Then the phone rang. It was a dame. It was always a dame. I could tell this one was hungry for something. Trust me, I'm a detective.
"Do we have a dinner plan?" she asked.
"Why are you doing a bad Humphrey Bogart impression?"
"Because I can't do a good one. But, tell me more about this dinner. What's it look like? Where was it last seen?"
"Whatever," she said in that way women have. "Remember, it's Tuesday. Gotta eat early."
"Well, that's just swell, sweetheart," I said. "So, it's a rush job and you can't even give me a description of the missing dinner. Do you at least have any suspects?"
"There's peppers in the fridge," she said like she was talking to her poodle. "And you're not going to be doing this all night are you?"
Click. The phone went dead, like the empty bottle of cheap whiskey in the desk drawer. Seems like this kind of case always happens on a Tuesday. Starts with the same dame calling, too, come to think of it. You'd think she'd keep better track of her dinners. But then, maybe it was just an excuse to call her favorite dinner detective, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

There's a thousand dinners in the naked city. I gave the lady hers. All in a day's work. I'm Chef Dad: Dinner Detective.
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