“Wrong?”
“I mean it. Every week we get a thousand letters telling us you can’t possibly cook seven sixteen-ounce packages of dry macaroni in two cups of water, or something stupid like that. So I have to mail out a thousand letters with the corrected recipe and say thanks for watching Food Freak.”
“I had no idea. I wonder what Tim thought of that.”
“He and I used to joke about Quentin all the time,” Dawn said, sighing. “Tim was a great guy. We went out a few times, you know.”
“You did?”
She nodded.
“Dawn, just take it as a given that I know absolutely nothing about anything here.”
“You are so funny,” Dawn said. “But Tim and I, we kept it pretty low-key around the office. Not too many people knew.”
“That must make this whole situation about Tim very difficult for you.”
“I know. It’s creepy. Tim and I had stopped going out around Christmas. Anyway, it had never been anything serious. Just a good time. Like he took me to New York, which was so hot. We saw The Producers.”
“So much of what goes on around here amazes me. Why do you think Tim put up with Quentin, if Quentin was screwing up so much?”
“Tim said Quentin was a really sweet guy who just needed a break.”
That deserved a reaction, and I threw one at Dawn. She laughed. “I agree,” she said. “I couldn’t see it, either, but then maybe I haven’t been that impartial. Frankly,” she said, lowering her already low voice, “I’ve been trying to get a job as a writer here from the day I started. I had no experience, so they put me out here. I think I’d do a much better job than Quentin Shore ever did.”
This was getting to be rather awkward. “Oh, Dawn. You must hate me,” I said.
“I do,” Dawn said, with a smile.
“How can you stand it? Instead of moving you up, they brought me in at the very last second. How annoying.”
“That’s okay, Madeline. Hey, it’s not your fault Hollywood is screwed. You’re old friends with Greta, right?”
I nodded.
“Thought so. I don’t think Greta is all that wild about me. Look, if Tim had been here and one of the other writers had gone missing, I might have had a chance. It doesn’t matter. Things are changing fast. Now that Quentin has left, I have another shot at getting the promotion. Artie likes me, and that counts for a lot.”
“I would imagine it does.” First Tim, and then Artie. Dawn had her own way of working the system.
“You think I’m too ambitious, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Yes you do. I’m ready to be discovered in the chorus and given my shot at being a star, what can I say? But don’t worry, Madeline. I can wait my turn. I’ve got time. I’m a lot younger than you are.” She smiled at me and I couldn’t help but gasp.
I threw Dawn a look. “But you’re sure you’re old enough to work?”
She laughed out loud. “I graduated from Hastings Law School last May. I passed the bar in September. And I figure I’m about to move up here pretty soon.”
“You could be practicing law, but instead you are answering phones at Food Freak?”
“You have to start somewhere, Madeline. I’m paying dues. I remind contestants to give us their cell phone numbers. You probably spent years slaving over a hot stove somewhere to earn your chef stripes. I have no problem with learning the ropes and doing a bit of grunt work. But what I really want to do is write,” she said earnestly.
“Thanks for all the scoop, Dawn, and also the tip. If I am asked to write up recipes for the bumpers, I’ll watch the measurements and ingredients.”
“Don’t sweat it,” she said. “It’s just part of my job. The more I handle down here, the more chance Artie might notice. And so far, Artie has been very impressed.”
Was there any limit to how far the adorable Ms. Dawn Weiss was willing to go? My guess was, not really. She flashed me another bright smile, a smile of such whiteness I was sure contestant applicants Lois and Dr. G. would certainly approve. Nothing would stop Dawn. If there was a current Mrs. Arthur Herman out there somewhere, I was getting the distinct impression she should be calling her lawyer to overturn the prenup before it was too late. It’s not that I’m against a girl having a goal, but didn’t anybody around here realize they were not, for instance, vying for a Nobel Prize? Cancer was not being cured here. THIS IS A SIMPLE FREAKING GAME SHOW. Perhaps, in the interest of mental health, they needed to put that sentiment in a large frame in each office in the building.
“And, Madeline, here’s another tip for you,” Dawn said. “Don’t ever keep Artie waiting. He hates that. He’s fired writers for less. And don’t you forget, there’s someone sitting right here who is determined to join the writing staff for next season.” She smiled a perfectly happy little smile.
