by Julie Hyzy
I leaned my head against the seat. “Thank you,” I said.
Tom grinned at me. “Nothing but the best for our hero.”
I smiled back. “You driving me home?”
“Yep.”
“You coming up?”
He looked over to me and smiled. “That’s the plan.”
I felt wonderful again, for the first time in a very long while. “Good,” I said, “but on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You are not sleeping on the couch.”
CHAPTER 30
“OLLIE,” HENRY WHISPERED, “TAKE A LOOK.”
He pulled me in to the old Family Dining Room, where we’d staged all the food prepared for his retirement party. “You’re supposed to be in there,” I said, pointing toward the State Dining Room, where about fifty people milled, waiting for the party to begin.
“I know, but this is good. You have to see it.”
A television stood on a wheeled cart in the far corner. Someone had plugged the TV in. Henry had a remote control in his hand and he perched his tongue between his teeth as he fiddled with the controls. “This’ll just take a minute.”
“You’re not supposed to see this yet,” I said, grabbing for the remote.
He avoided my hands. “This isn’t my farewell tape,” he said.
“You know about that?”
He shot me a look.
The staff had put together a montage of images from pictures taken over the years—from Henry’s first day on the job through the last week’s disaster. It was a ten-minute retrospective, which we’d planned to show right after lunch. I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover Henry knew about that.
“Then what is this?”
The TV’s blank blue screen switched to that of an unfamiliar logo.
I started to ask again, but Henry said, “Hang on.”
“They’re waiting for us in there,” I reminded him.
“You think they’ll start without us?”
I was spared answering when the logo morphed into action. Henry pressed the fast-forward button three times and the tape whirred into super-high speed. “I should have cued this,” he said. I caught a snippet of our kitchen. And people zipping around.
“Laurel Anne’s audition tape?” I asked, aghast.
“Yeah,” he said with such pleasure I was taken aback.
“But…”
“Here it is.”
Henry hit “Play” and that horrible day came back to haunt in full glory.
“I was there, remember?”
He winked at me. “Patience.”
The camera zoomed in on Laurel Anne’s pretty features. She smiled. “And over here,” she said as she moved to stand next to Bucky whose back was to the camera, “is one of the helpers I trained during my original tenure in the White House.”
Bucky twisted to look at her, his entire body tense. I winced. She’d referred to him as a “helper.” Bucky was an accomplished chef. Not always the most pleasant person to be around, but a sheer genius in the kitchen. I hadn’t caught this part of the filming, and I leaned forward to hear better.
“Assistant chef,” he said quietly.
“Huh?” she asked.
Bucky repeated himself, barely moving his lips. “I’m an assistant chef, not a ‘helper,’” he said. “And I helped train you.”
Laurel Anne’s smile didn’t fade. She patted him on the shoulder. “Whatever.”
Turning her gaze toward the camera, she said, “I’m happy to be back here today to see the fruits of my labors.” Affecting surprise, she laid a hand on Bucky’s arm. “No,” she said with affected clarity. “Not like that. Let me show you.”
Bucky stepped back, hands on hips. “Excuse me, Miss Priss, but I’m chopping your asparagus. The goddamn frozen asparagus you insisted on. We don’t use frozen asparagus in this kitchen, or have you forgotten everything I taught you when you were here for those,” he held up his fingers in quote marks, “‘two horrible years’ that you always complain about?”
“Oh my God,” I said. “I had no idea.”
The interchange erupted into a shouting match. All perfectly recorded for posterity by Laurel Anne’s camera team. As I watched, I felt a smile spread across my face—I didn’t even try to tamp it down.
“Little bit more,” Henry said.
I nodded. “This is where I came in.”
This was “the meltdown,” as I’d seen it. Laurel Anne, in a huff, had picked up Cyan’s quince concoction. She held it up for the camera’s benefit and began to systematically criticize the dish’s preparation. As she poked fun at Cyan’s work, Laurel Anne walked through the kitchen, keeping her face toward the camera, making rapid, disparaging remarks.
The kitchen is small. Too bad Laurel Anne didn’t remember that.
She didn’t see the stool.
Well, not until she fell over it.
The quince mixture went flying. Cyan’s recipe had included a fairly generous helping of cherry juice. Combined with the honey, the quince, and all the other multicolored ingredients, it made for a really eye-catching mess. A mess that covered Laurel Anne’s last clean apron, and—I laughed out loud—her face as well.
The star of Cooking for the Best bellowed as she fell. Fortunately, she wasn’t hurt, but as she sat on the floor, she dissolved into tears. Not despondent tears. Tears of frustration, anger, and unadulterated fury.
I remembered that moment. I’d hurried from the kitchen to get some maintenance folks to help with the mess. I also grabbed a few rags from the storage room. The honey–cherry juice combination would be a bear to clean up. The more soaking cloths we brought to the party, the better.
While I was gone, the camera rolled.
And now I watched what had happened in my absence.
“How dare you put me in this position,” she screamed. I think she was addressing Carmen. “I told you I hated this stupid kitchen. I told you I hate everyone who works here. Especially that nosy-face Olivia. She left this damn chair here on purpose.” Still seated in a mass of muck, Laurel Anne threw a hand out and whacked the stool. It toppled. “She did this. I can beat her any day. Any goddamn day. I did work my butt off at the California Culinary Academy. Marcel is an idiot. He thinks he’s so great because he’s French. Well, la-di-da. You hear me?”
She wiped at her face.
“Damn it. Shut that damn camera off.”
Someone finally did.
