Detroit circa 1962:

A man brings a male guest home for dinner in the city. Dessert is a home-made peach pie. The wife asks her husband "How you like my pie, baby?" "I've had better.", he says. "How 'bout you?", she says to the guest." "I guess I had better pie in my day." says the guest.

The wife stepped out of the dining room and fetched a .38. "Blap, blap", said the .38, and "blap, blap" again. Two diners off to the morgue where peach pie is not on the menu. The shooter is off to prison, where who-knows-what will be for dinner.

Just another mealtime in Detroit, the city where it doesn't pay to tell the truth, 'cause you know what's coming if you hurt someone's feeling. Especially the cook's.