“Th-thanks. And since you’ve been so helpful, here’s a tip for you,” I offered, as I turned to leave. “There is an adorable cat outside and down the left alley. He’s being used in a TV spot and you’ve got to see him.”
“Cute?”
“The cat is to die for.”
According to the clock on the wall above Dawn’s tidy glass-topped desk, it was nearly ten-thirty. Damn. The writers’ meeting. I said “Later,” and as I left I checked my back nonchalantly for any daggers. Dawn was scary. But then, so was the last twenty-four hours in Game-Showville. With Tim Stock’s presumed death and Quentin Shore’s resignation and Dawn Weiss’s determination, I was beginning to suspect that the life span of a game-show writer might not be all that long.
“Madeline?”
I looked back at Dawn, who was just replacing the receiver on her desk telephone.
“That was just Artie,” she said. “It seems everyone is looking all over the place for you. He said to tell you to come quick. It’s an emergency.”
Chapter 20
Darling girl,” Artie said, looking up. “Madeline, doll-face. You are here. Good. Good. Marvelous. Let’s call Jennifer and get started.”
I stood at the door to Artie’s third-floor office. The huge old-fashioned skylight reminded me of a retrostyle New York loft apartment, the bright expanse of industrial glass covered by a grid of wire hexagons. Artie’s furniture was of a boxy fifties style that was currently the rage, but I suspected it had all been with Artie pretty much from way back then.
“We were concerned, you know, about where you were,” Artie said, getting up from behind his desk and coming to see if I was really okay. “So much I don’t understand,” he murmured. “So much going on. And we have a script to write, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I—”
“No, not a word. No bother at all. I’m just happy to see you. Sit down. Sit down. Find a comfortable spot. I just called Jennifer and Susan. They should be up here any minute. So, would you like something to drink? I have a little fridge here, so I don’t have to go downstairs to the kitchen. I’m spoiled, aren’t I? I know I should get the exercise. That would be good for me. But what’s the point of being a big shot if you can’t have a fridge if you want one?”
Artie guided me to a love seat with big, block-style cushions that were upholstered in orange leather. He offered me a choice of bottled waters and soft drinks. As he went off to get me a soda, Speedy Alka-Seltzer, from his dominant framed position on the wall behind Artie’s desk, winked at me. But then, he was always in midwink, so I tried not to make too much of it. Artie insisted on pulling the tab on my can of Diet Coke. I had to laugh at him, he was fussing over me so. Was this the man who raged and screamed and humiliated Susan Anderson five years ago in a snit over some Aztec ruins?
“We’re here,” said Jennifer, coming through the door. “Again. Oh, Maddie. We didn’t know what happened to you.”
“Hi there,” Susan Anderson said. “We thought maybe you went home, too.”
“I had to get my laptop out of my car,” I explained.
“Well, let’s get started,” Artie said.<
br />
“Where’s Greta?” I whispered across to Jennifer, but Artie heard me.
“Ah, Greta. Yes. We have had to accept her resignation. Can you believe that? Just what we need right now, more staff changes.” Artie was very serious and choosing his words slowly. “Tim Stock…well, Tim is gone. And I was informed in a most insulting manner that Quentin Shore will not be at work today. Can you believe that? Mrs. Finkelberg, of all people, got a message from Quentin earlier this morning. Well, if he can’t make it to work, he’s out of a job. And now—I hate this like poison—Greta Greene has left us as well. So. So. Here we are then. I have never in all my years in television seen anything quite so irresponsible and unprofessional. But I’m washing my hands of them, all of them. They chose to leave us. They have lost out. That’s all I’m going to say. They could have carried on here and finished one final episode, but…But, well, they didn’t. Okay. We’ll go on. We only have the one final show to do, right?”
Susan nodded.
I was stunned. Greta had left the show. What on earth had happened?
“But we can’t waste a second. Not a second,” Artie continued. “And here’s the good news. Here’s the emergency. We’re going to shoot the final episode of Food Freak in five days. Live.”
“What?” Jennifer asked, startled.
“Live?” Susan stopped scribbling notes and looked up, eyes round.
