“So, this is a miniversion of what we will make on a larger scale later today,” I said, pointing to the bowl. “We’ve whisked our flour and salt, and we are ready to incorporate our fats. Now, people feel very strongly about the butter-lard issue, but I like a mix of both. More butter than lard, but a combo of both makes for a very flaky and flavorful crust.”
Tova nodded. “Whatever you say, Charlie, I will do. I grew up on frozen Pillsbury, so anything homemade is an improvement.”
I smiled, feeling magnanimous. “I’m sure the Pillsbury ones were made with love, too.”
Tova snorted. “Probably not. My mom was more interested in her revolving door of boyfriends than in making piecrust.”
“Ouch,” Mike, the cameraman said quietly from behind his mammoth lens, and I realized how accustomed I had become to having my every move and conversation filmed.
“So even though we make this in bigger batches, the same principles apply,” I said. I pointed to my precise, tiny cubes of butter and lard. “Chilling is essential. Pastry dough is very temperamental and really only shines when you respect its need to remain cold and as untouched as possible. I remember—”
“You’re so insensitive!” Tova’s exclamation was sudden and loud.
“Excuse me?” I asked, genuinely baffled. My hands hovered above the metal bowl.
“I’m trying to talk to you about my alcoholic mom who had issues with promiscuity, Charlie.” Her eyes were brimming, but no tears fell. “I lived in a shack. With no running water. And lots of bugs.” Her chin dropped indignantly.
I stared, unblinking. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t.” She flipped her hair as she continued. “You’re so absorbed with yourself and your career and your rise to the top.” She punctuated this last sentence with a poke by one righteous fingernail to the ceiling. “I’m a woman, too, Charlie. I would think you’d want to help another female chef in this male-dominated profession.”
Why did I get the feeling she’d had to practice saying those words together?
“Listen,” I said, hands still clumpy with lard and flour, “I have been helping you. In fact …” I moved one step in her direction. “I have been ignoring the fact that you are eons behind where you should be to have your position here and have, instead, taken you under my wing.”
“Your wing is rigid and uncaring!” she cried, one single tear rolling down her cheek.
“All right,” I said, flipping the faucet knob and pumping three vigorous slams on the soap dispenser. “I need a break and so do you. We can do pie crust another time.”
The light on the camera dimmed, and Margot stepped around the crew.
“Excellent. Perfect, Tova.”
I looked at Tova, who looked extraordinarily pleased with herself. “Wow,” she said. “That was intense.” She met my confused expression. “Thanks for going with that, Charlie. I really felt the freedom to become the scene.”
“What the—” I began.
Margot put her hand on my arm. I could feel its icy temp through my shirt. “You were fantastic.”
My brows knitted together. “I wasn’t fantastic. I was offended. Can someone please tell me what on earth just happened here?”
Margot pointed to a spot on the clipboard she carried. “We were working on a story line for Tova in this episode and thought we could address the issue of women in the professional kitchen. This scene will be a part of a montage that will highlight the struggles she’s had, the injustices, the victimization, the victories she’s scored in such a male-dominated profession.”
There was that phrase again, clearly outlined for Tova during a previous tutorial.
“So,” Margot finished, “Tova did an excellent job of drawing out the delicate war between feminine strength and relationship building.”
“Was any of that real?” I asked, my mind whirling.
Margot looked bemused. “That, my sweet girl, is the question we must always ask and to which none of us has a good answer. Hence the enduring success of reality television.” She smiled, and I saw a line of crooked lower teeth I’d never noticed before. “But to ease your mind, yes, Tova was speaking from the heart. Right, Tova?”
“Wow,” Tova said, basking in Margot’s attention. “I’m so glad you liked it, Ms. Rubin. It’s really such a huge honor to be working with you.” She must have felt me staring hard at her because she turned and wilted a bit. “Just so you know, Charlie, my mom really did sleep around.”
“The shack without running water?” I was doing all I could to remain civil.
She shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “A split-level in Las Vegas. But sometimes my mom forgot to pay the water bill and they shut it off! For, like, two days!”