Original subtitles

"The giants who

formed this world, who now seem to live in it in chains,

are actually the cause of its life

and the source of all activity.

But the chains are the cunning of weak and tame minds.

Thus the proverb, 'the weak in courage are strong in cunning.'

Thus, the one portion of being is the producer,

the other the destroyer.

To the destroyer, it seems like the producer is in his chain.

But it is not so.

He only takes tiny bits of existence

and thinks it is the whole thing.

These two classes of men are always upon the earth,

and they should be enemies.

Whoever tries to reconcile them seeks to destroy existence."

- I don't wanna play this game anymore.

Silence!

Prepare for battle.

- I gotta pee.

- En garde, shit - Ow!

- Pussy!

- I'll give you 10 seconds, and then I'm coming in after you.

I am the destroyer!

I'm the king of the earth!

Fight!

I'm the destroyer!

Welcome to "The Feast with Peter Grey."

Today's feast-- venison steaks and a maple syrup creme brulee.

These venison steaks are from Sullivan County,

from a doe that I shot and butchered myself.

- Ew, Peter!

That's, that's Bambi!

Wa-wa-wah.

Come on, Peg.

I mean, hunting is one of the most fundamentally human acts.

We've been doing it for thousands of years.

- It's gross.

- It's, uh, it is organic.

It is sustainable.

- I mean, if you want gross, spend

five minutes on the kill floor of

any commercial slaughterhouse.

I'm sure that you'll never eat supermarket meat again.

- When we come back, "The Feast" continues with--

with creme brulee made from locally harvested

maple syrup.

Don't go away.

I don't know what his problem is--

- I mean, I really can't take any more of this.

All right, all right.

- I can't-- I mean he's not working with me at all.

I don't know-- he's under a lot of stress.

What the fuck was that all about?

What?

I was riffing in there, asshole!

- Riffing! - Look, Peter--

Tell him what they said.

- Tell me what?

Peter, would it kill you to just play along every once

in a while? - No, tell him what they said.

All right.

Bambi, you thought that was "hi-sterical."

No, it was a joke.

The audience was rolling in the aisle.

It was fucking idiotic.

That's what it was.

- I can't work with this asshole.

- I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Thank you.

I wouldn't call what you do work.

The only thing missing from her is a fart in a kazoo.

Nice. That's helpful.

Just get another one, Phil.

They're a dime a dozen.

It's just not working anymore.

Look, Peter.

Peter, you knew what you were getting into when you signed up

for this. You do the cooking.

Peg provides a touch of folksy levity.

- But she goes too far.

I mean, everything is a joke, Phil.

That's what the audience wants!

- Well, it's not what I want.

It's not what the show is supposed to be.

I mean, I would like people to learn something.

They know that they're--

No!

Nah, they don't want to learn something, Peter.

They want to be entertained.

You used to understand that, but you've changed.

- Oh, well, now here it starts.

The on-air rants, the pompous lectures.

It's ratings poison, man!

- I don't care about the ratings.

Don't talk to me about the ratings!

OK. OK.

You know what?

The word from the front office is that, thanks to a major dip

in those ratings, which you care so little about,

they are most likely not renewing "The Feast with Peter

Grey" for the fall.

- You can't be serious.

I'm dead serious.

Congratulations, Mr. Integrity.

Hey, Home.

What's the matter?

What's going on?

Come on, we have dinner in less than two hours.

Chop, chop!

- What the hell is going on?

Where is everybody?

"Feast, reviewed by J.T. Franks.

I've lost count of the Alice Waters-inspired new Americans

that I've reviewed in the West Village, all of them terrible.

Peter Grey's exercise in masturbatory pretentiousness,

Feast, has done nothing to up the average.

- Go on.

Many of you know Peter Grey for his insufferable

and increasingly skin-crawlingly awkward sustainable

organo-themed cable television series,

'The Feast with Peter Grey,' which rumor has it is teetering

on the brink of cancellation.

The city's diners should be considering themselves

fortunate if the same fate befalls

this dud of a restaurant."

Oh, fuck Franks.

- Fuck Franks?

- He creates nothing.

- Dude.

He creates public opinion.

Ergo, he creates everything.

- Gordon, he's a fucking food blogger.

