Page 22 of Aftertaste

“Thank you for… all that,” he said slowly.

Kostya felt a masochistic kind of relief. He’d failed, but the torture was over; he could slither back out to the curb where he belonged. But then Michel threw him this curveball:

“Okay, I’m going to need you to spell this one out for me.” He leaned back in his chair. “Normally, the people that walk throughthatdoor and sit inthatchair do so with a sense of wide-eyed wonder about what goes on here. They come in with a list of referencesthis long, with notches in their culinary belts you wouldn’t believe. And then there’s you.

“Youhad a single dishwashing job at a bar—glassware only—and things went so swimmingly there that apparently I cannot call over for a reference. You have no experience in a professional kitchen.” He gazed dubiously at Kostya’s folded, unblemished hands. “And if I asked you to cook something for me right now, something you and Frank have been, uh,practicing, I’d get, what, a grilled cheese? Why are you even interested in working here? I’m dying to know. I really am. Is it the money? Because trust me, with the hours you’d be putting in, it would be less than minimum wage. The reason people come into my kitchen is because they want to be the best at something; they’ll kill themselves to get there. And, forgive me for being blunt, but I don’t really get that vibe from you, Mr. Duhovny. I mean, do you even like food?”

Kostya just blinked at him, which only seemed to prove his point.

“Seriously. What’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten? And for the love of all that is good and holy donottell me salad and breadsticks from the Olive Garden.”

Kostya chewed his lip.

Should he tell him about the best things he’d ever eaten, the detail of their component parts? Or was that cheating? The best things, after all, weren’t things that he had technicallyeaten. He’d only tasted them secondhand; they weren’t animal or vegetable or mineral, but memory—comestible desires, the fantasy food porn of anonymous ghosts. To describe those to the chef would be a kind of lie.

The other option—the honest option—was to just let it go, to slink back and confirm this Wüsthof toolbag’s cutting observations about his intentions, his experience, and his palate.

“What’s the matter?” Beauchêne prompted. “Can’t decide between a Big Mac and a Whopper?”

Something inside Kostya, deep in his gut, lunged. He could take the digs about being unqualified and a liar and even a bad cook—all those things were true—but he couldn’t let this guy insult his taste buds. His tongue was special. It was maybe the only special thing about him.

“Nevermind. I can see that we’re not going to—”

“Duck.” Kostya spat it at him like another four-letter word. “Duck ragout. It had this thick sauce, cinnamon cognac. A demi-glace, I think.”

Kostya closed his eyes, remembering where the aftertaste had happened, trying to reincarnate it. He’d been on the sidewalk outside his mother’s apartment two New Years’ ago, pacing around and nursing tea that had gone cold, delaying the inevitable argument about how he was living his life when it had hit him.

“The onions were sliced so thin they fell apart to almost nothing in the stew. And these dried fruits that reconstituted in the duck fat—peaches and apricots and plums and cherries—they exploded between my teeth like tapioca pearls.”

Kostya’s eyes were still closed, but the stony silence from Beauchêne invited him to keep going.

“And a couple years ago, there was this coconut curry and Kaffir lime fried chicken.”

That one happened to him at a Gristedes. He’d been in the refrigerated section, his fingers closing around the handle of a gallon of milk.

“The skin was so crispy, paper-thin, covered in these tiny, burnt coconut shavings and desiccated slivers of zest, and underneath, the chicken was so moist. The juices dribbled down my chin.”

He’d invented that last part for effect, and it seemed to be working. Kostya could feel the air change around him, sizzling. He thought he heard the chef swallow.

“I have to say, I wasn’t expecting—”

“I once had young goat,” Kostya cut him off, his eyes squeezing tight in focus. “The whole thing was fire-roasted, charred, the meat brined and rubbed with garlic, thyme, rosemary. Hand-crushed juniper.”

This one had choked him awake one morning in bed a few months prior; he’d drooled so much he nearly drowned in his own spit.

“It fell apart in my mouth. Every bite, I got a little of the ash from the fire pit, the grit of the sand, the scent of pine from the dried needles on the lumber burned to cook the thing.”

“Whoareyou?” the chef wondered aloud.

“But thebestthing”—Kostya smiled triumphantly, the memory reigniting across his taste buds—“has gotta be the fish head.”

Four summers ago, he’d been driving through Chinatown in Vanya’s delivery truck, stopped at a light and staring into a storefront with a Lucky Cat on the counter and a flock of dead chickens dangling in the window. A teenage girl walked out of the store, twisting the white cord of her headphones through her fingers, and as he watched her unlock her bike, the taste had come exploding into his mouth.

“It was dorade. Just the head. Grilled over charcoal. The skin was so charred that it curled away from the flesh. It was insanely sweet inside. Delicate. Like shaved butter. It was finished with this flaked salt that just balanced every bite: the bitter skin, the sweet fish, the acid from a roasted lemon, and the brightness of this very herby chimichurri. The taste of theeye, all the jelly behind it, was just,mmm,” he moaned, remembering, “like thick, gelatinous soup. Like half-melted aspic.”

The chef didn’t say anything more. He just clicked his pen a few times, then opened and closed a desk drawer. Cautiously, Konstantin opened his eyes.

Michel Beauchêne met his gaze. “Okay.”

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