure. And hopefully it situates you just a little bit to where Bones was at the start. He could taste the flavors down to the component parts, which works fine for a drink, sure, but he had to get a clue about technique if he wanted to make food. Had to know whether to brown or boil or bake or braise, right? Take it from someone who spent a lifetime in kitchens—it’s a ways from mixology to meal service.

Oh hell yeah, I miss it! Kitchen life’s not for everybody, but if it’s for you—nothing else like it.

Me? Well, I hustled a long time. Worked my way in and out of restaurants. Had a whole path mapped to running my own place. But I lost my way a little bit. Got some talent, a little ambition, couple good reviews, and forgot what I was there to do. I stopped doing it for the food; started doing it for the fame. Just the status, you know? Thought I was hot shit, the next big thing. Put me up on the Food Network next to Ina. But life’s got a way of making you humble real quick. I wasthis closeto my own spot when things went south. Wound up here instead.

Honestly? Bones is my boy. Helped me through it when my dad died. When my first restaurant failed. Those times half the people I knew were conveniently busy, he had my back. And now I got his.

Besides, I saw firsthand what he was doing in the kitchen. What his food meant to people. Reminded me why I loved cooking. Way it connects people. Like being in my mama’s house, watching her make my ’lita’s old recipes, the ones her mama taught her. Food’s history. It’s tradition. It’s gotta mean something to be worth anything, you know? And his did. Does. It’s why we’re all here, right?

This tour’s my little way of giving back. Of helping out my boy while getting me some of that good restaurant karma. But enough about me!

We got another stop to get to.

On the way, lemme tell you how Bones almost quit before he started. Psychic damn near talked him out of it. Happened down at this big warehouse party in Vinegar Hill. Hipsters for days—think Brooklyn Burning Man. Maybe some of y’all got over that way in a past life?

MIXERS & CHASERS

IN VIEW OFthe Williamsburg Bridge, where the Brooklyn Navy Yard French-kisses 3rd Street, in an old, abandoned, unremarkable waterfront warehouse—its brick crumbling in places, half the windows broken and the others smudged out with bars of Irish Spring—a group called Seyoncé hosts legendary parties.

There are elaborate art installations and neon signs and indoor fireworks and black-light body paint and edibles and whiskey drinks and fortune tellers and fire-eaters and avant-garde themes and people in costume and people in nothing at all and solid beats and piss-warm beer and gold glitter and dance floor sweat. On a party night, the whole place smells like sex and Fun Dip and curly fries. To get in, you need code words and private invitations and someone with you who knows where the door—obscured by design—is hidden.

As the private Listserv never hesitates to inform Seyoncé subscribers, these were so much more than parties. These were events. Experiences. Life-altering encounters bestowed upon few but desired by all.

And they were also absolutely, in no way, not even a little, what Konstantin thought of as a good time.

He was wedged in the corner of a crowded room in the warehouse’ssprawling basement, its walls entirely covered with life-sized papier-mâché eels, strips of glow sticks illuminating their backs and bellies, their rows of sharp, X-Acto-knife teeth flashing in the strobing light. Tonight’s theme was Water Worlds, and a raving horde of sweaty bodies—dressed as sea creatures with their arms, legs, and PVC appendages flailing—kept bumping into Kostya as he nursed a watered-down cocktail that tasted undeniably like lemon Pine-Sol.

He swallowed. Frowned. Gagged.

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