- You just don't get it.

It's a fucking disaster.

Is it true?

- Is what true?

About the show being cancelled?

- Well, what if it was?

I've been wanting to focus more on my cooking, anyway.

Focus on your cooking!

Are you fucking kidding me? Bill Hayve just called.

They've decided to put the expansion plans on hold,

which means they're dead.

Ditto with the line of Peter Grey cookware.

Dude, without your TV face going on the screen every day,

you have fucking nothing.

There is no cooking to focus on.

- This is insanity, Gordon.

We were just getting started!

Peter, let me give you a little advice here.

This whole organic, sustainable, green schtick--

it's a down economy.

People don't give a damn where their hamburger comes from

or how it got to them.

They just want it taste good.

- So, what now?

The sous chef from Marlow and Sons

is going to be in this afternoon.

He's taking over the kitchen.

- I'm fired?

My hands are tied.

- Gordon, this is my life.

- Dude, you're a talented guy.

A little pretentious-- scratch that, you're a lot pretentious.

I agree with Franks on that one.

Anyway, you'll land on your feet.

I am the destroyer!

I'm the king of the earth!

Fight!

I'm the destroyer!

- Ow! Ow!

No, stop. No.

Ow, I really hurt my ankle.

Johnny, stop! Come on.

Silence!

I'd give you the ocean.

I'd give you the sky if I could.

I'd push it all back between the sidewalk

cracks of your neighborhood.

Neighborhood.

Soldiers of misfortune fight for something they can see.

- How is everything? - Pardon?

Do you need anything else?

I'd love a little joy.

Excuse me?

- Maybe a bowl or a dish, a plate, a trough of joy

would be wonderful.

- I, I don't understand.

- I know.

- Can I get the check, please?

"Of all the items offered on the menu at Le Suc,

they left off the only one I would order

if I ever paid a return visit.

That item would be a time machine with which I would

go back to recapture the hour and seven minutes chef

Daniel Burlow pilfered from me on my first visit."

Another scathing review.

How nice.

- The public demands raw meat.

I just give it to them.

"I learned that 'le suc' means 'juice', so I

can't say the experience was an entire wash.

As for the food, one word-- vomitous."

Vomitous?

Is that even a word?

- Yep.

- How can you write this shit?

Just playing my role, babe.

And what roll would that be?

- The Iron Sheik.

The who?

- The Iron Sheik.

Professional wrestling.

He's the villain.

He's the guy who keeps Sgt. Slaughter in check,

lest the public get restless.

I see.

Whatever happened to your novel? You know, the one.

Yeah, I remember the one.

- I thought it was good.

Shit.

- I guess I'm gonna hit the hay.

I gotta be there early tomorrow, so--

OK.

- I'll be at St. Luke's, Roosevelt.

Left the number on the fridge.

Mm-hmm.

- When they give me a room I'll call and give you

the direct line, all right?

- Wish you were coming with me.

- I don't like hospitals.

- I know, but, I just--

- Hey, um, I'm on deadline.

I'll be there to pick you up.

- What?

Are you ever going to look for a job, by the way?

Because you spend a lot of time just standing around

the apartment in your underwear looking at me

like that, kind of hanging out over my shoulder.

- Do you even want another child?

Jesus Christ.

- I, I need to hear you say it, because if you

think that I enjoy going in for these treatments, all

the poking and prodding, and all--

Then don't.

Don't.

You don't mean that.

- Really?

- What is wrong with you?

You've become so mean.

Yeah, well.

Shit happens.

And then your kid dies of cancer.

- Stop!

Look at me.

I said, look at me.

I'm so sick of this poor, bitter asshole routine!

We're starting over right now.

You and me, we're starting over.

Just yes or no.

Just ans-- just answer me, OK?

- I had this moment, just a few minutes ago.

I was watching you pack.

And you were putting all your stuff in.

And I couldn't help but thinking that if you

took that bag and you walked out the door tomorrow

and you never came back, that it would weirdly

be the exact same thing as if you did come back.

I, I don't care.

Live, die, stay, go.

I don't give a shit anymore.

Think about that.

- OK.

- Hello?

Hello?

- Good morning Mr. Franks.

- Thirsty?

