The words land like a dropped knife—sharp, unexpected even though I could have seen it coming. I stand, crate in arms, processing.
New York.
Head chef.
Of course.
He's ready. I've known it. But hearing it? That’s a gut punch.
"That's... huge. Congratulations," I say. I mean it, but my voice tightens.
Antonio nods, but his expression is torn.
"I don't want to leave,” Antonio says. “This place, the team. I don’t even like big cities. And you've taught me everything. But... I need to challenge myself. Step out, like you did. See if I can hack it on my own."
I set the crate in the trunk, motioning for him to hand over his.
"Follow your heart, Antonio,” I say. “Do what's right for you. If New York's calling, answer it. But know this… my door's always open. Call anytime. For advice, a rant, whatever. You've got the talent to make this work. Don't ever doubt that."
He passes the crate, our eyes meeting. Gratitude mixed with regret.
"Thanks, chef,” Antonio says, clearly burdened by the whole thing. “Means a lot."
We pick up the scattered broccoli in silence, brushing off dirt, salvaging what we can. It's not ruined—tough stuff, broccoli—but the metaphor hangs heavy.
As we pack the SUV, stacking crates neatly, my mind races internally.
Losing Antonio? Catastrophic. He's my right hand, the one who anticipates my needs, pushes the menu forward. The restaurant's rhythm depends on him—the innovation, the execution.
Who replaces that?
A new hire? Promote from within?
Standards could slip, reviews dip, and suddenly I’m past it and in crisis according to the foodie world.
Andpersonally? Antonio is like a protégé, almost family. Watching him go would sting, just like it did for Laurent with me.
But I meant what I said—better to launch him right than hold him back.
Still, a worry gnaws at me… the kitchen without his energy, the late nights solo.
Change is coming, ready or not.
We climb inside the Porsche, engine purring to life.
"Let's get this back," I say, forcing lightness. "Team's waiting."
But inside me, the what-ifs swirl.
The restaurant's future just got a whole lot more uncertain…
Despite the situation with Anontio hanging over me, not to mention him, the evening service ends on a high note… the kitchen humming like a well-oiled machine, plates flying out flawless, guests lingering over desserts with satisfied sighs.
Antonio's prosciutto-wrapped pork is a hit, the sage rub infusing every bite with that perfect balance of savory and aromatic. Reviews will be glowing tomorrow, I can feel it.
But as the last team member clocks out and the lights dim in the dining room, that earlier conversation in the parking lot weighs heavy.
Antonio's bombshell lingers like smoke after a flare-up.
