Sclafani strides across the wet floor, zeroes in on a bin piled with grouper and reaches out to grab one, tossing it in his hands. Their gills look healthy, the fish feel solid, not broken. He'll take them. He moves onto arctic char, which he deems "real nice."
Then, after passing up boxes and boxes of seafood, he runs into some monkfish, which some of his customers like for bouillabasse. He nods approvingly. "It's firm. Solid. The blood is not turning brown."
