Page 73 of Aftertaste

She shook her head, ecstatic as she tasted the sweet ricotta variety, hot, pillowy dough smothered in butter, oozing sugar and light-as-air cheese into her mouth.

But when it came to dessert—the sour cherryvarenyky, which Kostya served with hand-whipped cream—things fell flat. They were supposed to be the literal cherry on top, the flawless close to the meal. Maura was trying to be discreet about it, but he saw right away that it wasn’t cutting it. She ate slowly. Nodded. Smiled. But there was none of that sheer joy in her eyes. No gleeful abandon. No moan.

“Okay, what’s wrong with it?” Kostya asked, dubious.

“Huh? No! It’s delicious.”

He picked up his spoon. “Liar.”

He tasted, waited for the turn, for the flavors to develop in his mouth, to deepen, for the tart cherries and sweet cream to make magic. They didn’t.

“No. You’re right. Something’s off.”

“It’s a little too sweet, I think? Maybe?”

Kostya tried another spoonful. Cloying. Almost like the cherries had somehow fermented, turned, since he’d removed them from the stove.

“Yeah, that’s no good. But I can fix it. Gimme a minute.”

HE COMBED THROUGHhis spice cabinet, fingertips strolling along grinders and shakers, vials and pouches, tiny tubes of ingredients you paid for by the ounce, until he came to the container he wanted, a palm-sized glass jar full of what looked like wet, grey sand.

“Open your mouth!” he called from the kitchen. “And close your eyes!”

When he came back to the table, seeing Maura in the candlelight, her eyes closed, a curious smile at the edges of her open mouth, a flutter went through him. He wondered if this was how he’d looked as a little kid, playing the tasting game with his dad. The absolute openness to any adventure that awaited. The flavors ready to transport him.

He tipped a small mound offleur de selinto his palm and dusted her tongue with the world’s finest salt.

“Don’t rush it,” he told her. “Just let it melt. Taste the salt’s journey. The Atlantic, where it was born. The marshes, where it grew up. The things it met along the way. Fish. Eels. Snails. The channels it wound through. The sun that pulled all the water away, leaving just the salt behind.”

Maura was nodding slowly, her eyes still closed.

The look on her face shifted, curiosity into wonder. As though, behind her eyelids, she was there, standing on the edge of a salt flat.

“I can taste it,” she whispered. “I actually can.”

“Can you see them?” he asked, feeding her more. “Paludiersin aprons? The same for hundreds of years. You know, they never let men do it? They didn’t have the right touch. Only women, harvesting the salt, stooping in the water. See the way they skim the surface with their rakes? Can you hear the way the crust crumbles? The scrape and crush?”

Maura was so still he could barely hear her breathe.

He spooned whipped cream into her mouth, a cherryvarenyk, another sprinkle of salt. He watched the flavors marry as she chewed, saw the smile,thatsmile, spread across her face.

He wanted to kiss her, to taste what she tasted.

“There it is,” she whispered.

“Fleur de sel,” he said, holding up the little jar.

“Flowers of salt.” She opened her eyes. “That’s beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful. It’s just salt.” He felt his face burn as soon as he said it. He wasn’t good at this part. “And I, apparently, am mostly cheese.”

“I like cheese.” She pushed the crystals in his hand around with a fingertip. “And I like it when you get all culinary. Tell me more. How do you cook with it?”

“It’s finishing salt. You just use a pinch at the end, to elevate the flavors. This stuff—you wouldn’t believe the way it changes things. It brings food to life.”

Maura stared at him, something different in her smile. Unexpected.

“Sorry”—he flushed again—“I’m rambling. It’s just really special. Extraordinary.”

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