Water.

Universal solvent.

Elixir of life.

Three weeks without food, but only three days without water.

Is this about my review?

This about my fucking review?

- For now, you will fetch your own water.

- This is insanity.

You realize that this is absolutely fucking insanity,

right?

- You will fill the bucket.

You will carry the bucket back to your tree.

And then, and only then, you may drink.

- My site gets 40,000 hits a day.

Don't you think that somebody is going

to notice that I'm missing?

- If you break the rules, you'll get nothing.

Is that clear?

I said, is that clear?

- Oh.

Oh, fuck!

Oh, fuck!

Help!

Help!

Fuck!

Mr. Franks, no one can hear you.

- Help!

- Help! - Fuck!

Help! Help!

- Help!

Help!

Help!

- Help!

- I'm not sure if we're in the middle of nowhere,

but I feel we're quite close to it.

Rules, Mr. Franks.

Rules.

Not a drop till we get back.

Fill the bucket.

- Empty the bucket.

Empty the bucket.

- Fuck off.

- Ah!

Oh, fuck.

- Pick it up.

- We'll try again tomorrow.

Perhaps a night under the stars will clear your mind.

- Ok, wait.

Wait, wait, wait! Wait!

Wait!

Wait, Grey!

You fucker, wait!

- Help!

- Phase one of your rehabilitation

was instilling in you a respect for the rules, which

I think we can both agree you've finally acquired.

- OK, look. What do you want?

I have money. I get--

Phase two involves empathy.

Teaching you to care.

- OK.

I swear to God, I will not breathe a word of this

to anyone.

If you just let me go, I'll make something up.

I'll say--

- As a critic, you have no emotional connection

to your work.

So I suspect that this part will be slightly more challenging

for you.

For the love of Christ, man.

Let's see.

"September 25, 2007.

'Over Easy,' reviewed by JT Franks.

The pretext of Over Easy is simple.

Breakfast your way, all day.

If the wretched, scabby mess of egg yolk and charred white that

the kitchen brain trust at Over Easy recently tried to pass off

as breakfast my way, all day, then perhaps they should drop

the 'easy' and simply refer to this wretched Williamsburg

newcomer as 'over.'" How do you like your eggs?

- What?

I said, how do you like your eggs?

- Over easy.

- Excellent.

You may eat as many eggs as you like,

as long as you cook them to perfection.

Over easy.

No runny yellows.

If you deviate from perfection, there will be consequences.

- What about my hands?

What about them?

- I can't cook like this.

Then you don't eat.

Well?

Oh.

That's too bad.

I was very clear!

Very clear, Mr. Franks.

Over easy.

No runny yellows.

You broke the yellow.

You broke the yellow.

Now for my review.

JT Franks is a worthless cunt who doesn't deserve to live.

The end.

Welcome back to "The Feast with Peter Grey."

Today's feast-- rainbow trout with a potato frittata.

This trout comes to us from Sullivan County,

from Roscoe, New York, which our local anglers like to refer

to as "Trout Town, USA."

The butter I picked up at a local farmer's market

in Livingston.

Now, you just have to look at that.

Creamy, rich color.

Beautiful.

Now, to our frittata.

We're going to let this go for another minute.

The egg.

- You know, the egg is really a perfect food.

Packed with protein, vitamins, omega 3 fatty acids--

Cholesterol.

This egg comes from Honey Health Farms,

which is just about an hour or so up the Hudson River.

Now-- come in.

As you can see--

Look at that beautiful, deep, rich, golden color.

Really exceptional.

- Looks like a regular old egg to me.

- Peg, maybe you could make yourself useful

and dice those potatoes.

Um, now, a frittata is essentially an Italian-style

omelet, which, if I can just--

an Italian-style omelet--

- Looking for this?

- Well.

Oop!

Oh!

Your frittata has belata, hunh?

Mr. Grey!

Mr. Grey!

- Oh.

Not today.

- Bill Coley.

Private investigator.

Sorry to bother you.

I am just following up on a missing persons.

Do you know him?

- JT Franks.

- You ever met him?

- Can't say I have.

- He wrote a nasty review of your restaurant.

- JT Franks writes nasty reviews of every restaurant

in this town. Nastiness is his metier.