“Why not?” Artie asked. “We’re in a pickle, my dears. The facts are the facts. By delaying yesterday’s taping, we lost our window. We don’t have enough time left to make it up. How can we tape a new show and edit it in postproduction at this late date? This is exactly what I told Greta, but she refused to see it. Without enough lead time to edit the show and deliver it for broadcast this coming Wednesday night, what else can we do?”
“But a cooking show, live?” Susan said, looking horrified.
“We’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.” Artie sounded amused. “We’ll use some pre-cooking tricks like they use for the morning shows. Live is exciting, ladies. That’s the way we did all our television programs a few years ago, chickadees. It was a hoot. Of course, you are all much too young to remember those days. And did I tell you about the network? Oh boy. The kids who are running the network absolutely love the idea. They are hog wild over it. They think everyone in America will be glued to their sets. And they will. Of course. Just think of the added suspense: Will Chef Howie flub a line? Will some contestant freeze under the pressure? Will a dozen eggs hit the floor? Heh-heh!”
“Good questions,” I whispered to Susan, and, luckily, Artie did not overhear my comment this time.
“So, we are doing the show live,” Artie finished triumphantly. “Next Wednesday. And, Madeline, tell your partner to reschedule the wrap party. We’ll have our wrap party on the set, after the show on Wednesday night.”
“This coming Wednesday,” Susan repeated, sounding stunned.
“Okay,” Jennifer Klein said, thinking it all over. “But the show will look so different. I mean, our regular format isn’t…I mean…”
“Format, shmormat. We’ll do a different show,” Artie said, preaching hard to the doubtful. “Look, who says Food Freak has to be the same old thing all the time? Why not give Freak a new zetz of life?”
“A new ‘zetz,’” Jennifer repeated, her face absolutely straight.
“But,” Susan interrupted, still not sure that Artie comprehended the massive production difficulties ahead, “who’s going to direct it? Live is completely different from tape. And what about contestants?”
“Here’s the beauty part,” Artie said, his faded blue eyes twinkling. “We need our best contestants to pull this off, right? Listen to this. We’ll make it a battle of the alumni chefs! Our first one ever. We’ll end the season with a showdown cook-off between this past season’s two biggest winning teams. Don’t you see? We’ll bring back everyone’s favorite contestants and give them an even bigger jackpot to compete for.”
“More than the half-million dollars they have already won?” Susan asked, incredulous.
“What do you think of this?” Artie reached over to the side of his desk and held up a matted eleven-by-fourteen photograph showing a château in France. “They get this.”
“That castle?” Jennifer asked.
“Yes. Thirty minutes outside Paris.”
“Oh, Artie,” I said, almost drooling. The limestone-fronted mansion looked like a fairy tale. It even had a turret and a moat.
“With the current exchange rate, real estate in France is a bargain,” he said. “And that’s not all. The winners will get to design their very own dream kitchen. Everything they want, they get. It’s part of the prize package. The network boys are going to start the on-air promos tonight.”
“Oh,” Jennifer said, “I like that. That’s good. This whole idea could be fun.”
“You catching on? Good,” Artie said, turning to her. “Now, imagine the fun Chef Howie can have with our two returning champion teams. It’s a battle, yes? It’s conflict. It’s rivals with a grudge. It’s a race to see who is going to win this magnificent palace near Paris, France, outfitted for the most discriminating chef. Now, that’s great television.”
“Who are the returning champs?” I asked. I had been a pretty faithful viewer for most of the season, but I couldn’t count myself as a true Freak freak. I didn’t have an official Freak spatula or a poster of Chef Howie pinned up on my bedroom wall. I never kept track of all the past players nor did I memorize the details of their personal lives like some of the show’s most avid fans. I’d heard there were Websites that featured contestant bios, which were devoted to describing the homes and families of the show’s biggest winners and most popular amateur chefs. I’d never visited any of the Websites, but I had been just as fascinated by the players as the rest of the country. I’d tuned in to see a few of my own favorite Food Freak winners do a cooking segment with Regis or be interviewed by Jay Leno. I had to admit it. Artie’s idea did have a certain…zetz.
