The Two-Plate Solution

by Jeff Oliver

  CHRISSY (INT.): “When the masks came off and everyone realized these were the original fake terrorists, it was like, ‘Awww shit, someone’s gettin’ fired.’”

  JOAQUIM (INT.): “Word is Mossad still questioned the fuck out of them, to the point where one of the chefs turned and joined ISIS.”

  CHRISSY (INT.): “Dude, you completely made that up.”

  JOAQUIM (INT.): “Yeah, but how cool would that have been, right? I mean I don’t have any direct sympathy for ISIS, but they need to eat. I bet they’d love to recruit a chef. Wonder what they’d pay?”

  CHRISSY (INT.): “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?”

  Miles away, an old rusty bus was clanking its way out of downtown Eilat and towards Bethlehem. There were some families aboard, one or two businessmen, and then at the back a contingent of large women completely covered in burkas. One of the women was the size of an NFL defensive linesman.

  “This had better work,” Sheik growled to the others.

  “It will,” said Ramin. “Just stay pretty and we’ll make it.”

  SHEIK (INT.): “I’m not going to say I enjoyed wearing a niqab. In fact, I have a newfound respect for women for wearing them. So hot in there! Still, it beat the hell out of that itchy mask. My neck still suffers from rash.”

  Back on the set of Natural Dish-aster, Tanya staggered around disoriented. “Ramin?” she cried out. “Ramin, where are you?” She pulled out his most recent poem and held it to her wet cheek.

  At that very moment, a dazed-looking Chef Brandon limped onto the resort grounds and towards the set. His head was wrapped in a bandage from his epic fall during the Cannibal Challenge.

  “Who’s that guy?” Jennings said. “In Camera C.”

  “Chef Brandon. The terrorists must have released him before they left,” said the DP.

  “Follow him,” Jennings said.

  Brandon spotted Tanya wandering the set, rubbing a piece of folded paper against her cheek. He hobbled over.

  “Because I like you,” Brandon said to Tanya, startling her out of her reverie.

  “What?” Tanya said.

  “Because I really, really like you. Like a lot, Tanya,” said Brandon. “That’s why I cried when I came. Because I’ve never liked anyone quite as much before. Even my foster mother, and she was everything to me. I think I love you, Tanya.”

  Tanya looked at Brandon. Even with his head bandage and limp, he was quite the specimen. Sure, he was no Ramin, but Ramin was gone now. She would only have his words, and the memory of their sweet dalliance.

  “Oh, Brandon,” Tanya said. She fell into his muscular arms. “That’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  The cameras caught everything. Jennings was on fire in the control room. “Don’t stop shooting. Never stop shooting!” she said over walkie. “Get it all!”

  The world was chaos in her quad—fire, guns, crying, kissing, screaming. Jennings loved it all. What an act-out! What a supertease! What a season! She could write her own goddamn ticket at The Network.

  Something caught her eye in Camera F, so she leaned in close to look. One of the fake terrorists, released by the police, had wandered onto the set. She watched the handsome, diminutive chef meander towards the judges’ table.

  “Jesus Christ, he looks like an Arabic Bobby Flay,” Jennings said. “Just shorter.”

  The fake terrorist looked both ways to make sure no one was watching, then he grabbed a piece of the untouched halva on the judges’ table and popped it in his mouth. As he savored the flavors, the chef’s expression was unmistakable to Jennings: personal pride. He walked off towards the exit. Jennings rushed over, stopping him just before the gate.

  “I know it’s you,” she said.

  “Pardonné moi?” the man replied in French.

  Jennings rolled her eyes. “You’re Salid,” she said. “The chef. The great chef.”

  “Vous êtes confus,” Salid said.

  “I won’t blow your cover,” Jennings said. “Just hear me out. What if I told you that you could cook whatever you want for the rest of your life? Best ingredients available, all the staff you could ever hope for, finest kitchen—and no one will ever know who you really are?”

  “Je m’appelle Pierre,” said Salid.

  “Look, I don’t care if you’re the King of Denmark. You can cook, Salid, and without that ridiculous mask, you’re pretty easy on the eyes too. After the storm settles here, I’m going to need another hit. And you’re my hit. You. Are. My. Hit. Salid,” she said. “Either that, or I turn you in.” Jennings looked Salid right in the eyes. “Don’t tempt a desperate woman.”

  Salid thought for a moment. “I never want to be anyone but me,” he said.

