by Jeff Oliver
“Make sure the cast is put on ice,” Jennings barked into the walkie when they announced a TV timeout. “Does this thing work?” She glared at her walkie. “It’s like they don’t even hear me.”
“Let me swap the battery and do a walkie check,” said an over-eager Production Assistant. He handed Jennings a new one.
“Thank God,” she said, then spoke into her new walkie: “I said, ‘Put those cast members on ice! They’re goofing around.’ Then again, that could be a story.”
But the cast wouldn’t stop talking, and there was nothing any producer could do. Ramin had passed Tanya a note, which Chef LizZ intercepted: “A thousand moons do not capture your brightness,” LizZ read aloud. “Ha! What is this? Jihadist propaganda?”
“Give me that!” Tanya said. “It’s sweet.”
“Tanya’s banging Salman Rushdie,” said Etienne.
“We’re back on the clock. Continue to cook,” said CJ Bazemore, and the cast resumed cheering on Cowboy.
Soon, both Salid and Cowboy had their halva in the oven. With a minute left, CJ Bazemore took center stage to count it down, this time in Hebrew. “And that’s time! Hands off your food!” Salid and Cowboy raised their hands burglar-style. “Cowboy, time to present your dish to the judges,” said Bazemore.
At the judges’ table, Ruchama whispered a joke into Bilha’s ear and the supermodel exploded in laughter.
“Hey, no secrets! We’re a team,” chided Duvall. “You two are so naughty together. I love it.”
Sara walked over to settle them down. “Remember, this is the big moment—huge stakes. Both chefs are terrified of your opinion. So act the part, please.”
As Sara walked away, Ruchama mimicked Sara’s overly serious demeanor, and Duvall and Bilha cracked ribs laughing.
Cowboy approached the judges’ table, plates in hand. “Well, hello there, y’all. My name is Chef Cowboy and I decided to step out of my comfort zone a bit on this. You see, I’m from West Texas, and there ain’t almost nothin’ we do with food out there that ain’t got barbeque. So what I’ve created is a savory pork butt and turkey jerky halva with pistachios and honey. You enjoy now, ya hear?”
The three judges took bites, closing their eyes to deconstruct the flavors. Cowboy was delighted to see the Halva Queen take a second bite. Sara intended for Philippe Duvall to speak first, then Bilha, then the newly minted Halva Queen, but Ruchama broke in first.
“I’ve been to Texas,” Ruchama said, “and this really tells me who you are, and I appreciate that. It’s an unorthodox choice—creative. Cowboy, your halva, like you, has guts to spare.”
“Well, I sure do appreciate that, ma’am,” Cowboy said, bowing.
“The texture suffered a bit,” Ruchama continued, “and the paste was a bit over-cooked and crumbly. I like my halva with a silky texture. Plus, authentic West Texas barbeque has a mesquite wood flavor that I so adore. I’m missing that bitter taste that would have paired so well with the pistachios. But overall an impressive dish.”
It was a solid critique. Sara cued Bilha, but the Halva Queen had covered all of her points, so she went to her fallback, which she knew would make the cut.
“This felt big and hot in the mouth,” said the supermodel. “My tongue experienced a gooey explosion of flavor that had me craving more.”
“Bravo, young chap!” Philippe Duvall said next. “I’m afraid I may have underestimated the breadth of your talent. What you have created here is something innovative—good savory-to-sweet flavors. Nice balance with the dates. I am far from halva royalty, but I must admit that I do like a little crumble in my halva. So I give full points, save for plating, which could have been tidier.”
Cowboy turned to his teammates. “You hear that, baby?” he said, looking to Clora. “Duvall said he underestimated the breath of my talent.”
“Breadth,” Joaquin corrected him.
“Whatever,” Cowboy said. He then turned to the camera operators. “Hey, camera ops: Follow my lead. I got somethin’ to say.”
In the control tent, Jennings practically hopped out of her skin. “We’ve got a runner! Get on him. I need cutaways to Clora and Joaquin, stat. Do it now. Something big is happening. I feel it in my bones.”
Cowboy walked up to Clora. He pulled a crinkled piece of paper from his pocket and took her hand. He waited for full camera coverage before he spoke, but he was beaming.
