Page 54 of Aftertaste

GLACES

FRANCIS K. O’SHAUNESSEY no longer answers to Frankie, or Frank, or Kosh, or Handsome, though old habits die hard on that last one. In his kitchen, where he spends every hour of every cloudless day, every moment of each starry night, feeding one lucky spirit at a time, he answers only—ecstatically—to Chef.

Last Supper is not merely located in the trendy part of the Food Hall; it is the trendy part of the Food Hall. There are no reservations, the queue always out the door. There is only one seat, a bare barstool at a simple wooden counter. The menu does not exist. No one who goes in to eat ever comes back out.

The meal, it is universally agreed, is worth waiting for.

The Chef watches proudly as his patrons eat their fill. As the flavors of their memories dance and twirl across their tongues. As they vanish, beaming, in a gleam of sparks. He’s making good on his promise to help them find closure. He’s doing it right this time. When they return from their visits, satisfied, they move right On. To the next course in the infinite feast of the soul.

His Sous-Chef watches, too.

An unassuming guy, the Sous does all the cooking. It takes him time to learn technique; his mind is scrambled as an egg. But aftertasting comes so naturally to him, a skill that can’t be taught. Rare enough that the Hall was convinced to let him stay.

He’s got great instincts, a natural flair for seasoning the memories he plates.

Though, it must be said, he’s prone to oversalting.

Still, the Chef thinks one day soon, he’ll pass the ladle of Last Supper on to his successor.

He’ll board his own train On, and leave his Sous in charge.