Well, he seemed to reserve an especially toxic

disdain for you, though.

- I wouldn't know.

- Well, he compared your venison burger to a vasectomy scar.

- Well, he has a way with words.

I must admit.

I laughed at that one when I read it, myself.

- Now, his review, would that have anything

to do with your abrupt departure as head chef at Feast?

- My departure's been in the works for some time.

Doing a little off-roading there, Mr. Grey?

I have a house in the country.

Oh, yeah? Where?

- Am I a person of interest, Mr. Coley?

- Aw, no, no, no.

That's, that's cop talk.

Me, I'm just following up on missing persons.

If you think of anything, give me a call.

Authorities say there

has been no progress in the case of missing food critic, JT

Franks.

For more on this developing story,

we go to "News Lead's" Melissa Sanchez.

Katherine Franks,

wife of missing food critic JT Franks,

made an emotional televised appeal today

for any information on her husband's whereabouts.

Can you tell us where the police are right now

in this investigation?

We're asking anyone

who might have seen him to please come forward

and to contact your local law enforcement.

And is there

anything you'd like to say to your husband

if he's watching this?

Jimmy, if you're watching this, please,

please know that I'm here and, all I want to know

is that you're safe.

Franks was last

seen leaving the mid-town offices of gastropunks.com

on April 19.

Anyone with information is asked to call the phone number

on your screen.

Wake up!

Wake up!

Wake up!

We've got the dinner rush!

Wake up!

Wake up!

Where are those entrees?

Where are those entrees?

- Good afternoon, Mr. Franks.

OK, OK.

Look, you made your point.

Look.

I'm a dick.

I understand that now.

I, I, I write these things without thinking

about the consequences for people like you.

And it's just because I hate myself and--

I'm sorry.

- Did you hear me?

I'm sorry.

- Oh, my dear, sweet Jesus.

It's not good.

- Listen. Listen to me.

Just look at me.

What do you want me to say?

- Do you like steak, Mr. Franks?

- I've learned my lesson.

What do you want?

- Do you like steak, Mr. Franks?

Do you like steak, Mr. Franks?

- Yes!

- Well, you might be interested to know that this steak comes

from a local farm.

Pasture-raised, grass-fed, no drugs, no hormones.

The flavor is sublime.

How do you take yours?

- Medium rare.

- You don't say.

"June 24, 2008.

'Black and Blue,' reviewed by JT Franks.

Not again.

- What is it about medium rare that the city chefs

find so difficult to execute?

What the fuck do you want from me?

- Season with salt and pepper.

Three and 1/2 minutes on the grill.

Flip and repeat. A monkey could do it, right?"

Well, calling all monkeys.

Hungry?

Well, tell you what.

I have another of these babies right here in the cooler.

Toss it on the grill, cook it just right, medium rare.

Not a flea fart hotter or cooler.

If you can manage that, then the steak is yours.

I grew up in these woods, Mr. Franks.

Me and my big brother, Johnny.

Johnny was kind of a randomly cruel kid.

The type that would pull the hind legs off a rat

and put it in a box with a blind cat.

Just to see what would happen, I suppose.

He did things to me, too.

Mean, nasty things.

One day, he pushed me too far.

You know, it's amazing, the kind of rage

that can build up in a small child.

I dug his grave with my bare hands,

covered his body with leaves, and dirt.

No one ever looked twice at it.

Hard on my parents, never knowing

what happened to their boy, whether he was dead or alive.

But eventually, many years later, they died.

And with them, the pain was resolved.

There are two classes of men in this world, Mr. Franks.

One who create and add something to the collective human

experience.

And those who destroy, lurk.

Shadows who wait for saps like me to come along

to punch myself out and collapse,

so they can poke me with sticks until I beg for mercy.

There'll always be these two classes of men.

And they should be enemies.

He who seeks to unite them seeks to destroy existence.

And your steak is overcooked.

Why?

What?

What, Mr. Franks? I can't hear you.

If you're going to speak, then speak up!

Ow!

Oh!

God!

Fuck!

- That's right, Mr. Franks.

That's right.

After all, we're just animals.

There'll be a special reward for you after this.

For he's a jolly good fellow,

for he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow,

which nobody can deny!

