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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 something they could do indefinitely.
After all, the Missouri wasn't just some floating museum piece. It still had training drills, maintenance rotations, and deployment 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, time was tight. The practical effects, the camera work, the stunts everything had to be done fast and right the first time. 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, sometimes from left to right, sometimes right to left. Sometimes they only filmed boots hitting metal, sometimes 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 Americans on set still wound up chugging beer in some grimy port-side bar after a 14-hour day. Headache? Pop some ibuprofen. Still feel off? Break out the weed, or worse. It was like sobriety was a crime 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, meanwhile, had become something 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-menu 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? Somewhere north of a Michelin tasting menu if you knew what went into it.
Exactly the kind of "undercover gourmet" rich people loved.
"Be honest," Henry said, flipping the patty expertly with a spatula. "You really gonna take another gig 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. Meal kits," Al said, laughing dryly. "The same 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 mean… 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 dime. 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 someone 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 come through a catering liaison. They tell me where, when, what the menu 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 someone with enough money to make me 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 time, I at least get a hello. I've met more billionaires than I can count but this job? Total mystery. I've never had a long-term contract where I didn't meet the person footing the bill."
He leaned back and sighed. "At first, I thought it was a joke. Like me? Gourmet-level cuisine for a film crew? I mean, look around. They want food that's hot, filling, and fast. No time for truffles or ten-course tasting menus. You think the lead actor's gonna sit down for a two-hour foie gras experience between stunt scenes?"
Henry shook his head. "No argument here."
He poked the meat 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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