Page 77 of Aftertaste

Kostya thought of this as he sucked in beneath his new chef’s coat, crisp white with his name in black thread, the sleeves rolled casually to the elbows, the way the stylist had pinned them. Instead of kitchen checks, she’d put him in navy chinos, which would’ve fared terribly during dinner service, but which he had to admit had looked pretty cool, especially since he’d dropped a few pounds.

He hadn’t had a binge in months, not since the night Frankie died. Thosewaves of emptiness he used to stifle with endless bags of chips, rich-frosted donut holes, the entire contents of his cupboards, came few and far between now. Being with Maura, having someone to wake up to and fall asleep with, someone he could be himself around, who made him feel wanted, went a long way toward filling that void. Not to mention all the ancillary exercise he was getting, both at home—Maura was insatiable; they burned calories in just about every room—and at the restaurant, up and down the stairs a hundred times a day, reconfiguring tables and chairs into various dining room incarnations, hauling deliveries of ingredients and equipment in preparation for their fast-approaching preview week.

Kostya woke early each day, unable to sleep, excited for it to start. Every moment brought him closer to the opening, to what he’d privately begun thinking of as his new beginning. Even stupid moments, like this photo shoot.

“Move a step to the right; I wanna get the bridge in the frame. Okay, gimme sexy!” the photographer directed him.

His name was either Viper or Vapor, a ’90s grunge leftover with long hair and sleeveless flannel.

Kostya squinted, wondering if brooding and sexy translated to the same thing on film. Viper (Vapor?) clicked.

“Beautiful, Kon-stan-teen!” he called encouragingly. “Now cross your arms over your chest. Just rotate your wrists—I wanna see those tats. Tilt your chin down—good! Look at me like you’re not taking any bullshit.”

Kostya blinked and scowled a little.

“Amazing. You’re a natural. Jen, touch-up!”

The makeup girl appeared with a pot of putty and began re-tousling Kostya’s hair.

THE PHOTO SHOOT—like the stylist, the new haircut, and the rugged scruff Kostya was growing over his cheeks and chin—had been Viktor’s idea.

“We need have photos, for when press want interviews,” he informed Kostya, who had never in his life imagined anyone wanting to interview him. “I know good photographer. I set up.”

Everything with Viktor went that way—he was always one step ahead, had a solution ready before the problem even presented itself. He’d hired a publicist for the restaurant the day after the throwdown dinner, and she already had reviewers lined up—chomping at the bit, she’d said—for their soft opening in a couple of weeks. He had a connection at the MTA (Old acquaintance, owes me favor), who had agreed to plaster ads all over the major subway lines. There were enough contacts in Viktor’s phone to build a city, and he had a team of workers lined up overnight, the demolition at Swingline beginning before the ink had even dried on the lease paperwork.

It had been three months, and Kostya was living the good life in the Musizchka Inner Circle. The benefits were real—not just money, but the savvy Viktor brought to the table. Kostya felt secure here; he felt guided. Mentored. Like he belonged.

Kostya’s mother had tried (and kept trying) to put the fear of Musizchka in him, but as usual, she’d been quick to judge and doggedly wrongheaded.You will see, Kostya!she yelped from his voicemail.People never change, and this is bandit, and you will say to me, Mama, you were right!

But so far, the only unsavory thing Viktor had done was insist on a fairly stupid name. Kostya had sent him a list of ideas as long as his arm—Diner d’Esprits, The Haunt, Last Supper, The Other Kitchen—only to be met with stubborn persistence that they name the spot for him.

“DUH!” Viktor insisted. “For you, forDuhovny! Is perfect, DUH.???mean spirit, and???mean you.”

“But no one’s gonna read it that way!” Kostya whined. “They’ll read it asduh. As in,duh, why would we eat there?”

“Maybe we spell Russian way.D-Y-X?”

“… that’s dicks.”

Naming aside, Viktor cared about the project—of course he did; he wasputting so much into it!—and he cared about Konstantin. As bits of information about the restaurant began leaking out—a new place downtown, something to do with ghosts, a sort of food séance—the interest in Kostya was piqued, and Viktor made sure that he was ready. A social media manager handled posts on platforms Kostya had never even heard of. A personal shopper had reorganized (read: burned) the clothes in his closet, replacing his ratty T-shirts and bargain-bin jeans with soft crewnecks and organic denim. There was even a speech consultant on hand to coach Kostya on interviews and talking points.

“You public figure now,” Viktor reminded him that morning, as they walked through the restaurant space, choosing textiles. “You the face. For what we charging, you gotta look serious, or no one take you serious.”

Kostya frowned from one napkin sample to another.

“Or maybe this?” Stella, the designer, pulled a third option from her bag, a charcoal linen with black stitching around the edge.

“Totally.” Kostya nodded at her. “This one. And what do you mean,” he added to Viktor, “for what we’re charging? Whatarewe charging?”

That had been a sticking point. The night of the penthouse throwdown, Viktor had seen the look on his guests’ faces, and he’d seen dollar signs.

He wanted to charge five hundred bucks a head—to start!—for the Chef’s Tasting. Kostya fired back that that was robbery, that no one would pay that much for a meal, that it went against the whole idea of helping people reconnect and get closure. Guests who could afford to drop that kind of dough on a single meal, he told Viktor, probably had other ways of coping with death. Like therapy. Or yachts. Spaceships they were building to colonize Mars.

“Rich bleed just like poor,” Viktor informed him. “Plus they keep lights on.”

“But it shouldn’t just be for the one percent! Besides, prices like that—we’ll be laughed out of town. Even in New York, there’s not one other debut chef that would charge that much. It just isn’t done.”

“Eleven Madison charge four hundred a head, and they don’t serveghosts,” Viktor shot back. “I hear they talking about not even doing meat no more.”

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