Bravo.

Ah, listen, they say, they say that all good things

must come to an end.

And, despite all the headaches, this show was very good,

indeed. - Too good.

Too good.

Too good, absolutely.

To Peter and Peg.

We didn't always see eye to eye.

There's nobody I respect more. Salud.

- Salud. - Cheers.

Cheers, guys. Thanks.

Well done.

Well done.

What are you doing in here?

- The door was open.

You know, I had to wear makeup once.

Back in my cop days.

Did this public service announcement.

Little thing on domestic violence--

- I'm sorry, Mr. Coley.

Is there something that I can help you with?

- There's no need to be rude, Mr. Grey.

- I'm sorry.

It's just that I have an important meeting

I have to attend.

- Oh, really?

Because it seemed to me that you are

on a bit of a losing streak, you know, what

with the restaurant and the show.

Well, that which does not kill me only makes me stronger.

- Well you must be pretty damn strong at this point.

What happened to your hand?

- I burned it.

- Hmmm.

So I've been doing a little digging.

It's a terrible tragedy with your brother.

Yeah.

In that regard, you and JT Franks have a lot in common.

- Oh?

Yeah, his son died.

Two years ago.

Leukemia.

- Well, that's a very sad story.

I didn't even know he had a wife.

- Yeah, real nice lady.

It's a funny thing, though.

She's convinced that Franks has run off.

You know, that he doesn't want to be found.

I mean, I don't believe it.

See, I got these superhuman nostrils.

I can smell bullshit a mile off.

How'd you burn your hand?

- Cooking.

- Cooking what? - Souffle.

What kind?

- Cheese

- Was it good?

Delicious.

- OK.

You take care of that hand.

Looks serious.

- Cheese souffle, Mr. Grey.

- Hello?

It's OK.

It's OK.

I'm gonna help you.

Gonna get you out of here.

Get you out of here.

- I need something for that chain.

- Listen. Listen.

I'll be right back. I promise.

- Just sit. No!

No, no, no! No!

No!

Hello?

He's dead.

He's dead!

- Go on, fucking coward.

Coward.

Come on!

Come on!

No one can save you now, Mr. Franks.

Open raviolo with wild rabbit and red mulberry ragu.

And open raviolo with wild rabbit and red mulberry ragu.

"May 19, 2009.

'Feast,' reviewed by JT Franks."

Who am I kidding?

I don't need the paper to remember this one.

Silly.

That's the only word that could characterize

Peter Grey's open raviolo with wild rabbit and red mulberry

ragu.

How else to describe a dish which boasts a rabbit ragu

sweetened with the very berries which

said rabbit feasted on as a happy creature in the wild.

I was left wondering, what horrible sin did

Mr. Bunny commit that he should have to suffer such

a twisted and Dante-esque fate?

And who does Peter Grey think would actually believe

such culinary balderdash?

Note to Peter Grey--

JT Franks knows frozen Chilean mulberries when he tastes them.

Two preparations, identical in every way,

except that with one, I have substituted Atropa belladonna,

or deadly nightshade, for the red mulberries.

Consumption of two to five belladonna by a child

is lethal.

For an adult, 10 to 20.

With that in mind, you may sample one bite

from each plate to ascertain which has the mulberries

and which the belladonna.

You will then consume, in its entirety,

the dish of your choice.

There's a third option, if you like.

You can decline this challenge.

You can elect neither plate, in which case, you'll eat nothing.

Is that clear?

- Mmm-hmm.

- Bon appetit.

- Unh!

Cleanse the palette.

Oh, come on, Mr. Franks.

A tastemaker as formidable as yourself.

This should be a walk in the park.

- That one's the mulberry.

- Very well.

Do you wish to proceed?

- Yes.

- Dig in.

- Now, we wait.

Are you feeling a little wheezy, Mr. Franks?

- A little shortness of breath?

Air passages constricting?

I'd imagine that vision's getting blurry now.

Who could believe taste buds so formidable

that they could discern the difference

between local and imported mulberries

would miss something so obvious as belladonna?

Unless, of course, you are completely full of shit!

- And now, for my review.

- Oh, God.

