Aftertaste: A Novel

by Daria Lavelle

But when the past is gone, after the people are dead, after their things are destroyed… smell and taste still linger on, like souls, ready to remind us…. Marcel Proust Swann’s Way

I can feel the way you hold on, like we’re chained together. And you’re still young now, but if you don’t let me go you’re going to die young and alone. Or worse. You’ll die old and alone and you’ll have lived a miserable, empty life.”

“But letting go doesn’t mean that you forget me. Just that you don’t let the memories hurt you anymore.”

Besides, I saw firsthand what he was doing in the kitchen. What his food meant to people. Reminded me why I loved cooking. Way it connects people. Like being in my mama’s house, watching her make my ’lita’s old recipes, the ones her mama taught her. Food’s history. It’s tradition. It’s gotta mean something to be worth anything, you know? And his did. Does.

As the private Listserv never hesitates to inform Seyoncé subscribers, these were so much more than parties. These were events. Experiences. Life-altering encounters bestowed upon few but desired by all.

While Kostya felt fairly confident about his ability to make the dish again, he couldn’t risk tasting pechonka in a cab, or on the subway, or anywhere else he wouldn’t have access to ingredients, to a kitchen. He had to learn to trigger the aftertastes for himself. To make them come when called. Like pushing a button. And to do that, he needed practice. By the time he got to 9th Avenue, the vague, inebriated plan had taken shape. Flyers. A ghost test kitchen. One diner at a time. Hell’s Kitchen Supper Club.

Some spirits are satisfied by a single bite of a particular dish, or a sip of just the right drink. Others take longer to feel full—days in the Hall, or weeks. Months of eating. Some even need years to digest—each meal a way to work through the life they just lived, the memories they need to process, every bite a step closer to fulfillment. Sooner or later, most spirits get to board the glittering trains departing the Food Hall and move On. But some of us don’t. Some of us can’t feel full no matter what we eat. There’s a Hunger inside that won’t be tamed. Our Living put it there. See, when we died? Their grief was bottomless. So vast and deep it swallowed them whole. They couldn’t process our loss; they couldn’t let us go. They held on so tight that it held us back. Kept us here. Made us Hungry. That’s the uncool thing—like, deeply uncool—about the Food Hall. If our Living don’t move on, then neither can we. We get stuck. Destined to spend all eternity eating Snickers that won’t satisfy.

I’m gonna show you the city, Stan.” She swept her arm out before them. A rat skittered out from beneath a dumpster. “You know I live in Hell’s Kitchen, right?” “But you don’t walk around with your eyes open.”

Leaving behind a recipe was a way to be remembered and savored and loved even after you were gone. A way to live forever.

“I love you like salt.”

To eat was to celebrate. Food was living, after all; food was love. It was how the Living coped. How they kept going. Shorthand for their entire lives.