Page 34 of Aftertaste

There was a long pause between them.

“I don’t know,” Sister Stacy said at last. “But I have faith. Love is patient.”

Sister Louise nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “?‘It always protects,’?” she quoted.

“?‘Always hopes. Always trusts,’?” Sister Stacy supplied.

“?‘Always survives.’?”

Sister Louise lifted the last wing to her mouth.

“Love.” Sister Stacy gave a small, decisive nod. “The closest thing to godliness we’ll ever know. The chef who prepared this meal, for instance.” She glanced back toward the kitchen, straight into Kostya’s prying eyes. “He did a selfless thing, reuniting us. An act of love.”

“It really was.” Sister Louise chewed, nodding. “I feel a burden lifted from my soul.”

“Me too.” Sister Stacy turned slowly back to face Louise. “Tell him it’s important. This work he’s doing. There are so many here, suffering. Seeking just this kind of aid.”

“Suffering?” Kostya breathed from behind the curtain, his chest going tight.

“All right,” Sister Louise agreed, absently biting the wing again, tearing the last morsel of chicken from its bone. “But why,” she asked with her mouth full, “is there suffering in Heaven?”

She swallowed.

And before Sister Stacy could answer, before she could, in fact, say another word, her spirit scattered like a sparkler, her final flickers dying blue in the dark, dotting Kostya’s ceiling like so many stars.

ENTRÉEThe Konstantin Duhovny Culinary Experience

ALRIGHT! HOW WE DOING?

Getting a taste for our guy’s secret sauce?

This is the place to do it, because Hell’s Kitchen Supper Club was a real turning point.

Every chef’s got one, that kitchen where you feel it for the first time, how you’re touching people with what you do. Where the food becomes more than just food. Mine was at Wolfpup, first time I saw my take on Sancocho on the menu. And this right here—it’s Konstantin’s.

The Sister Act was just the beginning. Planted a seed for him, for what came next. See, his big motivator up till now’s been his daddy issue, that big reunion. Whole point of Hell’s Kitchen was getting him back. But what that Flying Nun said got his wheels turning. This was bigger than him. An opportunity to really help folks. Folks who, by the sound of it, really needed help. He do this thing right, he could change the world a little bit. Leave it better than he found it.

Go zero to hero.

But I’ll keep it real: it wasn’t all sunshine. There were hiccups, too. Always are with a restaurant. For one thing, our guy was getting low on cash. For another, spirits didn’t always answer when he called.

Still, he made it. He opened.

More than a lot of spots can say, especially in New York.

So time to break out the champs, right? Toast to the future!

But it’s a funny thing, the future.

Ain’t never promised.

EN FLAMBÉ

A DINER BARis an odd place to drink. Especially before noon. On a Tuesday.

But there Kostya was, seated at the bar of a greasy spoon called The Flame, sandwiched between Fordham sweatshirts debating a problem set and an early-bird geriatric considering the crossword, nursing a pale ale and soggy fries by the dawn’s early light.

February had eighty-sixed, and after a month of service at Hell’s Kitchen Supper Club, he had, too. What began as a home run (Sister Stacy! Buffalo soup! Easy-peasy!) had quickly devolved into a series of swing-and-a-miss. Night after night, diners arrived at his apartment aching to see their Dead, and Kostya struggled (and usually failed) to reunite them. He was burnt out. (Emotionally. Spiritually. Physically. Not to mention financially; the pay-what-you-can model had turned out to be kind of a money pit.) He was frustrated. (Who wouldn’t be after twenty-eight consecutive dinners—no nights off; no breaks; no life outside death—with a measly six ghosts to show for it?) He was concerned. (No shit.) So while he knew he’d live to regret the morning booze, last night at Hell’s Kitchen had been another flop, and he just needed something to soften the blow.

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