Episode 3. Part 3
INT SCENE: CATERING OFFICES (MAIN ROOM)
DANNY enters the main room of the catering offices, where a slightly nervous looking JAMIE OLIVER is busy prepping meals for this evening’s diners. He is putting the final touches to an exotic seafood dish.
DANNY: What’s happening.
JAMIE: Just experimenting with tonight’s menu. Did you have a good night last night?
DANNY: Most definitely. My head is banging though, bruv. I went back to Cassandra’s flat in Chelsea. Was drinking cocktails till the break of dawn. Feeling a bit worse for wear now though, very, very poorly. Like I’ve just spent all night in a Hackney squat rave with Mark Fowler and Easy E.
JAMIE: Er, yeah…
DANNY: And I’m telling you, those posh girls have some stamina…
JAMIE: Easy tiger.
DANNY walks over to the sink and pours a glass of tap water, stirring in some alka seltzers that he takes from his pocket. Moving over to the chaise longue, his eyes glance over the dish JAMIE is putting the finishing touches to.
DANNY: Jesus Christ. What the fuck is that you’re working on, it looks like Tom Hardy’s lips?
JAMIE: Gooseneck barnacles. It’s a wicked little Spanish delicacy. All it needs now is a big boy glug of olive oil, some lemon zest- and Bob’s your uncle. It makes a beautiful entrée for a family dinner, or a properly glamorous light lunch for all your mates. Best served with a big glass of prosecco.
DANNY: Jamie, you are NOT serving that in my pub. It’ll scare half the punters away.
JAMIE: No problem, bossman. I’ll just switch the menu to escargot instead.
DANNY: Anyway, I got Tracey to print out what the takings from last night were. The place was rammed so I’m expecting some blinding figures. Pull up a pew then.
JAMIE: Nice, nice.
The chef joins DANNY on the settee. His body language implies that he feels ill at ease being so close to the salt of the earth publican.
DANNY: Right then. The total profits made on opening night are… What the fuck? Someone must be having a bubble. It says we made fuck all.
JAMIE: It can take a while for new restaurants to find their feet. With my first bistro in Mayfair…
DANNY: Is Tracey pulling my wire? It says here we only made a hundred fucking quid!
JAMIE: Christmas can be a slow period in the industry, but come January payday we’ll have them queuing round the corner for the winter a la carte…
DANNY: Here, this ain’t even a wind-up. Look at the paragraph at the bottom. It says only two people ordered a main course. What the fuck was all them slags eating?
JAMIE: Come to think of it we did get a lot of orders for the platter of artisan-baked bread & a selection of dipping oils.
DANNY: So you mean to tell me that our punters are so fucking miserly that they’ll only fork out for a few bread rolls?
JAMIE: It’s that credit crunch. It’s hit people in their pockets… and bread was the only thing on the menu priced less than twenty-five pound.
DANNY: Twenty-five for a meal? That’s a blatant piss take, Jamie. Even you should know that. How much did you charge for the, what was it- the bagels?
JAMIE: Thirty-three quid. But it was with a complimentary dollop of guacamole so it was one of the better value meals we had…
DANNY: Gordon Bennet alive! The Percy Ingle under the Lansbury flats does the same thing for a tenth of the price! Geezers round here ain’t seen a fleece up so brazen since Ron & Reg started handing out collection tins. Jesus Christ, Jamie. You’re supposed to be a successful businessman but your concept of supply & demand is fucked. If you carry on like this we’ll both end up in the debtor’s prison.
JAMIE: Danny, I can explain.
DANNY: You better.
JAMIE: Look, I went into business with you because you shared my vision for bringing modern fine dining to Walford. You got the concept of a place that takes good, simple, honest ingredients and cooks them superbly and without pretension- just by letting the flavours speak for themselves. People will always be prepared to pay top dollar for a meal like that. And that’s from all walks of life- rich, poor, you name it. People understand quality comes at a price, and I think thirty odd pounds for a bagel is only fair.
DANNY: Jamie you don’t seem to understand a fucking thing I’m saying. You can’t just come to Walford and serve up shit like THIS.
He points to the meat dish on JAMIE’S workstation.
DANNY: What is this?
JAMIE: That’s slow cooked pork belly, a classic, classic British meal.
DANNY: And how much does that cost.
JAMIE: Well… It’s fifty pounds.
DANNY gingerly prods at the food with a fork, a disdainful expression on his face.
DANNY: There’s hardly any meat on this, it’s all fat. What mug is going to fork out half their wallet for offal? You can’t pull stunts like that round here, Jamie. This is Walford. We’re on the fucking District line, for Christ’s sake!
JAMIE: Come on, Danny. Don’t be a wasteman.
DANNY: Wasteman? You don't get to call me a fucking wasteman. You’re not even a real cockney, you’re worse than Pete Tong. Right then, you cunt. Just FUCK OFF BACK TO ESSEX with ya!
To emphasise the severing of their business partnership, the publican picks up a paring knife and points it at JAMIE. The celebrity chef needs no further warning and briskly exits the door out into the street. Struggling to make sense of what has just happened, DANNY puts down the knife and frowns at the ostentatious décor of what should be a no frills functional kitchen.
DANNY: I’m telling you, this gentrification palaver is a load of shit!
He raises his voice to reach the ears of a rapidly departing JAMIE.
DANNY: And you can take your fucking pork belly with ya!
He hurls the tray of food out of the doorway, aiming for the chef’s back. This small act of violence fulfilling his need for vengeance, he returns indoors.
CUT TO EXT SCENE OF ALBERT SQUARE MARKET
The IMAM is peacefully walking down the street when a platter of pork belly careers into his chest, knocking him to the ground. A CLOSE UP of his face shows a look of terror and disgust.
CUE EPISODE ENDING DRUMBEAT
CUT TO CREDITS
PLAY THEME TUNE