“My love for you is like a saddle,” Cowboy read, “soft and firm on assless chaps…” Clora looked back at him confused, and Cowboy saw one of the camera guys crack up. He balled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. “Darlin’, I was gonna wait to do this, but my Grandpa Buck always said there ain’t no damn time like the present.”
Cowboy got down on one knee and took off his cowboy hat. Inside the hat was a little velvet box.
“We’ve got a marriage proposal! I don’t believe it!” Jennings cried out. “Coverage! Coverage! Leave the judges! Holy shit, the ratings are going to go through the roof!”
“Now, baby, we been goin’ hot ’n heavy for some time now,” said Cowboy. “And, well, I just can’t quit you—not in a gay way. No offense, Chef LizZ.”
“None taken,” she said, her smiling eyes already wet.
Clora gasped as Cowboy opened the velvet box, revealing an impressively sparkly diamond ring. Tears streamed down her face.
“Clora, I told you when we met, I never known any girl like you,” said Cowboy. “You elevate me as a man. You give me a breath of talent. So whaddya say, girl? Will you marry me?”
Clora shrieked and collapsed into Cowboy’s arms. “Yes!” she said.
“Yes!” Jennings celebrated in the control room. “I called it! Didn’t I call it, Sara? Admit I called it!”
“You called it,” said Sara, just then walking back into the tent with Al-Asari.
“In Post, we’re going to have to put Salid’s judging prior to Cowboy—we need to end with this gold,” said Jennings, tearing up. “What an act-out! Oh my God!”
“Copy that,” said Sara.
“Holy shit! A spontaneous proposal,” Jennings continued. “I am so getting that promotion. I can’t wait to text Glen.”
Everyone cheered the newly engaged couple. Nisha squeezed Ghana’s hand and smiled. Even the terrorists clapped—they didn’t want to seem callous.
TERRORIST #7 (INT.): “When I took my fourth bride, it was romantic like this…. *this is offensive. I refuse to say such a thing!” (*trimmed in post).
TANYA (INT.): “Gotta hand it to Cowboy. Not a dry panty in the house.”
Once things settled down, there was still TV business to attend to. Bazemore dabbed at tears on the collar of his silk chef coat. “Didn’t see that coming,” Bazemore said. “And I know you two lovebirds are eager to consummate this proposal, but we still have to judge Chef Salid’s dish.”
After some repositioning that would allow the editors to cut it both ways, and a ton of Kleenex for Team Mise En Bouche, Salid stepped to the judges’ table. He laid down three plates of halva, and the mere aroma had the judges in a state of dizziness. As Salid stood back in position, he even let out a proud chuckle. He knew, after all, that what he had served on those plates was a culinary masterpiece, a halva so succulent, innovative, and strange that it would have major reverberations in the culinary world-at-large for years to come.
There would be a total rethink on how chefs use pistachios, and a new global food trend that would spur multi-million dollar industries, cause food empires to rise, and have families fighting over the sweet crumbs of success.
Salid knew his creation was heavenly, so he was looking forward to the judges showering praise on him.
Then a far-off hum was heard in the sky. “Hold for audio,” said the 2nd AD.
All crew waited for the noise to pass, but the hum grew to a rumble. The judges were all salivating over their plates but still unable to eat.
“What is that annoyance?” Jennings said.
“Sounds like
a fleet of lawnmowers,” Sara said.
“It’s happening,” Al-Asari whispered to Sara. “Right now.”
“I think it’s a helicopter,” Chef Nisha said.
“That or a stampede,” said Cowboy.
The chefs and terrorists felt the earth vibrate beneath their feet. “Does Israel have earthquakes?” asked Chrissy.
“That ain’t no earthquake,” Joaquim said. He pointed off into the distance, where a great cloud of dust whirled in the air. And in the midst of it… “Are those camels?”
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” said Cowboy.
Dozens of camels raced toward the set, their hooves kicking up a cloud of dust and creating a great cacophony of rhythmic clops. Heavily bearded men in Bedouin garb rode in, waving curved swords in the air. At the front of the herd was a man with a wispy beard and wearing vintage, white-framed Ray-Bans.