  “You have my word,” Jennings said.

  “No gimmicks?” Salid said.

  “Just you—just Salid. Actually, not a bad title for the pilot episode,” she smiled. They shook on it, then walked back to the resort together to discuss terms.

  Over by the docks, the Bedouin camels were back in tight formation, pointing towards their home in Egypt.

  “Hey, Strider,” one of the field producers said, looking up at him on his camel. “Where you been, man?”

  “Home,” Strider said. “I have been home.” He raised his sword to the army of the Bedouin warriors. “We ride!” he said, and the fleet of camels galloped off.

  “Wait,” the producer said. “I’ve still got your Mophie iPhone charger—the solar-powered one. I never gave it back from that shoot in Maui.”

  Strider looked both ways. He grabbed the charger from the producer’s hand and slid it into his robe. “Thanks, dude,” he said. “I’m dying to update my Instagram.”

  Then he rode off.

  Ruti stood by the docks and gazed out at the helicopter wreckage, still aflame in the Red Sea. Her face was streaked with tears. Sara was dead. So was Al-Asari. It was all over.

  She turned and walked back towards the control room tent. Inside, she found Sara’s cell phone, which she’d left in the charger. There was a text from Nathan: “Call me tonight, okay?” Ruti pocketed the phone and was about to leave when the Bank Manager entered.

  “My Ruti,” said the Manager. “My sweetest little niece, Ruti.”

  “Hello, Uncle,” said Ruti.

  They embraced.

  “Is it done?” the Bank Manager said in Ruti’s ear. “Are my brother’s killers finally dead?”

  “Yes. Both of them,” said Ruti. “You have done well, my uncle. The briefcase lit up the sky, and justice is finally served.”

  “I am glad,” said the Manager. “Your father may not have approved of our methods, but I know he is happy in heaven. I can feel him with us.”

  “Me too.”

  A tear escaped the Manager’s eye, which he wiped away. “Goodbye, my Ruti,” he said. As he walked out, he pointed at a cammo backpack under his chair. “The remainder of the money. Use it well, my dear.”

  “Bless you, Uncle,” said Ruti, and watched him walk out. Ruti pulled out Sara’s cell phone and held it to her cheek.

  “Goodbye, my love.”

  CHAPTER 15

  The premiere of “Holy Scratchers,” a documentary film about the plight of Palestinian DJs, screened at the Los Angeles International Film Festival to high praise. Warren and Sharon Lopez walked onstage with Kale and his little sister Quinoa to a standing ovation. Photographers flashed bulbs and called out questions. Some of the movie’s cast stood onstage as well, including an NFL-sized hype man named Shark Tooth X, who looked and sounded suspiciously like the terrorist Sheik, but no one was the wiser.

  In the crowd, the cast of Natural Dish-aster: Season Five hooted wildly. Tanya and Brandon, Cowboy and Clora, Nisha and Ghana, Joaquim with two young starlets on his arm, and the rest of the cast.

  Also in attendance was Genevieve Jennings, newly installed Senior Vice President of Original Programming at the Network, along with her ingénue, Jihad Kitchen star Salid, looking as handsome a
nd tiny as ever.

  SALID & JENNINGS (DUAL INTERVIEW)

  JENNINGS (INT.): “We are thrilled to be here promoting the launch of the Network’s next big hit, Jihad Kitchen. But don’t let me tell you. Here’s the star himself! Tell them how excited you are, Salid.”

  SALID (INT.): “I have brought great shame upon my family and my people.”

  JENNINGS (INT.): “Ha, Ha! Oh, Salid, you little kidder! Can you believe this guy? One of the reasons I signed him—he’s got that edgy sense of humor I think will resonate with our younger viewership. You know what they say: ‘Chefs are the new stand-up comics!’”

  SALID (INT.): “No one says that.”

  JENNINGS (INT.): “The important thing is the launch—we are delighted at what is sure to be an enduring hit for the Network. The food is delicious and exotic, and Salid is a true culinary genius. His dishes should be framed and put in the Louvre.”

  SALID (INT.): “Then why do you insist I blow them up?”

  JENNINGS (INT.): “Salid…”

  SALID (INT.): “If you signed me for my culinary artistry, why then ask me to destroy the dishes on camera? It’s sacrilege.”

  JENNINGS (INT.) (smiles to camera): “Ha, oh, there he goes again! A regular Louis CK. Um, Matt, can we just stop shooting for one quick sec? Thanks… (whispering) Salid, we discussed this over and over. American viewers need a hook.”

