Carefully, I take one of the truffles out and analyze it under a white light. It looks clean. There’s no sign of damage or anything potentially rotten. Heck, these are some of the prettiest, highest quality white truffles I’ve ever seen. My nose must be playing a trick on me, much like my taste buds did the other day.
A clatter from the dry pantry startles me.
“Matty?” I call out again.
Forgetting all about the truffles, I swing open the pantry door and gasp at the sight before me. Matty’s on the floor, his head lolled to the side, and there’s a stainless steel bowl upended next to him, along with a small bag of flour and a bag of brown sugar.
“Oh my God!” I rush to his side. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, barely able to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot. His breath reeks of whiskey. The smell hits me so hard, I almost get a contact high by being so close to him.
“Matty, what happened? Do you want me to call you an ambulance?”
“Nah, I’m… I’m fine. I just… I thought I could sleep this off.”
He can’t even sit up straight, so I rush back into the kitchenand run a towel under cold water, then pat it across his pale face.
“You’re drunk,” I conclude.
“I was even drunker last night.” He chuckles dryly. “Fire me, if you want. I know you’re dying to get rid of me.”
“What? No! That’s nonsense,” I reply. “You need coffee and a greasy breakfast.”
“Or more sleep.”
“How many hours did you get?”
Matty gives me a confused look, then looks around. “Wait, where am I?”
“You’re in the pantry. I just found you in here, passed out.”
“What time is it?”
I check my watch. “It’s about nine.”
“Ah, that tracks. I think I fell asleep at, like, six? My alarm rang at seven, as usual.”
Shaking my head slowly, I realize that whatever this is, it’s stemming from a much deeper problem. Matty doesn’t drink, for starters, and he’s always on time. He’s never been late and never anything but the most professional sous chef I’ve ever worked with, which has made his usual snark a lot more tolerable.
“What happened?” I ask and help him get up, then guide him to one of the worktables in the kitchen. I don’t leave his side until he’s securely slumped in a chair, elbows and head resting on the stainless-steel tabletop.
“Nothing happened. Can’t a guy get drunk once in a while?”
“Not you, no. Something happened. Spill it.”
“The only thing I feel like spilling right now is my actual guts.” He laughs with bitterness dripping from his voice.
I pour him a cup of black coffee, then rush to the fridge to get some ingredients out for a quick and greasy omelet. Bacon, butter, cheddar cheese, and eggs aplenty meet in an iron skillet on a hot flame while I steal worried glances at Matty.
“Come on, man, talk to me. I need you sharp today. We’re testing some new recipes. I wanted your input on those white truffles,” I say.
“What do you want me to say? ‘Cause all I can say right now is thank you for not canning my sorry ass.” He groans but manages to take a long sip of coffee, just enough to make him shudder.
“Attaboy,” I say, one eye on the skillet.
“Oh, that smells nice,” he says, his gaze wandering over to my work in progress. “I think it would work great with some bread. I could toss a baguette in the oven.” Matty tries to get up and fails miserably.
“Or maybe just sit your ass down and don’t move. I’ll handle it,” I reply, then turn the flame off and fetch a raw baguette from the freezer.
