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.
