Burnt Page #2

Consistency is what

every great chef strives for.

No, a chef should strive

to be consistent in experience,

but not consistent in taste.

It's like sex.

It's like, you're always headed

to the same place,

but you got to find new

and dangerous way of getting there.

I wish I could say it was

nice seeing you again, Mr. Jones,

but I'm happy where I am.

Good luck.

Adam Jones. My God.

One hoped you were dead.

Closed down any, uh,

good restaurants lately?

I don't close good restaurants.

My reviews close bad ones.

I need you to help me kick

this arrogant city's ass.

I'm back, and I'm gonna cook

like we did in the old days,

before we started warming up

fish in little plastic bags.

You know, when I lie awake at night

and list my regrets...

...you're one of them.

I say to myself,

"Simone, you're a lesbian.

Why did you sleep

with Adam Jones?"

- Simone Forth is here.

- Sorry, who?

"Who?" The restaurant critic

of the f***ing Evening Standard.

It's dry! The grouse is dry

and the sauce tastes like...

Everything is f***ed!

We're finished!

She will destroy us.

You set this up?

Your restaurant is f***ed

unless you let me cook for her.

You are insane.

Wait. Wait.

Wait!

Service.

The bastard could cook gravel.

I want to make amends for Paris.

So I hand my restaurant over to you,

and it's you doing me a favor?

If your father didn't own this place,

you would have been fired years ago.

Michel will be my sous chef.

Michel is in Paris.

- Max is in.

- Max is in jail.

He's out in two days.

Also I found a chef de partie

who doesn't know how good she is.

"She?" Ay.

Right there,

the whole thing falls apart.

Because in three days

you will be f***ing her,

in another three you will dump her,

and then she leaves

with screams and tears.

No more women.

I've been sober two years,

two weeks, and six days.

Now, I want you

to talk to your father.

- My father is sick.

- Your father's not sick. He's dying.

I'm giving you a chance

to finally make him proud of you.

You are the best maitre d' in Europe.

My kitchen is going to be

the best in the world.

And we're gonna get the third star.

The money the Balerdi family has

agreed to pay to renovate the restaurant

is contingent upon you

showing up here every Friday.

I'll be taking samples of blood to test

for drugs and alcohol.

Should a test prove positive,

the family will withdraw their financial

support for your restaurant immediately.

I've been psychoanalyzing

Tony Balerdi for many years.

- Do you attend meetings?

- No, I'm not much for groups.

How do you to plan

to maintain your sobriety?

Oh, long walks in Walden Wood.

The power of prayer.

You have a disease;

there's no shame in seeking help.

I run a group here on Tuesdays

and Thursdays at 10:00.

You'd be more than welcome to join.

You could make the sandwiches.

I don't make sandwiches.

Well, I've injected

so much junk in my life,

there may still be stockpiles

in my ankles.

In my experience, people who

come in here and make silly comments

are generally frightened

of what they might reveal

if they really took the time

to be themselves.

Oh, I've been myself since the '90s.

Do you have a fear of needles?

Well, that question indicates

a serious lack of research.

Did you ever see that movie,

Seven Samurai?

That's how I want my chefs to be.

Chef.

Chef, I'm afraid

there's been a complaint.

Do we have a problem?

Please don't fight him

among all this bone china.

It'll be me who picks up the tab.

Hello, Reece.

A little bird told me

you'd lost your touch, so...

a little lobster confirmed it.

Leave us alone.

So, not dead.

- Apparently not.

- Ah, looks can be deceiving.

I mean, "dead" these days can

mean barbecuing chicken wings

with minor celebrities

on morning television.

I'll never be that dead.

I love the decor, by the way.

- It's perfect for stoning infidels.

- What do you want?

I wanted to see how far the tortoise

had gotten ahead of me.

- You're the hare in this analogy?

- It's your analogy.

- What happened to butter?

- What happened to your angel face?

Oh, crack cocaine and Louisiana.

I heard an idiotic rumor

you're going for a third star.

I heard an idiotic rumor

that you'd gotten yours.

- Then I found out it's true.

- That must have hurt.

Eh, I was on heavy painkillers

at the time.

Okay, all right, look.

The whole Mozart/Salieri bullshit

doesn't interest me anymore.

I cook good, local ingredients

in a unique, creative way

to impress my diners.

Well, you don't cook.

You warm food up in condoms.

Frying pans, flames and booze

went out with Adam Jones.

And please don't think

I'm impressed with the water.

You're an addict.

So it's not alcohol now.

It'll be coke, or booze,

or f***ing every girl you meet,

because you're addicted to the way

you feel every second of the day.

Doomed youth is romantic.

Doomed middle age really isn't.

Please don't think that's on the house.

You pay your way like everyone else.

Reece, in truth,

the lobster was good.

If you have any humanity left,

leave Tony Balerdi and his father alone.

But you f***ed up the sauce

with too much lemon juice.

Excuse me one second.

Was he drunk?

Find out how far he's got and

who the f*** he's got with him.

Got freed. You're out.

Really?

Oh, fantastic.

- Nice bike.

- Michel's.

- Does he know you borrowed it?

- Not yet.

- How are you?

- Good, good.

Assault?

He plated the monkfish upside-down.

Three times.

Upside-f***ing-down, man.

Come on.

He was a fat f***er,

and he was always chewing gum.

So you-you took, you took matters

into your own hands?

Yeah, yes, I did.

But they sewed his nose back on.

You know why? Because it was

me who picked it up off the floor

and put it in a fish locker

until the ambulance arrived.

I mean, people conveniently

forget that part.

That's a shame.

Jody!

Added more tarragon.

It was better yesterday.

Can I try it?

Come on.

Mmm.

- Better yesterday.

- I didn't ask you.

You know, I'm thinking the, uh,

'89 Chateau Angelus with the pigeon.

Yeah. Try this.

Good.

"Good"?

"Good" means nothing.

- I've had a call from a TV show today.

- Absolutely not.

You know, my analyst suggested you may

have an obsessive-compulsive disorder

that you self-medicated for years.

She thinks you should be

in a program or in a group.

I don't do groups.

So what do you think,

is it too much or too little tarragon?

An e-mail came addressed to you.

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?

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