The beginning + notes from a staff meeting

By: Marie Pascual

I always felt like an outsider in every restaurant I worked at.
After graduating from culinary school in 2017, I chased jobs at well-known Filipino spots in the city—hoping to reconnect with my roots and sharpen my technical chops. But I brought bad habits from school into the workplace. I’d show up late or miss shifts, blaming it on migraines. I half-assed my skill development. I burned out fast. I started to believe I just wasn’t built for the line cook life.
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In my early twenties, I never lasted more than a few months to a year in one spot. I’d fail to excel, tell myself I was garbage, then bounce to the next place with a flimsy excuse. The cycle looked like this:

• Start at a new restaurant, excited and ready to learn
• Reward myself after a hard shift with booze and weed
• Stay up too late, sleep through alarms
• Show up late, hungover, migraine in tow
• Suck at my job
• Repeat the cycle to cope
• Burn out
• Spiral into depression
• Quit, self-loathe, self-harm, drink some more

I never gave myself time to learn the proper way. If I wasn’t good immediately, I assumed I was worthless. That toxic mindset stuck to me like grease.

After just three years in the industry, I wanted out. I felt like I’d wasted so much time trying to succeed at something I was never meant for. I picked up a pack-a-day habit, turned to the bottle more often than not, and settled into a self-loathing rhythm that was hard to break. So why bother, when every voice in your head is telling you no?

During the pandemic, I took a remote job at a big finance company. I was making nearly double what I earn now on the line. It was hard to reconcile. I sometimes wish I never got a glimpse of that life—being able to travel freely, binge Bourdain and food docs without stress, book a flight on a whim.
For a while, I had my own place near my family and enough cash to finally explore Canada, the country I’d been cooking in for eight years but had barely seen. I was discovering parts of myself I didn’t even know existed. I paid off 80% of my debt in under a year. I treated friends and family to good meals, small luxuries. I was okay.

But as every cook knows, the culinary industry is a mistress.

She’s unpredictable. She changes constantly. She engages you, grounds you, makes you feel connected. She becomes your escape, and you learn how to flow with her.

But she’s also demanding. She steals your time. She makes you think you’re in control, only to remind you you’re nothing. You’re forgotten behind.

After a few years of working from home and getting into “one-wheeling,” my partner and I were craving some much-needed Bánh Xèo. A quick search brought up a spot called Chubby Duck.
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We rolled up on our One Wheels—30-pound boards, about three feet long—and stepped into a tiny, open-concept restaurant. Sixteen seats. Three cooks. Pure chaos. Ten Uber drivers waiting, four people hovering for takeout, and most of the seats taken. My partner and I stood frozen at the door, jaws dropped.

We looked up at the glowing diner-style menu.

“Yo… I don’t think they have Bánh Xèo. You wanna stay or try somewhere else?”

I couldn’t hear him. I was in awe.

One chef was calling orders and running the bánh mì pass, weaving through the crowd to deliver food. Another was juggling the fryer, the noodle station, and helping expedite. The last cook worked the stove—three woks, three pots—at once. Kendrick blasted through the speakers, voices bounced off the walls, and the room was alive.

I had never understood what people meant when they said a restaurant had a pulse. Until that night. The floors were literally vibrating.

We finally made it to the counter.

“How can I help you guys?”

Shit. I hadn’t looked at the menu. I didn’t even realize we were next. I didn’t know where I was—but I knew I wanted in.

“Uh… can we sit for a second and think about it?”

“No worries.” In one smooth motion, he cleared a table by the window, wiped it down, and disappeared back behind the counter like he’d never left.

The place was a machine. The ship was clearly rocking—but everyone was holding each other up, keeping the line moving, serving the people on board.

We took a seat and barely had a second to breathe when the front chef called out again:

“Y’all figure it out yet?”

“Brisket croquette, turnip cake and…” I trailed off, still scanning the menu in a panic. We’d had pho before. I wasn’t a big fan of congee. But–

“PBK. You guys want the PBK,” he said with quiet confidence, like he’d already read the answer off my face.

And honestly? I had no reason not to trust him.

I didn’t know it then, but that would be the dish that started everything.

If you’ve ever taken shrooms, that’s exactly what my first night eating on the ship felt like. The lacquered tables, covered in the jagged remains of shattered plates, made the lights scatter and bounce. The sound of sizzling pans, clinking glasses, bursts of laughter and mid-chew conversation filled the space like static electricity.

Shelves stacked with inventory hung over diners like kitchen gods. Were those boxes for display? For use? Who knew. All I knew was that boxes of MSG stood proudly up top like they owned the place—and somehow, that made me feel at home.

I was overstimulated and completely at ease.

“You haven’t said anything for the last ten minutes,” my partner said, grinning. “That’s how I know you’re in your happy place.”

He wasn’t wrong. I was full, buzzing, and totally transfixed by the chaos and cohesion of this place. I didn’t want to leave.

After the meal, as we stepped outside to grab our boards, I spotted a few of the chefs catching a smoke break just outside the restaurant. The shift was still going, but they had carved out a few precious minutes for air. I hesitated for a second, then figured—fuck it. I had nothing to lose, and just enough drunken confidence to ask what had been sitting on my chest all night.

I walked up to the chef who’d taken our order—the one who read me like a book—and asked him point blank:

“Hey… do you have any advice for a young cook?”

He took a drag, looked at me for a second like he was checking my intent, then nodded.

“When you find a chef you want to work under,” he said, “watch their hands. And learn from the young ones. They’re still hungry.”

It was simple, but it stuck. 

Turns out, the guy working the woks was the owner. The other two had been there for five years. “This is the only place we’ve ever really cared about,” they told me.

I started working at Chubby Duck that August. At first, I wasn’t sure if I belonged. But night after night, service after service, I found myself returning to that feeling from our first visit—of something alive, something bigger than me, something worth showing up for. I’m still learning. Still unlearning. Still figuring it out. But for the first time in years, I’m not looking for the next thing. I just want to sail with this crew a little longer—and see where this ship takes me.

Here are some notes I took during a recent staff meeting: