Page 25 of Aftertaste

Things went smoothly through the cocktail hour, thousands of morsels of scallop ceviche, cryo-seared lamb, endive and fig gratin, and foie gras parfait sweeping past Kostya’s station just long enough for him to paint their corresponding sauces—preserved lemon butter, julep mint foam, raspberry-quince glaze, apricot preserve—on with tiny brushes before they were twirled round the room on enormous silver platters.

He got a brief respite during the raw-bar service, since the mignonette and cocktail sauces, clarified butter, Thai-chili vinegar, and lemongrass yuzu reduction that accompanied the oysters, shrimp, king crab, and caviar had been dished in advance into mother-of-pearl bowls and arranged within an elaborate ice palace.

He swigged water from a quart container, wiped the sweat dripping down his eyebrows and nose with a kitchen towel, and checked the clipboard. Pasta was next.

Kostya braced himself.

At Saveur, they made their own fresh pasta, cooking it to order à la minute. Even though the number of guests at this party more than tripled their average pasta orders for an evening, Michel had promised Gild that he’d deliver not only fresh pasta but seven different kinds, each with an inspired sauce and garnish.

Lorenzo, theirpastaio, had come in at the ass crack of dawn to craft thousands ofgnudi, anelli, cavatappi, fideo, gemelli, orecchiette, andmafaldine. Each pasta dough had been infused with a specific flavor—lemon zest in thegnudi, basil oil in theanelli, white truffle for thecavatappi, and so on—calibrated to complement the pasta sauces and create an orgasmic eating experience. The problem was that Kostya now had to oversee which sauce went on which pasta, with mere minutes between different batches flying in and out of water baths and sauté pans across three different stations, all hands on deck to cook, sauce, plate, garnish, and serve. And all this with two cream-based sauces, four tomato-based (two meat; two vegetarian), and one purple pesto, which meant that, aside from the pesto, he couldn’t justyell,Hot nut for mafaldine with the red jizz!, because no one would know which red sauce he meant.

They’d agreed to try to keep just one pasta type on sauté at a time to avoid confusing the sauces and garnishes, and the plan seemed to be working. The first two had already gone out, and the third—lemonygnudiwith almond–arugula–purple cauliflower pesto—was being plated. Kostya was just starting to feel a sense of pride, a new level of confidence in his culinary abilities, when he felt a tingle along the back of his neck.

It chilled him even though the kitchen was a fiery ring, his jacket soldered to his back with sweat. He took a deep breath and prepared for the aftertaste to pass over him, rolling in and out like an ocean wave, but as soon as it hit his tongue, his whole body went numb.

Gooey, sweet onions. Crispy morsels of liver that melted as he chewed. A zing of acid. Dill. And something bitter, just there, bringing up the rear.

He hadn’t tasted this dish in twenty years, but it was exactly the same as the very first time, the taste he’d tried to re-create with Frankie, the taste he’d churned in his mind like butter, the absolutely irrefutable proof that his dad was here,now, waiting to see him, lingering for who knew how long before he vanished again, maybe forever. And for the first time in all those years, Kostya suddenly thought he knew how it was made.

“Oh shit!” he gasped.

“What?” To his left, Fernando jumped, alarmed, one pan in each hand, tossinggnudicoated with pesto into the air. “Didn’t you tell us pesto?”

“Yeah. No! Sorry. Pesto’s right.”

Kostya’s mind raced. There were whole chickens in the walk-in. He could pull the livers out of a couple, grab a lemon and white onions from the pantry; the dill was right there, on Fernando’s mise.

“Oy!Konstantin! Cavatappi, what’s the jizz?”

It was Tony, who was working a station and also directing the guys boiling the pasta. Kostya snapped back to attention.

“Meyer lemon Alfredo, garnish beluga!” He recited it automatically, thememory rote, and then hesitated. “No, wait! Sorry. The other Alfredo—the smoked salmon, garnish with Everything Bagel.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

Kostya thought. The cavatappi was the curly one, with the charred-onion infusion. The smoked salmon Alfredo was an ode to cream cheese and lox, paired to give the whole thing a New York bagel vibe.

“Yes, Chef!”

“You’re the boss.”

As Kostya hurtled toward the chicken, he heard Tony turn to the rest of the floor, raise his voice.

“I got cavatappi, smoked salmon Alfredo, Everything garnish! We gotta kick it up, people, shit’s dying on the pass here, and Fernando,Jesus!Get your fuckingmeezin check!”

Kostya hunted in the walk-in, smacking his lips as he did, willing the taste to linger. He finally found the chickens tucked behind three boxes of duck breasts, and snagged the onions, the lemon. He was firing on all cylinders. He’d have to pull the giblets, toss the gizzards and hearts, keep the livers. Thin-slice the onion. Lemon into wedges.

He grabbed a sauté pan and jammed it onto one of Fernando’s burners. Fernando was busy trying to clean up the mess on his station—garnishes everywhere—and almost didn’t see him.

“What are you doing?” he finally asked, aghast, as Kostya started fumbling inside the chicken cavity.

“I got a VIP on the fly,” Kostya lied. “From Michel.”

Fernando moved one of his pans to make room.

“Shit shit shit,” Kostya chanted under his breath, half from nerves and half to remember the flavor he was going for.

All this time, and he’d somehow never put it together. It was his father’s favorite dish, but hismotherhad prepared it. His mother, who was always yammering away on the phone when she cooked, so absorbed in lecture or conjecture that she burned almost everything. Includingpechonka.

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