Friday Night Fire Drill

By: Marie Pascual

I’d spent weeks dreading my first Friday mid-shift. Insecure in my green abilities on how to run the front, huffing my vape like it was an oxygen tank. Maneuvering with a loose sense that it was chaos — and that it would be mine to manage.

By 4 p.m., the tension was already crawling in. That kind of slow-building pressure that starts behind your eyes and coils in your stomach. A migraine crept in — dull at first, then sharp like a tide hitting rock. The room still felt calm, but you could tell it wouldn’t last. You could practically smell the group chats lighting up — 9-to-5’ers texting their friends to meet at Chubby Duck and kick off the weekend.
That night’s crew was tight.

Mario was on the back stove — a steady, part-time hand with a kind laugh and the kind of attitude that made you feel like things wouldn’t fall apart. We’d shared a joint behind the building before clock-in — not enough to get sloppy, just something to take the edge off.

Funk Master was posted behind me on fryer and assembly. He hadn’t been in the city long — moved here alone just a teenager from Vietnam — but already, he moved through the kitchen like he’d built it. We didn’t talk much during service, but we kept each other in check with glances. A look over the shoulder, a quick nod. Still good? Still breathing? Cool.

Kid — our floor lead — had decided it was time for me to take the front.
That meant: taking orders, calling them out, juggling takeout and dine-in, delivering food across the street to the bar, setting cutlery, clearing tables, keeping the dishwasher alive, and doing whatever it took to keep the ship from sinking.
I had never worked a dinner service before.
But something about that shift — the little things — made it feel like maybe I could pull it off.

Crewmates with the night off sent messages. “You got this,’ Came from May, the Chef that trusted me to join the ship. Kid stopped by mid-errands just to give me a quick alleyway pep talk. It wasn’t even that long, but it helped — like someone tossing you a towel before you’re thrown in the water.
And then S.Q. walked in.

He didn’t need to say much. Just entered like he belonged — calm, observant, already reading the room. He came up to me first. Gave me a small smile, said, “I’ve got another book for you — Leaders eat last. I think you’ll like it.” Something in his voice was grounding. Like the way some people drink their coffee: slow, no rush, always warm.

Then he moved on. Gave Funk Master a soft clap on the shoulder and told him he was looking strong. It was small, but I saw how much it meant — Funk had been shy about how he looked in his apron when he first started. And when S.Q. reached Mario at the end of the line, he leaned in and said something about the Simpsons that made Mario burst out laughing, doubled over, hand on his belly.

We were already in the thick of service by then. The ticket printer was chirping, the fryer humming, and someone was asking about extra napkins — but somehow, it all felt a little more doable. Like the volume got turned down just enough.

And that’s when I knew we’d be fine. Not perfect. Not clean. But fine.
We had each other.

Below is a rough sketch of Front Person line responsibilities (arguably the most important position)