The Maker: Hollywood

Tom Wiley, leaning against the stone railing with his own beer, laughed loudly. ”He ignores us, Stan. He gets a taste of that sweet, sub-zero snow, racks up fourteen Emmy nominations, and suddenly he forgets the little people who helped him get here.”

Daniel, standing in front of a massive stainless-steel outdoor grill, shot Tom a withering look through the thick cloud of charcoal smoke. He was holding a pair of heavy metal tongs like a weapon.

”I have been locked in a windowless editing bay for three weeks straight,” Daniel defended himself, using the tongs to aggressively poke at the four thick ribeye steaks sizzling on the grates. ”I lose track of time when I’m cutting. I bought these aggressively expensive steaks specifically to make up for it. Now shut up and let me cook.”

”I’m seventy-three years old, Dan,” Stan continued, leaning forward theatrically. ”Every time you disappear for three months without calling, I have to assume you’ve replaced me with a younger, cooler comic book writer. Probably one of those indie guys who write about sad teenagers.”

”There are no cooler comic book writers, Stan, and you know it,” Daniel laughed, flipping one of the steaks. A massive flare-up of fire engulfed the meat. Daniel cursed, hastily dragging the steak to the cooler side of the grill.

Stan stood up, walking over to inspect the damage. He peered through his aviators at the blackened meat.

”You’re suffocating it,” Stan advised, pointing a finger. ”You have to let the meat breathe. Turn the heat down. My uncle used to run a deli in the Bronx, I know these things.”

”Your uncle made pastrami, Stan, not ribeye,” Daniel argued, though he dutifully twisted the gas knobs down. ”It’s fine. It’s just a nice char on the outside. It locks in the flavor.”

”It locks in the carcinogens,” Tom chimed in from the railing.

”If you don’t shut up, I’m feeding yours to the coyotes,” Daniel threatened.

The glass sliding doors leading from the kitchen to the terrace opened, and Florence stepped out, carrying a massive wooden bowl filled with a vibrant summer salad. Right behind her was Sarah, Tom’s girlfriend and the lead cinematographer who had been with Miller Studios since the gritty warehouse days of 12 Angry Men. Sarah was carrying a tray of baked potatoes and grilled asparagus.

Sarah took one look at the thick plume of black smoke rising from the grill and wrinkled her nose.

”I smell burning money,” Sarah announced, setting the tray down on the long outdoor dining table.

Florence walked over to the grill, using her free hand to waft the smoke away from her face. She looked down at the steaks. The outsides were completely charred black, while the edges looked suspiciously raw.

She looked at Daniel, then at Stan.

”Move,” Florence ordered simply.

”Flo, I have it under control,” Daniel protested, holding up the tongs. ”It’s a specific culinary technique. It’s called searing.”

”It’s called arson,” Florence corrected, effortlessly plucking the tongs out of his hand. ”Go sit down. Both of you. You are committing a crime against beef.”

Sarah walked over, grabbing a basting brush and a bowl of garlic butter she had prepared in the kitchen. ”It’s honestly pathetic. The visionary director of our generation and the architect of modern mythology, and neither of you can flip a piece of meat without causing a fire hazard.”

”We are artists, Sarah,” Stan defended them, stepping away from the grill with entirely too much dignity. ”We deal in abstract concepts, not open flames.”

”Sit down, abstract concept,” Florence laughed, pushing Daniel toward the table.

Defeated but entirely amused, Daniel and Stan retreated to the patio table, joining Tom.

Within ten minutes, Florence and Sarah had miraculously salvaged the situation. They carved the steaks away from the charred exteriors, sliced the perfectly medium-rare centers, and served everything family-style on the massive wooden table.

They all sat down as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the Los Angeles sky in brilliant streaks of violet and burnt orange.

The conversation flowed effortlessly. They didn’t discuss the aggressive internet reactions to the Inception teaser.