Burnt Page #5

My French is rusty, but, uh,

I think technically it's a death threat.

Do you remember the drug dealer

in Paris? Bonesis?

He says you owe him a lot of money.

- For what?

- Wild guess. Drugs?

Everybody does TV these days.

Tell me the truth about the tarragon.

It's a little heavy.

F*** off.

You have to take

Bonesis seriously, yeah?

'Cause he's f***ing...

...crazy.

- Night, chef.

- Night.

- And what's the oil for?

- Just garnish.

Right.

You need to make a new one?

Well, what are you doing?

- Is it ordered? Is it ordered?

- Yes, chef.

Yeah, because you didn't

make the new one.

Why... no, why are you still cooking it?

I'm talking to you. Look at me.

Why are you still cooking it?

- Sorry, chef.

- Yeah. Go get a new one.

How long has this

been out here?

Service, table four.

- 30 seconds to that lamb.

- Yes, chef!

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.

All right, don't let

that sauce over-reduce again.

Yes, chef!

Ca marche, table three.

- One terrine, two pork, one beef.

- Yes, chef!

Medium beef.

Make sure that's medium beef, Max.

- Yes, chef.

- Put capers on the beef.

- I want that in 30 seconds, yeah?

- Yes, chef!

- Thirty seconds.

- Got three minutes on that halibut.

Ca marche, table two.

One foie gras, one risotto.

- Yes, chef!

- Followed by two beef, one turbot.

Sorry I'm late, Conti.

Lily was sick at school.

- You're fired.

- What?

Take your knives and go.

What the hell are you talking about?

Just... go, huh? Go on.

And hurry up, or you'll be late.

- You cost me my f***ing job!

- Yes.

I told you,

I don't want to work for you.

I see you brought your knives.

I'll triple your salary.

Conti said you needed the money.

You want to come in here

and make some real money,

or do you want to stab me?

You're wasting your talent there.

Service!

Go with Michel at the sauce. Go!

- Yes, chef.

- How come we're slow?

We're not full yet?

- I said, how come we're not full yet?

- There are some no-shows.

- How many?

- Four.

- People?

- Tables.

Tell me, what else?

A journalist had an advance

look at the new menu.

This stupid city, you know?

Everything has to be...

- Michel, to the pass.

- Yes, chef.

Mr. Reece.

I booked under the name of O'Reilly.

He's my priest.

I've come to deliver last rites.

Lovely room, Tony.

it's very Paris 2007.

Please tell Adam not to bother

to come out to see me.

I'm sure he's very...

busy, it being opening night.

Maybe not that busy.

Come on!

What the f*** is this bullshit!

Table four, right now!

Clean the pass!

What did I say?

Did I make a mistake this morning

when I went, "How much did I order?"

That can't be right!

Michel, where's my pig?

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