JT Franks, self-appointed authority on good taste,

died today because his taste buds were so atrophied

that he could not taste the difference between shit

and shine-ola. The end.

And now, for my review.

Pasta, overcooked.

Ragu, sour.

Poor little rabbit.

Peter Grey, culinary huckster.

Third fucking rate, now and forever.

Do you know what this is?

Pilocarpine.

It's the fucking antidote.

Did you think I would let you off that easily?

Hi, this is Bill Coley,

private investigator of missing persons,

- Hi, Mr. Coley, this is Katherine Franks here.

Um, I guess I'm just checking in.

I didn't hear from you today, so--

I'm just wondering where we are with everything.

I guess just call me when you get this.

OK, bye.

Peter?

I'm so sorry.

What happ--

What's happ-- Where are we?

Where are we?

- So sorry.

I'm so fucking sorry.

- Get back.

Just breathe.

Ladies and gentlemen,

welcome back to another episode of "Cook for Your Life

with JT Franks."

- Fuck you!

JT Franks, you have come quite a long way,

despite a few bumps and bruises.

But I suppose that's to be expected

in any budding young chef.

Ha!

Ha!

And here we have your lovely assistant,

your lovely sidekick--

- Hey!

a frequent, which I really think

- is just what the show needed. - Hey!

Hey!

the insipid pattern, the banal jokes.

Wouldn't you agree? - Fucker!

Fuck you!

Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Franks, that this is--

Why don't you come here?

what the audience wanted?

- Come here!

Come here!

You know, I have something--

Fuck you!

very special planned for you later.

Hey! Hey!

- Very special. - I love you!

I really think you're going to love it.

- Don't fucking look at him!

Mr. Franks?

What?

I think you should conserve your energy.

- Get the fuck out of here.

You're going to need it.

I'll be doing the cooking tonight.

- You gotta just leave her out of it.

Look, you-- fuck you.

You think I ruined your career?

It's fine.

Just fucking do whatever you want to me.

I don't give a shit.

You just have to leave her out of it.

- Precisely, Mr. Franks.

It seems that, no matter what I do to you now,

you just don't care anymore.

Which doesn't help me any.

Actually, it occurs to me that you really want to die.

Ergo, I can't just kill you, otherwise you win.

You see my dilemma.

But you wanted to live a few days ago.

I expect your wife will be the same way.

So I won't be telling her, at first, what she's been eating.

- Keep it seasonal.

Sustainable.

I don't know.

Maybe a crown roast or barbecued ribs with a savory maple glaze.

But you look a little stringy.

Perhaps braising might be the best.

Hell, I might even sample a little bit myself.

By the tree there, Mr. Franks.

By the tree.

Yes.

Turn around, please.

Turn around.

All right, let's see those hands.

Up.

There we go.

All right.

You have three minutes, starting now.

Then I'm coming after you.

- I haven't got a chance.

- Probably not.

But you have less than an hour of daylight.

So I suggest you get at it.

911, what's your emergency?

I've been kidnapped.

My name's Katherine. I've been kidnapped.

My name's Katherine.

What's your exact location?

- I don't know. I don't know.

It's in the country somewhere.

Are there any identifying

landmarks you can describe?

Ma'am?

Ma'am?

Are you still there?

Are you still there?

No! No!

- Hey, hey! - No!

- No! - Shhh.

Shhh. Hey!

Hey! It's me.

It's me.

Hey. Hey, hey, hey.

It's me.

Shhh.

Shhh.

We have to go get the car.

- No.

- Yes, we do.

We're in the middle of nowhere.

We have to go get the fucking car.

OK?

Come on.

We have to go back inside. - No, we don't.

We can just go run. Let's run.

No, we can't.

- We have to get the keys.

We have to get the keys.

We won't get out of here on foot.

OK?

Trust me.

Shhhh.

- Peter! No!

Peter, no!

- No!

- No!

- Oh, dear.

I am the destroyer.

I'd give you the ocean.

I'd give you the sky if I could.

I'd push it all back between the sidewalk

cracks of your neighborhood.

Neighborhood.

You'll go somewhere.

Somewhere.

I'll find you there.

Somewhere.

You'll go somewhere.

Somewhere.

I'll find you there.

Somewhere.

Soldiers of misfortune.