Licence to Grill

Screenplay draft

Title: LICENCE TO GRILL
Credit: Written by
Author: Screenplay Assistant
Draft date: 10/01/2024
Contact: agency@grillbon.com

FADE IN.

EXT. MONTE CARLO ROOFTOP VILLA - GOLDEN HOUR

Steam curls from the massive stainless grill set dead center on marble. Warm amber light catches the rising vapor. Charcoal shadows stretch long across the terrace. JAMES BOND stands at the grate in a grease-stained tuxedo jacket over a loud Hawaiian shirt. Thick build, salt-and-pepper stubble, confident smirk. He holds a massive spatula like a weapon, its edge already darkened from repeated use.

Laser dots sweep across the T-bones and ribeyes. Red pinpoints crawl over glistening fat. Bond watches them without flinching. He adjusts one steak with the spatula tip. The meat hisses louder. Fat drips and ignites in small blue flares.

BOND
Medium-rare. No exceptions.

He flips the ribeye. It lands perfectly centered. Juice spatters the grate in a sharp sizzle. A second laser sight tracks the movement and vanishes. Bond slides the steak onto bone-white porcelain. The plate catches golden-hour light and reflects it back onto his face. He cuts a precise corner, lifts the fork, and takes the bite. His eyes close for half a second.

More steam rises. The remaining steaks shift slightly under the heat. Bond wipes his mouth with the flat of the spatula, leaving a thin smear of rendered fat on the steel. He sets the tool down, listens to the low crackle of coals, then lifts it again.

A fresh laser dot appears on the edge of the next T-bone. Bond nudges the steak an inch to the left. The dot follows. He flips without looking, the motion economical and exact. The steak lands. Fat glistens. The laser disappears.

Bond plates the second cut. He seasons it with a single twist of the wrist from a nearby mill. Black pepper rains down in slow motion. He steps back, surveys the symmetrical row of finished steaks, and nods once. The terrace is quiet except for the steady sizzle and the distant lap of the Mediterranean far below.

He takes another bite, chews with measured pace, then speaks around the meat.

BOND
Still the best view in Monte Carlo.

The last laser sight lingers on the final steak, then winks out. Bond flips it anyway. It lands. He plates it with the others. The full row of medium-rare cuts sits under the dying light, edges charred, centers pink. Steam keeps rising. Bond stands over them, spatula resting on his shoulder, smirk intact.

EXT. MONTE CARLO ROOFTOP VILLA - GOLDEN HOUR

Steam curls from the stainless grill grates. Fat drips onto charcoal and flares. JAMES BOND stands alone at the center of the marble terrace, thick build filling out the grease-stained tuxedo jacket draped over a loud Hawaiian shirt. He wipes his mouth with the edge of the massive spatula, leaving a streak of juice across the metal. The last red laser dot flickers and dies on the final T-bone.

BOND
Medium-rare. No exceptions.

He sets the spatula down. The ribeye rests on bone-white porcelain, juices pooling under warm amber light. Bond picks up the plate, turns it slightly so the cut face catches the sun. A single perfect crosshatch marks the sear.

He takes another bite. Chews slowly. The only sounds are the low crackle of coals and distant waves against the cliff below. His salt-and-pepper stubble catches golden-hour glow. The Hawaiian shirt peeks through the open tuxedo front, bright against the charcoal shadows.

Bond steps to the edge of the terrace. Below, Monte Carlo’s white villas bake in the same light. He wipes the spatula clean on a folded linen napkin, folds the napkin once, and tucks it into his jacket pocket like a weapon returning to its holster.

A soft electronic chime rises from the jacket’s inner pocket. Bond ignores it. He flips the remaining steaks one by one, each landing with the same precise slap. The grill hisses. Smoke rises in straight columns until the sea breeze bends them.

BOND
Calories don’t count at golden hour.

He glances at the jacket sleeve, where a faint ketchup stain has dried into the silk. The fabric pulls tight across his waist. Bond adjusts the fit, smooths the lapel, and smirks again at nothing in particular.

The chime sounds once more, longer this time. Bond sets the plate down beside the grill. He lifts the spatula, balances it across his palm like a blade, then slides it back into the custom holster on his belt. The lasers are gone. The roof is his again.

He takes one last look at the glistening meat before the light shifts and the coals begin to fade.

INT. MI6 NUTRITION DATABASE OFFICE - DAY

Fluorescent tubes buzz overhead, casting a teal wash across world maps pinned to the walls. Red grease stains bloom where pushpins once marked cities. A half-eaten burger sits on the corner of Moneypenny’s desk, its juices soaking into a stack of calorie ledgers.

MONEYPENNY stands at the central console, clipboard in one hand, stylus in the other. Her tailored pantsuit catches the light like a blade. She taps a map of North America. The numbers tick upward in glowing red.

MONEYPENNY
Thirty-two percent increase in drive-thru throughput. No-Diet is winning.

She steps away from the console. Her eyes land on the grease-stained tuxedo jacket draped over a Hawaiian shirt on the coat rack. The fabric still carries the scent of charcoal and rendered fat. She pauses, nostrils flaring.

MONEYPENNY
(softly)
He left this here again.

She lifts the jacket, fingers tracing the lapel where a spatula holster once clipped. A single onion-ring crumb falls to the floor. She brushes it aside with her shoe, then returns the jacket to the rack with deliberate care.

Moneypenny crosses to the desk and sets the clipboard down. She picks up the burger, studies its glistening edge, then sets it back without taking a bite. The stylus scratches another note.

MONEYPENNY
Fine dining is worth fighting for. Someone has to keep the numbers honest.

She glances once more at the jacket. Warm sodium light from the window catches the grease on its sleeve, turning the stain into amber. Outside, a distant grill hisses. Moneypenny straightens her posture, taps the clipboard, and turns back to the maps.

INT. MI6 NUTRITION DATABASE OFFICE - DAY

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. World maps hang on the walls, streaked with ketchup and grease stains. A stainless-steel desk holds a clipboard and a half-eaten burger glistening under sodium-vapor yellow.

JAMES BOND stands in his grease-stained tuxedo jacket over a Hawaiian shirt, massive spatula still in hand. He wipes fat from the blade with a napkin. MONEYPENNY sits behind the desk in her tailored pantsuit, clipboard in one hand, burger in the other.

MONEYPENNY
You flipped those T-bones like the old days. Laser sights and all.

BOND
Medium-rare. No exceptions.

Moneypenny takes a slow bite of her burger. Juice runs down her thumb. She sets it down, eyes Bond.

MONEYPENNY
This office tracks every calorie now. One wrong onion ring and the database flags you. But that ribeye you served? That was worth the fight.

Bond glances at the half-eaten burger. Its patty glistens.

BOND
Fine dining always came with a side of trouble.

MONEYPENNY
Exactly. Dr. No-Diet wants to erase it. Replace everything with kale that tastes like regret. Someone has to keep the smoke alive.

She slides the clipboard across the desk. A single sheet reads: LICENSE TO GRILL.

MONEYPENNY
M wants you in the field again. Not for spies. For the plate.

Bond picks up the paper. The edge crinkles between his fingers.

BOND
I traded espionage for barbecue once. Hard to go back.

MONEYPENNY
Then don't go back. Go forward. Medium-rare.

She lifts her burger again. The aroma drifts across the desk. Bond smirks, deadpan.

BOND
No kale on my watch.

Moneypenny's eyebrow rises, but her voice softens.

MONEYPENNY
Good. Because the next time you light that grill, the whole agency will smell it.

Bond folds the license into his jacket pocket. Fat still glistens on the desk between them.

INT. M

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