“Our champs? They’re wonderful, Madeline. You will love them,” Artie said. “I’ve already got Nellie and Stella working on my plan. They were told to dismiss all the auditions for today and get right on to our new agenda. We have got to book the champs immediately.”
Susan looked at a file and read off the names to us. “Marley, Sydney, and Emily Baker, the sisters,” she read.
“They are dolls,” Artie said, abuzz with excitement. “Pure gold.”
“And then we’ve got the divorced team of Bruce Holtz and his ex-wife, Belinda,” Susan added and looked up at us. “Now, they were hysterical.”
“Oh, Bruce and Belinda,” I said, with real enthusiasm. “I loved them. I just knew those Baker sisters had made the best wedding cake.”
“See? Madeline gets it. Everyone in America loves those girls.”
I was becoming excited, once again. Food Freak was a lot of fun. And now I was getting to write recipes for the show that would be seen by millions. And here we were, talking about some of the coolest people on reality TV. And it looked like I’d be getting to meet some of them on Wednesday.
“See?” Artie crowed. “It’s a winner of an idea. The best of the best. It’s magic.”
“So, we’ll bring back those two teams for an encore,” Susan said as she wrote it down in her book.
“It’s like that whatchamacallit on Jeopardy! that they do all the time when they run out of good new contestants,” Artie said, still upbeat, still pitching.
“Tournament of champions,” Jennifer answered.
“Yes, Jennifer. Yes. That’s it. That’s exactly what we need. But with a better title. Something much more alive and fun than that. How about this? We could call our grand finale show ‘Food Freak’s Kool Kitchen Kook-Off!’ We use all Ks.”
Susan made a face dismissing Artie’s Ks, and I could see a lightbulb go off over her head. She said, “What about: ‘War of the Cooks’? No, that’s not good. ‘Cook-Off Face-Off.’ No.” She burst
into laughter at herself. “See why I am not a writer?”
“ ‘Grub Match’?” I tried. “You know, like a play on words for ‘Grudge Match’?”
“Maddie, Tim always used to say, if you have to explain it, it stops being funny,” Susan said. We all giggled.
“Or,” Jennifer suggested, “how about: ‘Food Freak Revenge: The Final Food Fight.’ ”
“Ooh!” Susan said. “Great.”
I joined the laughter and said, “I love it!”
“What?” Artie sounded slightly put out. “You like ‘Food Fight’ better than ‘Kitchen Kook-Off’ with the Ks? Maybe you can’t visualize what cool graphics we can make with those Ks on the Avid.”
The room became quiet. One should be careful when dismissing the boss’s suggestion but, then again, I wasn’t planning on working here more than a couple of days longer, anyway. “Well, if you’re asking, Artie, I think ‘Food Fight’ is cooler,” I said.
“It’s fun, Artie,” Susan agreed. “You want this to be fun, right?”
“Yes, sure, sure. Make it ‘Food Freak Revenge: The Final Food Fight.’ Okay.”
Susan took quick notes, and we proceeded to work out the menus for the special show. As usual, the format of the basic game was simple. Two teams would be challenged to answer two rounds of food and cooking trivia questions. For each round they won, that team could select extra ingredients to use in the final cook-off. The most exciting part of the show was when the amateur chefs donned their aprons and met in the show’s “Kitchen Arena.” Under hot lights and against a background of driving hard-rock music, they vied for culinary dominance and half a million dollars in cash in the set’s identical back-to-back kitchens.
Each cook-off team is given identical ingredients but they must select their additional items, if they’ve won them, right then and there, before they know what they’ll have to cook. After all that buildup, Chef Howie finally reveals exactly what kind of recipe they will be challenged to prepare. The announcement of the night’s recipe was always a great moment on the show, a big surprise. If the leading team selected their bonus ingredients unwisely, they might not have any advantage at all. In one great episode, a team of Philadelphia Main Line matrons asked for jumbo prawns and curry powder as their extra ingredients, only to discover later that they were to prepare ice cream sundaes for their final challenge. Those women ended up bickering for the rest of the show and lost the cook-off to a down-to-earth father/son team from Arkansas, with their own plumbing business, who hadn’t answered one culinary question correctly. Score one for the working guys.
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