Vagabond. This is the original mahogany paneling. The original upholstery. It’s forty-two years old, and it’s pristine. And it’s gonna stay that way.”
She lifted her head and blew out one defiant smoke ring toward the pristine forty-two-year-old ceiling. “You let the dog in here.”
“He doesn’t smoke,” Tate said. “He gets washed weekly with a hypoallergenic shampoo, and I brush him outside.”
“You’re the prissiest damn straight man I ever met,” Val said, fiddling with her cigarette lighter.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Tate said. He wiped the thick porcelain plate clean and slotted it into the wall-mounted plate rack that topped the kitchen’s only cabinet.
“I’ll bet you’re gonna tell me those are the original plates that came stocked in the original damn kitchen,” Val said.
“Nope. According to the owner’s manual, the original plates were green melamine. But they were long gone, and besides, I don’t like to eat off plastic. I bought these on eBay. They’re from a diner in Pontiac, Michigan, called the Chat ’n’ Chew. Same town the Vagabond was manufactured in. The diner closed two years after the factory did, which was 1967,” Tate said. “So, the original owner could have replaced the dishes that were included with the optional kitchen package. I know I would have.”
“And this stuff is of vital importance to you,” Val said, rolling her eyes.
“It is,” he agreed.
She sighed again. She’d had a long e-mail from Barry Adelman after he got back to New York on Friday night. Or Saturday morning, actually. The e-mail’s time stamp indicated it had been sent at2:30 A.M. Adelman wrote that he’d liked the show, liked what he called Tate’s Q-factor, thought the food was fine. But he really, really loooooved the Vagabond. And Moonpie. Which was a fact she intended to keep to herself.
“All right,” she said, glancing down at her notes. “I had a call from Connie on the way over here this morning. And you’re not going to like what she said.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“She’s gone to every fish market in Atlanta, called everybody she knows. She was able to find some small white fish fillets, but she doesn’t think they look anything like the shellcracker fillets we started shooting with on Friday. I don’t think it’s that big a deal. We’ll just have to make do. BoBo called, and the replacement camera should get here first thing tomorrow. When we reshoot, we’ll just have him cut away to the oil sizzling in the pan, or the already soaked and floured fillets. Once they’re coated in flour, you can’t tell whether they’re shellcrackers or chicken breasts. So that’s what we’ll use. Pounded thin chicken breasts.”
“What? No. Nuh-uh. No way,” Tate said. “No faking. We start that, pretty soon I’m substituting pork loins for venison, and God knows what comes after that.”
“Nobody will ever know, Tate,” Val said. “Or care.”
“I’ll know,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I care.”
“Fine,” she said, tossing her pen onto the tabletop, and matching him glare for glare. “What do you suggest?”
He stood up, put his authentic heavy vitreous china coffee mug in the sink, and rinsed it out.
“Moonpie,” he said.
The dog scrambled to his feet.
“Come on, boy,” Tate said, opening the Vagabond’s screen-fitted door.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Val asked. “We’ve still got the rest of the week’s scripts to go over. We need to decide on a dessert to go with the grilled quail breasts you’re doing for Tuesday’sshow, and figure out what you want to do about the shrimp debacle. We really don’t have time for the talent to throw a temper tantrum.”
“Okay,” Tate said. He jerked his head in Val’s direction, and then toward the door. “Like you said, time’s wasting. Let’s roll.”
“Roll where?” she asked, reaching for her purse, patting her pocket to make sure
She lifted her head and blew out one defiant smoke ring toward the pristine forty-two-year-old ceiling. “You let the dog in here.”
“He doesn’t smoke,” Tate said. “He gets washed weekly with a hypoallergenic shampoo, and I brush him outside.”
“You’re the prissiest damn straight man I ever met,” Val said, fiddling with her cigarette lighter.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Tate said. He wiped the thick porcelain plate clean and slotted it into the wall-mounted plate rack that topped the kitchen’s only cabinet.
“I’ll bet you’re gonna tell me those are the original plates that came stocked in the original damn kitchen,” Val said.
“Nope. According to the owner’s manual, the original plates were green melamine. But they were long gone, and besides, I don’t like to eat off plastic. I bought these on eBay. They’re from a diner in Pontiac, Michigan, called the Chat ’n’ Chew. Same town the Vagabond was manufactured in. The diner closed two years after the factory did, which was 1967,” Tate said. “So, the original owner could have replaced the dishes that were included with the optional kitchen package. I know I would have.”
“And this stuff is of vital importance to you,” Val said, rolling her eyes.
“It is,” he agreed.
She sighed again. She’d had a long e-mail from Barry Adelman after he got back to New York on Friday night. Or Saturday morning, actually. The e-mail’s time stamp indicated it had been sent at2:30 A.M. Adelman wrote that he’d liked the show, liked what he called Tate’s Q-factor, thought the food was fine. But he really, really loooooved the Vagabond. And Moonpie. Which was a fact she intended to keep to herself.
“All right,” she said, glancing down at her notes. “I had a call from Connie on the way over here this morning. And you’re not going to like what she said.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“She’s gone to every fish market in Atlanta, called everybody she knows. She was able to find some small white fish fillets, but she doesn’t think they look anything like the shellcracker fillets we started shooting with on Friday. I don’t think it’s that big a deal. We’ll just have to make do. BoBo called, and the replacement camera should get here first thing tomorrow. When we reshoot, we’ll just have him cut away to the oil sizzling in the pan, or the already soaked and floured fillets. Once they’re coated in flour, you can’t tell whether they’re shellcrackers or chicken breasts. So that’s what we’ll use. Pounded thin chicken breasts.”
“What? No. Nuh-uh. No way,” Tate said. “No faking. We start that, pretty soon I’m substituting pork loins for venison, and God knows what comes after that.”
“Nobody will ever know, Tate,” Val said. “Or care.”
“I’ll know,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I care.”
“Fine,” she said, tossing her pen onto the tabletop, and matching him glare for glare. “What do you suggest?”
He stood up, put his authentic heavy vitreous china coffee mug in the sink, and rinsed it out.
“Moonpie,” he said.
The dog scrambled to his feet.
“Come on, boy,” Tate said, opening the Vagabond’s screen-fitted door.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Val asked. “We’ve still got the rest of the week’s scripts to go over. We need to decide on a dessert to go with the grilled quail breasts you’re doing for Tuesday’sshow, and figure out what you want to do about the shrimp debacle. We really don’t have time for the talent to throw a temper tantrum.”
“Okay,” Tate said. He jerked his head in Val’s direction, and then toward the door. “Like you said, time’s wasting. Let’s roll.”
“Roll where?” she asked, reaching for her purse, patting her pocket to make sure
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