“Don’t make a scene, Bob — we’re in public!” Harvey hisses across the table, gripping his napkin like a lifeline.
And that grin spreading across Tim Conway’s face?
That’s the warning sign — because the scene is absolutely about to be made.
What begins as a polite business lunch quickly dissolves into glorious chaos. Conway, the picture of innocent calm, delivers every line with a quiet absurdity that feels both courteous and dangerously unhinged. His words float softly across the table like harmless feathers… until they detonate into laughter loud enough to rattle the silverware.
Korman, fighting for dignity, becomes a portrait of unraveling professionalism. One sip of water turns into a choke. One stiff exhale becomes a wheeze. Every eye roll, every defeated stare into the middle distance, every slow-motion collapse into his hands only tightens the comedic spring. You can practically hear him thinking: “Please… not here… not now.”
By the time the anxious waiter approaches, the “break-up” is complete — not between characters, but between Harvey’s sanity and the reality Conway has gleefully shredded. A perfectly timed cough, a despair-drenched facepalm, and Harvey’s unmistakable high-pitched giggle seal the deal. What should have been a simple lunch morphs into a full-scale meltdown, executed with surgical comedic brilliance.
No script on Earth could contain this. What unfolds feels alive — a collision between two masters at the height of their mischief. Conway orchestrates chaos with whisper-soft precision; Korman surrenders to it with the grace of a man who knows resistance is futile.
By the final bite, one thing is clear: this wasn’t lunch.
It was theater.
It was combat.
It was the purest expression of chemistry two performers can have — where laughter isn’t just expected… it’s guaranteed.