  SALID (INT.): “Strapping suicide bombs to food?”

  JENNINGS (INT.): “Research paints a clear picture. They want a jihadist they can trust. Someone relatable. Someone they wouldn’t mind inviting over for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  SALID (INT.): “I’m not a jihadist. How many times must I…”

  JENNINGS (INT.): “Let’s just shelve this, ’kay? This for the Upfronts…”

  PRODUCER (off camera): “Do you guys need a minute? Crew wants to break for meal anyway.”

  JENNINGS (INT.): “No need! We are ready, Freddy. Ha! You know talent, right? Even with their own kitchen [she nudges Salid], all those costly ingredients they asked for to develop original recipes [nudges Salid], and visa applications pending for their entire family [double nudges Salid], they can still get testy. Blue M&M’s and all that, right? Heh-heh. Now smile big, Salid. This is for the poster… And say ‘jihad’!

  SALID (INT.) (forces smile): “Jihad.”

  Yes, all was well in the land of reality TV. In a media landscape where streaming services were ruling the awards season, The Network was still up a strong six percent in the demos, and that’s what counts for Ad Sales. Natural Dish-aster was a big part of that success. As Co-EP, there was even a nice little tribute to Sara Sinek out in the theatre lobby. “An industry treasure, gone far too soon,” read the text under her photo.

  WARREN & SHARON LOPEZ (DUAL INTERVIEW)

  WARREN LOPEZ (INT.): “In the end, what did we really know about Sara Sinek? Turns out not as much as we thought. She was former U.S. military, possibly an Israeli spy. Secretly a jihadist herself? That seems far-fetched. Did she attempt to betray the Network, or to save its butt? Also, hard to tell. Best to limit her legacy to what we know. Sara was a solid industry professional, and a hell of a showrunner. She was a loving sister to her brother, Nathan, and supportive daughter to a mother afflicted with a serious gambling addiction. She cared deeply about family, and what’s more admirable than that?”

  SHARON LOPEZ (INT.) (adoringly): “Oh, Warren. That was really well said.”

  WARREN (INT.): “Better be—you wrote it…” [They kiss. Warren peeks over her shoulder at his cell phone.]

  SHARON (INT.): “Wait, did you just… did you just check your Doucheberry behind my back?”

  WARREN (INT.): “It was a text. Could have been the nanny.”

  SHARON (INT.): “I just listened to you blather on endlessly about family commitment and you can’t even kiss your wife without checking your… Wow, you are your father’s son!”

  WARREN (INT.): “Always bringing up my father… She’s always bringing up my father! Glad it’s finally on tape.”

  SHARON (INT.): “Try getting laid again this millennium, bub.”

  WARREN (INT.): “What’d I do?”

  Outside on the red carpet, the cast’s branded food trucks served deliciousness to hungry patrons dressed in semi-formal attire. Cowboy and Clora leaned out the window of their “culinary chuck wagon,” The Spur, to serve triple-speed, pickle-brined rib eye au-poivre with smoky mayo, alongside Clora’s “soul food bahn mi” sandwich with dill pickle emulsion, tiger shrimp, and veal meatballs.

  CLORA & COWBOY (DUAL INTERVIEW):

  COWBOY (INT.): “Me and Clora are happy as a couple of summer peaches, ain’t we, baby doll?”

  CLORA (INT.): “Our wedding had this awesome jug band playing spoons and washboards in a rustic barn overlooking a ranch. My sisters did all the flowers, in red of course. And even though his family is all like Trump-supporting cowboys, we had them dressed in traditional Vietnamese robes, chewing areca nuts with my mom and dad. We even served them roasted suckling pig!”

  COWBOY (INT.): “Picture my clan in silk robes with all these dragons, and then ten-gallon hats, right? Anything for my baby doll…”

  CLORA (INT.): “Awww…”

  Etienne and Chrissy’s truck, Foutre Le Pain, was a main attraction on the carpet. They served their now-famous bird-shaped pastry, La Junk, but also an expanded menu of smoked gouda and rachbier soup and minted saké sea shooters. The crowd slurped it up.

  With the success of her Instagram feed during the Natural Dish-aster shoot, Tanya had leaned hard into her Jewish roots. Her truck, The Fresser, served latka with gravlax, coffee-braised brisket, and tehina lentils. Brandon, who was in the process of converting to Judaism at Tanya’s behest and wore both kippah and tallit, added molecular gastronomy to the offerings, serving his Hummus Pitry out of emu eggshells that smoked with dry ice.

