Page 28 of Aftertaste

Kostya stood rooted to the spot, his mouth dry.

“Chef. Give me the plate back. Please.”

He was desperate to try again, to somehow invite the connection, to make that dish perfect, one more time, to get his dad back and tell him—

“This plate?”

And with one furious motion, Michel threw the whole thing—plate, liver, lemon wedges, garnish—into the nearby fryer, which erupted so violently it sprayed Konstantin’s entire right arm in a wave of flesh-curdling oil.

POTAGEThe Konstantin Duhovny Culinary Experience

OKAY, FAM, QUICKshow of hands—who saw that one coming? Wild shit, right? Lemme tell you, I saw KD’s scars with my own eyes—this was before he got that dope sleeve—and it looked ripe. Like, I wasn’t sure skin like that could heal, man. Nasty burn. Needed grafts or whatever, and even after, well, it didn’t look right without ink. Like that.

Oh, it’s more than fucked up, sis; it ain’t legal.

And, look, I mean, kid was no fool. First thing he did out of the ER was call a lawyer—and he gets a letter written. This is all grapevine stuff I’m telling you now. I never saw the note and Gild did an outstanding job keeping it quiet. But apparently, Michel got scared. Figured he could lose everything if Bones wanted to press him. Which, you know, was true—room full of witnesses and his arm right there as evidence, plus the doctor’s notes and all. So they settle. Our guy gets a nice little payday, plus a glowing review for anywhere he wants to go, because at this point Michel’s not saying boo. Bones could’ve had his pick—Le Bernadin, Eleven Madison, Gramercy Park, all those fancy tasting tables would have eaten him up with a spoon after Saveur, and he knew it, too.

But he’s done with fine dining now. Totally disenchanted.

He got a taste of what it meant to do his own little thing. To cook the food he wanted, on his own terms. He couldn’t just go back to a new line in someone else’s kitchen.

So he opened his own spot.

Here she is, up on the left.

A little hard to pick out from the street if you don’t know what you’re looking for. All these old Hell’s Kitchen brownstones are, like, same make and model. There’s no sign, no awning, nada. Just this cramped two-bed—first floor of this one here.

This, my friends, is Konstantin Duhovny’s actual residence. Where the magic happens. Where the sausage gets made. Where you really hope the fuzz don’t show up asking for permits because, uh, you’re not operating with any.

Up the stairs here. You up front, my man, lead the way!

Let’s see what’s cooking at Hell’s Kitchen Supper Club.

SOUL FOOD

KONSTANTIN POSTED THEflyers under the influence of alcohol.

One near his apartment in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen, taped to a sticker-book traffic pole. One in Washington Square Park, affixed to the gate of a dog run. One all the way downtown, at Trinity Church, stapled to the cemetery fence. One taped flat on the sidewalk in front of the New York Public Library, the stone lions, Patience and Fortitude, eyeing him disdainfully.

He’d been aiming (could you aim at that level of inebriation?) for places where ghosts might hang out, and where the people who wanted to see them again might go looking. When he couldn’t think of any, he settled for foot traffic. The flyers read:

DINE WITH GHOSTS

Have you lost someone?

Recently bereaved, and reliving the past?

Mourning for the long haul, unable to let go?

Wish you had one more chance to tell them how you feel?

We can help.

Have a last meal together at theHells’s Kitchen Supper Club.

You bring the memories; we’ll bring up your ghosts. (Literally.)

RSVP required. One diner per night. Seating at 8 PM. Pay what you can.

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