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Hollywood might be the biggest movie factory in the world, but even it had its limits. Sure, it didn't crank out flicks as fast as those lightning-speed Hong Kong crews, but neither would it drag a single production out for years. Especially not one involving an active-duty battleship.
Filming aboard the USS Missouri wasn't sothing they could do indefinitely.
After all, the Missouri wasn't just so floating museum piece. It still had training drills, maintenance rotations, and deploynt schedules. None of which included a bunch of civilians running around playing Navy SEALs with prop guns.
With so much of the movie set aboard the ship, ti was tight. The practical effects, the cara work, the stunts everything had to be done fast and right the first ti. Only a few destructive scenes would be handled in a studio. The rest had to happen here, and now.
And it wasn't just the A-list stars burning the candle at both ends. Even Henry still just an anonymous extra was being run ragged.
He'd spend hours running up and down corridors, sotis from left to right, sotis right to left. Sotis they only fild boots hitting tal, sotis they needed full-body shots. And if anyone flubbed their mark, it was a full reset.
It didn't matter that these were just background shots. The assistant directors were ruthless. If anything looked off even lighting cut, reset, run it again.
That was the difference between a blockbuster production and the kind of indie films that wrapped in three weekends and a cloud of cigarette smoke.
The one saving grace? Chef Big Al and his divine gift to humanity: food.
Henry couldn't understand why most of the Aricans on set still wound up chugging beer in so grimy port-side bar after a 14-hour day. Headache? Pop so ibuprofen. Still feel off? Break out the weed, or worse. It was like sobriety was a cri and good food a myth.
They had a Blue Ribbon–certified chef in the damn kitchen, and half of them treated it like background noise.
Big Al and Henry, anwhile, had beco sothing of a culinary odd couple two food nerds hiding in a war movie. Henry was now one of the very few extras to be granted the honor of Big Al's "off-nu specials."
As Al put it: "If I don't keep pushing my technique, I'll go soft flipping donuts and heating up frozen pizza all day."
Today, Henry had even taken over the grill.
He was manning the flat-top, carefully searing a burger patty that looked deceptively humble. The blend of premium beef, aged fat, and custom spices had taken them days to perfect.
It looked like diner food. Tasted like five-star fusion. Cost? Sowhere north of a Michelin tasting nu if you knew what went into it.
Exactly the kind of "undercover gourt" rich people loved.
"Be honest," Henry said, flipping the patty expertly with a spatula. "You really gonna take another gig like this after this nightmare's over? A job any fry cook off the street could handle?"
Big Al looked up from a tray of spice jars, visibly torn.
After a long pause, he sighed. "Motherf yeah. I'd probably do it again."
Henry raised a brow. "Really? Thought you hated turning your art into mass production. You've been treating this kitchen like a conveyor belt."
Al grumbled and shook his head. "Kid, the paycheck was that good. I ain't gonna lie. And besides what do you think keeps Michelin chefs in business? Their one overpriced restaurant? Hell no."
"Oh?" Henry asked, intrigued.
"It's cookbooks. Sauces. al kits," Al said, laughing dryly. "The sa crap you called 'assembly-line food.' That's where the real money is. You think running a high-end restaurant pays the bills? You're burning cash just to keep the mood lighting on."
Henry had read similar takes in food columns before, but one phrase caught his ear.
"You said the 'paycheck was good.' You an… this wasn't one of the producers who hired you?"
He bit back the urge to add "those jackass producers," but he was still eating on their di. Manners, and all that.
Al smirked proudly. "Nah. I work for a different class of people, son. You won't see my clients hanging around set. But if I had to guess… maybe soone who could casually loan out a battleship for a film shoot."
He jerked his chin toward the Missouri outside, its massive turrets gleaming in the distance.
Henry played it cool. "So, mystery boss behind the curtain, huh? You have any clue who it is?"
Al shrugged. "Not a damn one. My gigs co through a catering liaison. They tell where, when, what the nu is, how much I'm getting paid. That's it."
He paused, then chuckled. "Honestly, I prefer it that way. Less chance of pissing off soone with enough money to make disappear."
Henry laughed. "What, you don't show up and find everyone eating in masquerade masks and speaking Latin?"
"Only on Tuesdays," Al deadpanned. "Most of the ti, I at least get a hello. I've t more billionaires than I can count but this job? Total mystery. I've never had a long-term contract like this where I didn't et the person footing the bill."
He leaned back and sighed. "At first, I thought it was a joke. Like ? Gourt-level cuisine for a film crew? I an, look around. They want food that's hot, filling, and fast. No ti for truffles or ten-course tasting nus. You think the lead actor's gonna sit down for a two-hour foie gras experience between stunt scenes?"
Henry shook his head. "No argunt here."
He poked the at with his spatula perfectly browned. Then he plucked it off the grill, let the grease drip, and set it aside… but instead of plating it, he walked over to the section marked "Do Not Use: High-Grade Ingredients" and began rummaging.
Big Al winced, half reaching out. "Hey, hey easy on the contraband, son. That stuff's supposed to be for the very special guests."
Henry grinned. "I am a special guest."
And just like that, he dove elbow-deep into forbidden flavors.
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