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Chapter 61: The Exclusive Dining Hall
🕑 Added 2025-06-17 15:06:05 +0000 UTC
“Chef! One steak, please—I’m so hungry I could eat a whole cow!”
Henry strolled into the on-set dining area—a fully equipped cafeteria staffed by a private chef team hired by the production.
The head chef was a big Black guy—and big was putting it lightly. His waistline probably equaled his height. Just one look and you might not know if he could cook, but you could be sure the man knew how to eat.
He waddled out of the break room adjusting his chef’s hat—even though he didn’t have a single hair on his shiny bald head that could fall into the food. Still, the man took pride in his appearance.
Seeing Henry, he let out a hearty laugh.
“Henry! Just wrapped for the day?”
Henry loaded a tray full of donuts from the sweets table—piled it high—then poured himself a black coffee.
“Director’s a perfectionist. One wrong step and we reshoot the whole thing.
Every time someone messes up, props has to reset everything before we can roll again. After a few of those, of course the day drags out.”
The chef chuckled while flipping a steak on the grill.
“Don’t tell me you’re the one holding up the shoot.”
“If I was, I’d still be getting chewed out by the assistant director. The fact I’m here ordering food should tell you I’m not the problem.”
The chef raised an eyebrow.
“Lemme guess—those two production teams are butting heads again?”
Mouth stuffed with donuts, Henry mumbled,
“With three producers onboard, no one wants to take orders—unless it’s from Mr. Seagal himself.
When the players are fighting over the board, us pawns get stomped on. Nothing new.”
Aside from lead actor and co-producer Steven Seagal, the other two producers each had their own loyal crew. They wouldn’t openly sabotage each other, but they sure weren’t above petty sabotage and turf games.
“So how’d you stay out of trouble? Got someone powerful backing you? Spill it.”
“Sure. I’m backed by an undersea volcano. I’m just a background actor brought in by the union. A nobody. Not even worth using as a pawn.
Nobody pays attention to me—which is great. Less drama, more donuts.”
Henry was telling the honest truth. As a complete nobody on set, he was having the time of his life freeloading off studio food and wages.
His pre-time-travel dream had always been to get paid for doing nothing—and now, here he was, living it.
No complaints at all.
With no background or connections, Henry was completely ignored—but that gave him front-row seats to all the drama. And the best part?
Even if every single frame of his footage got cut, as long as he was on payroll for the day, he got paid for the day.
The chef flipped the steak and asked,
“Hey, I heard Erika Eleniak showed up today. You see her? Is she as hot as she was in Baywatch?”
Henry downed his coffee and swallowed the last chunk of donut. Then he sighed in awe:
“Oh man, you cannot imagine what it’s like seeing her in person.
She’s so close you can almost feel her breath. You can see her skin pulse with every heartbeat. Every turn of her head, every toss of her hair, every smile or frown—she’s alive.
No screen, no TV, not even the biggest cinema can capture that. You have to see her in real life to know what true beauty is.
No wonder all those rich and powerful guys are willing to pay just for the chance to be near women like her.”
Henry wasn’t exaggerating. Even with a hard drive full of goddess-tier girls from his past life, Erika’s real-life presence had stopped him cold.
It was a reminder that what you see on screen is nothing like seeing someone in person. Not even close.
The chef pressed the steak down on the hot grill with a massive fork, letting it sizzle. He grinned,
“Motherf—! Just listening to you talk, I’m gettin’ a hard-on.
Did you know Erika first appeared in Spielberg’s E.T.? She was the cute schoolgirl the kid kisses. I thought she was adorable.
Then when she showed up as a Playboy centerfold in ’89, I was like, yup, she’s back.
And when she played Shauni in Baywatch? Man, I was in love.”
He flipped the steak onto a plate and handed it over to Henry, who by now had demolished most of the donut tray.
No sides. Just steak.
If anyone wanted greens, there was a salad bar nearby—fully stocked.
Henry picked up his knife and fork and cut into the meat.
“No offense, Chef, but… was this steak recipe from the British? Or the Germans?”
The chef bared his teeth in a proud smile.
“You could be pickier than a Michelin inspector, and I’d still have my Le Cordon Bleu diploma hanging in my kitchen.”
Henry chewed and smirked.
“That diploma taught you this?”
Around him, the tables were full of carbs. Whether it tasted good was another matter—but it was definitely filling.
Even the steak had that rough, cowboy-cookout kind of vibe.
If a Michelin chef saw this setup, they'd have an aneurysm on the spot.
The chef shrugged,
“Hey, we’re in America. Doesn’t matter what the dish is—good or bad—it’ll all go down with a bottle of ketchup.
You really think my garlic butter escargot would beat out those donuts over there?”
“So you’re just phoning it in? They not paying you enough?”
The chef turned serious.
“Honestly? The pay’s pretty damn good. But I’m confused too.
Usually, I only work private gigs for rich folks—weddings, banquets, yacht parties. I do everything from wine to caviar.
This is my first time working for a film crew. And it’s a 24/7 gig too. If the money wasn’t right, no way I’d be here.”
Henry frowned.
“Wait—so one of the producers didn’t hire your team?”
“Met all of ’em. None of them run in my usual circles, though.
I thought maybe I’d see some old clients on set, so I cooked with some effort the first few days.
But... nobody showed.
Honestly? I’m more confused than you are.”
