Chapter Six: Lessons from the Food Stall
719 Words
The sunlight pouring through Eddie’s single cracked window felt like a cruel joke. He groaned, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow. His head throbbed, his mouth felt like sandpaper, and the remnants of last night’s beers churned uncomfortably in his stomach.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Without lifting his head, he reached for it, squinting at the screen.
Tommy: Yo, Singapore. You alive?
Eddie grunted and typed back with one eye open: Barely.
The phone buzzed again almost immediately.
Tommy: Good. Get dressed. I’ve got a gig. Meet me at the corner of Baxter and Canal in an hour.
Eddie: A gig?
Tommy: Food stall. Trust me, it’ll be fun. And we’ll make some cash.
Eddie groaned, flopping back onto the futon. The idea of standing over a hot grill or stove with a pounding headache didn’t exactly thrill him. But the promise of cash was hard to ignore.
Forty-five minutes later, Eddie stumbled out of his apartment, still bleary-eyed but dressed and ready to go.
The “food stall” turned out to be a rickety pop-up stand set up in the middle of a bustling Chinatown street market. A blue tarp stretched overhead, shielding them from the winter sun, and a battered portable stove stood on the counter.
Tommy was already there, unpacking ingredients from a cooler. He looked annoyingly chipper.
“Late as usual,” Tommy said, grinning.
Eddie scowled. “You didn’t say I needed to bring anything.”
“I brought enough for both of us. Now, grab an apron and get over here.”
The stall specialized in scallion pancakes, a Chinatown favorite. Tommy had prepped the dough at home, and they worked together to roll it out, brush it with oil, sprinkle it with scallions, and fry it to golden perfection on the sizzling griddle.
Eddie’s headache gradually faded as he got into the rhythm of it. The customers came in waves—tourists, locals, and curious passersby drawn by the scent of frying dough.
Tommy handled the orders with ease, charming everyone who approached. Eddie stuck to cooking, focusing on keeping the pancakes crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside.
By mid-afternoon, the stall was bustling. Eddie found himself smiling despite the chaos.
“Not bad, huh?” Tommy said during a brief lull.
“It’s… kind of fun,” Eddie admitted, flipping another pancake.
“That’s the spirit. You’ve got good instincts in the kitchen, you know.”
Eddie shook his head. “Not according to Chef Zhang.”
Tommy laughed. “Zhang’s a perfectionist. But out here? It’s different. You see these people?” He gestured to the line of customers waiting for their pancakes. “They’re not looking for Michelin stars. They just want something that tastes good and makes them happy.”
Eddie glanced at the line, his chest tightening. Tommy was right. These weren’t food critics. They were just people, enjoying something simple.
As the day wore on, Eddie started experimenting. He tried adding a pinch of sesame seeds to the dough or brushing on a bit of soy sauce after frying.
One customer, a woman in her 60s, took a bite and smiled. “This is just like the ones my mom used to make,” she said.
Eddie blinked, caught off guard. “Really?”
She nodded, handing over a five-dollar bill. “You’ve got a gift, young man.”
Eddie felt a flicker of pride.
By the time they closed up shop, the cooler was empty, and their pockets were heavier.
“That was fun,” Eddie said as they packed up the stall.
“Told you,” Tommy replied.
Eddie hesitated. “You think I could ever… you know, make something of this? Cooking, I mean.”
Tommy slung an arm around his shoulder. “You’re already making something of it. Just keep showing up. The rest will come.”
That night, as Eddie lay in bed, his body sore but his heart lighter, he thought about the day. The food stall hadn’t just been a distraction—it had been a lesson.
Cooking wasn’t just about technique or impressing Zhang. It was about connection. It was about people.
And for the first time in weeks, Eddie felt like he was starting to find his place.
- Writer