“Rashik-ang!” Strider, the absentee director of Natural Dishaster: Season Five, pointed his sword towards the set, and the Bedouin Camel Warriors followed his orders.
“Who the hell is that?” Jennings said. “What the hell is going on?!”
“It’s Strider,” said Sara. “Our Lead Director.”
“I thought you said he was sick.”
“Lopez had him shooting a sizzle for Nomad Network about Bedouin Camel Warriors. I guess he’s back.”
“You lied to me,” Jennings said.
“I-I…”
“Well, he’s not getting his seat back,” Jennings proclaimed. “I called that marriage proposal. I earned the damn seat. You tell him that, okay?”
“Will do.”
The Bedouins, swords drawn, surrounded the set. Sara looked to Al-Asari for an explanation, but he had left the tent. Suddenly, the terrorists, including Salid, all took off running from the set towards the resort. Sara spotted Al-Asari among them.
“What the fuck are they doing?” Sara said and ran out of the control room to follow.
The terrorists entered the main resort and then, seconds later, came out of a different exit.
They looked disoriented, but Al-Asari pointed the way to the docks. “Go now!” he yelled.
And that was when another loud noise erupted and the source quickly became known. A large black military helicopter swooped down towards the beach, passing right above the great rush of men on camels. As the helicopter angled itself towards the ground next to the docks, the terrorists went rushing towards it. Al-Asari peeled off from the men and ran back into the control room tent. This time he had a gun. Jennings and the rest of the crew put up their hands. Al-Asari pointed his gun at the Bank Manager.
“Hand over the briefcase,” Al-Asari said.
“But I’m cuffed,” said the Manager, trembling with fear.
Al-Asari pushed the barrel of the gun to the banker’s wrist.
He tightened the length of chain and shot through it.
When Ruchama heard the gunfire and saw Al-Asari run out of the control room tent with her husband’s briefcase, she collapsed in tears.
“They killed my husband!” she cried.
Al-Asari ran off towards the docks. The helicopter was just settling onto the ground and the terrorists gathering in a clump to board it. But when the pilot saw a herd of camels ridden by Bedouin Warriors stampeding towards him, he reared the helicopter back off the ground.
“We are destroyed!” Al-Asari screamed.
But just as the camels neared the beach, they were cut off. A custom van with a naked woman riding a unicorn spray-painted on the hood screeched out in front, causing the camels to stop in their tracks and to rear back in fear and confusion. The van skidded to a stop and the side door flung open. Out emerged Warren Lopez and his wife Sharon, who pointed a semi-automatic machine gun towards the helicopter.
“This is for fucking with a pregnant woman!” she screamed, opening fire.
But just as the first few bullets left the chamber, both Sharon and Warren were tackled by what felt like a Mack truck. They fell onto the ground with a thud. CJ Bazemore held them down.
“Stay down, you idiots,” Bazemore said, his voice suddenly suggesting a low and scratchy Israeli accent.
“Hey! What’d you do that for?” said Warren.
“I said, ‘Shut up!’” said CJ Bazemore. “You’ll ruin everything.”
“But I almost killed the terrorists,” said Sharon.
“We’ve been hunting those bastards for years,” said Bazemore. “If we kill them now, we’ll never find their base.”
“Who are you?” asked Sharon.
“Mossad,” said Bazemore.
“CJ Bazemore is an Israeli spy,” Warren said. “Now ain’t that a son of a bitch?”
“I said to shut up!” Bazemore hurled the couple back into the van like a couple of potato sacks and jumped into the driver’s seat. He plunged an enormous cigar into his mouth, lit it, and pressed on the pedal. “Fucking Americans,” he said gruffly, driving off.
With the camels too spooked to be controlled, the helicopter found its footing again by the dock and landed. Sara ran back to the control room, where she found Jennings still directing cameras, and the Bank Manager on the ground, pale-faced and sweating, rubbing his bare wrist.
“Where’s the briefcase?” Sara said.
“He nearly killed me,” the Manager said.
“Where’s Al-Asari?”
“How would I know?” cried the Manager. “Don’t let him get away with my money!”
Sara rushed out of the control room and took off towards the docks.
