Chapter Three: 86 Lettuce

By: Marie Pascual

09/30/2024

“How the fuck are we 86 on lettuce?”
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“I DON’T KNOW, WE JUST ARE!”
It’s TIFF season—Toronto International Film Festival, mid-September. We’re three months into this wild ride at WW, and let’s just say, sales have been sluggish. August is notoriously rough in the restaurant game. A “good day” might bring in $1200, while a slow day? You’re looking at a depressing $400.

But last night, we crushed $3000.

The kitchen felt like the calm before a storm. It was just me, Jojo, and the Captain holding down the fort. The low boy? Bone dry—barely any prep done. I waltzed in 15 minutes late for my 11 a.m. shift, still groggy, with that half-cocked morning caffeine buzz. An hour before opening, and we were already hanging by a thread.

WW’s menu is barebones: skewers and Bánh Xèo—those crispy, delicate Vietnamese rice crepes that somehow manage to be both light and savory all at once. We break it down into three stations: Grill/Garde Manger, Crepes, and the Floater. It’s a small ship, but we sail it with pride. Captain is usually steering from afar, but today, he was in the trenches with us. I won’t lie, it’s always nice having him in the mix—until he ends up on the pan station. Dude did over 100 squats, hunched over a blistering hot stove, and kept at it until 4 p.m.

By 2 p.m., I figured the usual lull would hit—the one where the sun beats down on the street, and you see the line across from us growing at the ice cream shop. That’s usually our breather, the sweet spot where we catch our breath and maybe sneak a cigarette. Not today. No, today we were being dragged under.

I found myself prepping in the middle of service, tossed straight into the fire. But that’s the thrill, right? When the kitchen’s on fire and you’re in it? It’s a chaotic dance. But that’s the rush. You either find your rhythm in the storm or drown in it.

The real fun started when the shift change rolled around and Spam relieved Captain Squat-Thrust. That’s when things got spicy.

“Guys, it’s like 6:30… we’re running low on skewers.”

The music was blaring, competing with the deafening roar of the kitchen hood and live music pouring in from the bar next door.

“What?”

“I SAID, WE’RE RUNNING OUT OF COCK AND BALLS!”

Shit.

The line was moving fast, and we were all locked in, but not in our prime positions. I was rusty on Garde, Spam was torching 25% of the crepes, and Jojo? He was floating around, but kept getting sucked into conversations with the regulars at the counter. We were holding it together by a thread.

“Hey, Spam?”

Now, I’m this small Asian woman, and my voice doesn’t exactly boom, but I tried.

“SPAM!”

“Wha?”

“SWITCH WITH ME!”

We swapped like clockwork. I took over pans, Spam went to Garde. The kitchen was heating up fast, steam rising from the stove, our shirts sticking to our backs like second skin. The sound of sizzling crepes mixed with the music, and it felt like we were caught in the middle of a live concert—just with a lot more knives and open flames.

“Guys, I don’t think we have enough lettuce to fill these orders.”

“That’s literally the whole filling for our Bánh Xèo. What do you mean we’re out?”

“We’re 86 on lettuce.”

“HOW? IT’S ONLY 7:30! WE DON’T CLOSE UNTIL MIDNIGHT!”
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“Marie, just finish what we’ve got. After that, we’re done.”

By 8:30, we were cleaned out—nothing left but the heat still lingering in the kitchen and the faint smell of charred skewers hanging in the air. We collapsed against the counter, bruised but not beaten. The rest of the night was a blur of shared beers, sweaty high fives, and that bone-deep satisfaction that only comes when you’ve emptied your tanks and lived to tell the tale.