"These will do for the special tonight,” I say. “Grilled with a lemon beurre blanc."
Antonio nods absently, tossing in a crate of bell peppers without his usual scrutiny. Normally, Antonio thrives here—eyes lighting up like a kid in a candy store, debating ripeness, negotiating deals with the suppliers he's built relationships with over the years. He'd haggle for that extra discount on heirloom tomatoes or spot the perfect zucchini hidden in a pile.
But today?
Not so much.
Something's off. Antonio’s movements are mechanical, his chatter minimal. No jokes about the "ugly" produce we could turn into gold, no excitement over the new shipment of exotic mushrooms. He's distant, gaze unfocused, like his mind's a thousand miles away.
And it’s got me worried.
I glance at him sidelong as we approach the herb section—basil, mint, cilantro in fragrant bundles, their leaves dewy and aromatic.
"You okay, Antonio? You're quiet today," I enquire, my tone even.
He shrugs, grabbing a handful of rosemary without checking for wilt.
"Fine, chef,” Antonio replies. “Just...thinking."
Thinking.
Right.
I let it slide for now, but it nags at me.
As we load up on onions—sweet Vidalia in mesh bags, red ones glossy and firm—I can't help but drift into my own thoughts…
This warehouse always takes me back to my days with Laurent.
Hell, that man was a force. The suppliers back home were similar—vast halls echoing with curses and the thud of crates. Laurent would drag me along at dawn, half-asleep and hungover from the night before, teaching me not just to pick produce but to feel it, smell it, understand its story. "The best dishes start here, Olivier," he'd growl, squeezing a melon for ripeness. "Not in your fancy pans. Learn the source, respect it."
We'd spend hours: him quizzing me on varieties, me fumbling through explanations until I got it right. So much of my education happened in places like this—away from the heat of the kitchen, in the raw heart of ingredients.
Laurent wasn't just a mentor, he was a guide, pushing me without possessing me. When I finally branched out, he didn't resent it—hecelebrated. "Go make your mark, boy. But remember where you started."
Antonio's like that young me—hungry, talented, on the cusp.
I've tried to be his Laurent, fostering that fire. But if he's distant today, maybe the cusp is closer than I thought. And that’s a scary thought if I’m being honest with myself. There aren’t many Antonio’s in the world, and I know that my restaurant would suffer in his absence. Who is to say that I would ever find a number two as talented and committed as him?
We finish up, cart groaning under the weight: eggplant sleek and purple, zucchini in shades of green, lemons zesty and bright. The supplier, old Marco, gives us the usual deal—extra herbs thrown in for loyalty.
Antonio barely engages, just a curt nod.
Outside, the parking lot is a sea of delivery vans and pickups, the cold air a sharp contrast to the warehouse's controlled humidity. We haul the crates to my SUV—sleek black, out of place among the workhorses but practical enough with the seats folded.
Antonio grabs a crate of broccoli, those deep green florets packed tight, but his grip slips. It crashes to the asphalt, a few heads rolling free. He stares at it for a second, then kicks out in frustration, boot connecting with the crate and sending more broccoli scattering.
“Fuck!” Antonio exclaims, spinning and lashing out into thin air out of pure frustration. “Bullshit.”
"Whoa, easy!" I set my load down, stepping in front of him. His face is flushed, fists clenched—not at the produce, clearly. "Calm down, Antonio. It's just broccoli. We'll salvage it." I crouch, gathering the escaped florets, but my eyes stay on him. "But this isn't about the veg, is it? Talk to me. Whatever's eating you, I'mhere."
Antonio deflates, running a hand through his dark hair, leaning against the SUV.
Hesitation flickers—loyalty warring with whatever's brewing.
Finally, he sighs.
"Chef... I've been offered a head chef gig,” Antonio says, his eyes calmer but still full of passion. “In New York. Big place, Michelin potential. I’d have full creative control and a big budget to work with for a new interior and staff selection. It’s… big time."