Al-Asari boarded the helicopter, briefcase in hand. The terrorists lined up to follow him, but Al-Asari gave the pilot the signal to take off. When one terrorist put a hand on the deck to pull himself up, Al-Asari pointed his gun at the man’s head. The terrorist backed away and, as he did, noticed the bullet holes from Sharon Lopez’s gun, which had punctured the helicopter’s gas tank. Gasoline was spilling out from a thick black hole. The terrorist pointed to the hazard and began to sprint away in fear.
The helicopter hovered above ground and Al-Asari settled into his seat as Sara ran up to the dock and tried to hurl herself onboard. As the helicopter teetered from her weight, Al-Asari’s gun slid on the floor and fell out the side of the helicopter and into the water below.
Sara pulled herself off the ground and into the copter as it took flight. Immediately, she lunged for the briefcase. Al-Asari fought her for it, smashing the case against Sara’s face. The helicopter reared up and sent them both tumbling to the floor. Sara slammed Al-Asari in the chin and got a hold of his leg to bite, but Al-Asari gave a kick that sent Sara onto her back.
“Son of a bitch, I’ll kill you!” Sara screamed.
The briefcase slid along the floor and almost fell out of the helicopter as they pummeled each other mercilessly. Onlookers from below saw a great fistfight in the sky, the helicopter tilting as each fighter landed lethal blows.
“They’re going to kill each other,” Jennings said over walkie. “Get as tight as you can on their faces. I want to see raw emotion.”
But when the helicopter got high enough that it was out of range for the cameras, the fighting stopped abruptly. Sara and Al-Asari collapsed onto the floor next to each other, gasping for breath.
“You didn’t have to punch me so hard in the nose,” said Al-Asari.
“We needed them to believe,” said Sara, wincing as she touched her bruised jaw.
Sara sat up and pulled out a duffle bag from under the passenger’s seat. Inside were two large rubber sacks packed with wet suits, flippers, and scuba tanks. Sara passed Al-Asari his rubber sack, but then positioned the briefcase between them.
“You do the honors,” Al-Asari said.
“No, you. I insist,” said Sara.
Al-Asari grinned. He clicked open the briefcase. “To a new life,” he said.
“To freedom,” said Sara.
The case opened wide. It was packed with money. Al-Asari reached in and threw a stack into his bag. S
ara did the same but, when she lifted the middle stack, she felt a hard edge at the bottom of the case. It felt like velcro. She pulled it back.
In the middle of the bundle was a digital clock with explosives rigged to red and blue wires. The clock read “four seconds.” Sara looked at Al-Asari. “Three.” Al-Asari scrambled to his feet. “Two.” Sara grabbed the briefcase, flinging it towards the door. “One.” And as it sailed out towards the open air, Sara thought about Nathan and how she would do anything at that moment to be back with him singing some horrible Adele song at home.
“Zero.”
Onlookers witnessed a great explosion in the sky.
A massive orange flame suspended there for several seconds, then crashed into the waves of the Red Sea.
Swimmers rushed out of the water. Sirens blared.
In the control room tent, there was a sense of awe—the DP rubbed his eyes, not quite believing what he’d just witnessed.
“Aw shit,” Jennings said. “Tell me we got that on camera?”
“Got it, boss,” said the DP, and they high-fived.
Military police crashed down the gates of the Grand Sheba Excelsior and rushed onto the resort grounds. Men in bulletproof vests pointed guns at anything that moved. The Cravat and the Supermodel huddled, terrified. The Halva Queen lay next to her husband inside the control room tent.
“I love you so much, Shlumie,” she cried. “I thought you were gone.”
By the docks, the terrorists were face down, cuffed around their wrists and ankles. IDF soldiers screamed and kicked them in the ribs. When the soldiers began to remove the terrorists’ masks, they were surprised to find that each terrorist had duct tape covering his mouth. The terrorists’ petrified eyes bugged out as they pleaded in muffled tones. One soldier peeled the duct tape off a terrorist’s mouth. “They swapped us!” the terrorist screamed. “We are chefs, not terrorists. Swear to God! Don’t shoot!”
As duct tape was removed from the other terrorists, all screamed the same story. The police searched the beach for any other terrorists who might have gotten away. They found none.
DUAL INTERVIEW: JOAQUIM & CHRISSY