  TANYA & BRANDON (DUAL INTERVIEW):

  TANYA (INT.): “I was going to serve tiger shrimp with the lentils, but Brandon here is like… Actually go ahead, honey, you said it.”

  BRANDON (INT.): “I said, That’s trayf!’” [Hebrew for “not kosher.”]

  TANYA (INT.) (gleaming): “Ha! Isn’t he just everything?!”

  BRANDON (INT.): “Does that mean I finally get to meet your parents?”

  TANYA (INT.): “Totally!”

  BRANDON (INT.): “You’ve said that before…”

  TANYA (INT.): “Patience, baby. In due time…”

  BRANDON (INT.): “In due time… You know what? [demic’ing] I’m outta here. And to think I was about to get circumcised for you! What a joke…”

  TANYA (INT.): “Brandon, wait! Come back!”

  BRANDON (INT.) (off camera): “What, Tanya? Just… what?”

  TANYA (INT.): “Can you let me announce our breakup on Instagram first?”

  BRANDON (INT.) (off camera): *bleeped.

  TANYA (INT.) (shrugs to camera): “What’s with him?”

  Ghana and Nisha, who now lived together with Ghana’s kids, had teamed up to create their own food truck, The Carbo-Load, which served a variety of toast dressed with everything from foie gras, salted cantaloupe, and curried vindaloo.

  NISHA (INT.): “I said to Ghana, ‘You know what’s ridiculous? The war against bread.’ I was like, ‘Toast. That’s my jam.’”

  GHANA (INT.): “Ha, you said jam.”

  NISHA (INT.) (to camera): “See, we serve a variety of…”

  GHANA (INT.): “I think they got it, Bae.”

  NISHA (INT.): “Awww, you called me Bae! Kiss me on TV. I want everyone to see I’m your main bae.”

  GHANA (INT.) (kisses her): “You’ll always be my main bae.”

  Joaquim watched the expanding crowd surrounding Ghana and Nisha’s truck and shook his head in disgust. “I loathe food gimmicks,” he said.

  “Says the dude who coined the term ‘piecaken,’” retorted Cowboy. They both flipped each other the bird.

  JOAQUIM (INT.): “Seriously,
though, who serves toast with duckfat mousseline and squid ink on butcher paper?”

  CHRISSY (INT.): “It was nice to see the crew back together again. And so strong of them not to act jealous when my vegan artisanal ice pops cart got mobbed.”

  The lines were long and the chefs worked tirelessly. But just as the last of the patrons were served, a familiar voice boomed out over a megaphone: “A great chef must always be ready to improvise,” CJ Bazemore said. “So now, consistent with the theme of Holy Scratchers, you must create a completely new appetizer from scratch, and like the DJs, use only your hands to create it. That’s right, all cooking utensils will be removed completely from your trucks.”

  Bazemore arched an eyebrow and a team of producers mounted the cast’s trucks and began to remove their cooking implements. A collective groan came over the cast of Natural Dish-aster: Season Five.

  “Not my barbeque tweezers!” hollered Cowboy.

  “My immersion circulator!” complained Etienne.

  “Hands off my steampunk pepper mill, ya bastards!” yelled Joaquim.

  “That’s right,” Bazemore continued. “No knives, forks, tongs, microprane graters, whiskers, or spatulas. Like the DJs of Palestine, you must use only your hands to cook. And you better hurry, because you will only have ten minutes to complete your dishes.”

  CJ Bazemore stepped aside to share the stage with the newest Network star. Jennings nudged the sheepish Salid forward.

  “Now, to tell you what’s at stake in this competition, the star of Jihad Kitchen … Salid!” Bazemore kissed Salid on both cheeks and handed him the megaphone.

  “Hello,” Salid muttered, eyes downcast. “The winner of this challenge will host their own virtual reality web-series for the Network, and also win five thousand dollars from Oakley’s Beans. Oakley’s Beans, the best beans in the business.”

  JOAQUIM (INT.): “Fuck the five grand! I want that VR web series! You guys realize cable TV is dead, right? You think a kid cares if something’s on the Network? It’s all apps now. And I’m going to be the face of that shit.”

  “Hands where I can see ’em, Ghana,” complained LizZ. “Bazemore didn’t say ‘go’ yet!”