“Oh my God,” I said again, when Henry hit the power button. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shook his head. “There’s been a lot going on, Ollie.”
“You can say that again.” I stared at the blank screen. “What do we do if she gets the executive chef position?”
“I borrowed this tape from Paul Vasquez,” Henry said. He licked his lips and put an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get to this party, shall we?”
TOM SLID INTO THE ROOM AND PULLED UP A chair next to mine. “How was lunch?” he asked just as the waiters brought dessert to our table. Much to Marcel’s dismay, Henry had requested a simple treat: rainbow sherbet. His ultimate favorite.
“You missed a good one.” I pointed up toward the dais where the screen for the montage was being taken down, in preparation for the speeches. “I’m up after the First Lady.”
“You ready?”
I blew out a breath. “Hope so.”
Henry sat at the head table with the First Lady, chief usher Vasquez, and a number of other department heads. I shared my table with Cyan, Bucky, Marcel, and some of our favorite waitstaffers.
Cyan tugged at Tom’s sport coat. “Is there any more scoop on the shooting?”
He nodded, placing his elbows on the table. “You’ll hear more on the news tonight. But…”
Everyone leaned forward.
“The Chameleon infiltrated the Alkumstan regime with help from the inside.”
“The prince hired him?” I asked.
Tom shook his head
. “The faction that supported Prince Sameer’s brother hired him. That faction is still very strong. They oppose everything Sameer stands for, but they hope to eventually turn Sameer to their way of thinking. Despite the fact that Mohammed was overthrown, he issued an edict that his brother must not be harmed.” Tom shrugged. “So the faction hired the Chameleon. They placed him with the delegates in an underling’s position, figuring it would get him close enough to kill the prime minister. We think Labeeb bin-Saleh might’ve been in on it, too. We’re almost sure of it.”
“Why did he wait till the signing ceremony? Couldn’t he have assassinated the prime minister in a much less public location?”
“It was bad luck and bad timing for the Chameleon. And we had an inkling of what he was up to because of Naveen.” Tom addressed an aside to the rest of the table, “Naveen is the man who was caught running across the White House North Lawn a week and a half ago.” Tom turned to me. “He knew about the Chameleon’s mission, but he didn’t know whether the prime minister or the president was the Chameleon’s target. Plus, he believed there was a conspiracy in our ranks. He thought Deputy Jack Brewster had been turned. We have since checked him out. Thoroughly. He’s clean. It’s too bad Naveen didn’t trust us. If he had, he’d be alive today.”
Jack Brewster. I’d met the assistant deputy of the Secret Service. I sighed. Maybe if I’d had my chance to talk with Naveen, I could’ve prevented him from being killed.
As though he read my mind, Tom said, “Naveen had good intentions, and we could’ve used his help. But he brought his death on himself.” His mouth tugged down at the corners. “You understand, Ollie, from the time you saw the killing at the merry-go-round, your presence changed all the pre-set plans. Once Kasim—the Chameleon—realized he wouldn’t have the opportunity to get near the prime minister before the negotiations began, he decided to get you first. Tactically speaking, it was the perfect strategy. You were the only person alive who could identify him.”
I shivered. “Why didn’t he do anything at Camp David? That would’ve provided Kasim plenty of opportunity to get at the prime minister. To get at me, too.” Yikes. I’d been alone with the guy. More than once.
“You’ve seen the place,” Tom said. “He’d never have gotten away. And that’s what he does best. Camp David is a fortress. It was too much, even for the Chameleon.” He smiled. “As were you.”
Henry made his way to the dais. I rose.
“Thanks for being such a crack shot,” I said to Tom, and kissed him on the tip of his nose.
“AND SO, HENRY,” I SAID, AS I WRAPPED UP MY farewell speech with a catch in my throat, “we’re here to say—in Marcel’s words—au revoir. Or maybe á demain would be more appropriate. Till tomorrow. Because when we all come back tomorrow, you’ll be here in everything we do. In every menu we design. You will always be here. Your soul is in the White House kitchen and you’re as essential as the pots, the pans, the spices. You are what brings this kitchen to life. I know your legacy will remain part of White House history forever, just as I know you will forever remain in my heart.”
The crowd cheered and clapped. Henry stood up to hug me.
When the applause subsided, I reached into the bottom shelf of the lectern. “The staff and I have a little something to give you—something we hope you’ll remember us by.” I pulled up the heavy yellow gift bag and watched with pleasure as he removed the sparkling silver pan from within the tissue paper. Henry ran his fingers over the lettering: TO HENRY COOLEY, FOR THE JOY YOU BROUGHT TO THE WHITE HOUSE. YOUR COUNTRY THANKS YOU. YOU WILL BE MISSED.
His eyes glistened.
I leaned forward, pointing, as I whispered in his ear. “See that little dent? Remind me. I’ve got a story to tell you.”
I was about to return to my seat when the First Lady asked me to remain on the small stage for just a moment. She took control of the microphone for a second time. I sidled next to Henry.
“Henry has assured me that my next bit of business would be most welcome, and that he would be delighted to have his retirement party end with an announcement about the future.”
She smiled and paused.
My stomach dropped to my knees. I glanced out into the audience and stared wide-eyed at Tom. Next to me, Henry squeezed my elbow.
“Henry Cooley has been the life of the White House kitchen for five administrations. And, as he’s often said, he’s seen it all and he’s done it all. Especially after last week.” A titter of nervous laughter ran through the audience. The First Lady took a deep breath, and smiled. “Despite the fact that the White House has benefited from his experience for all these years, and despite the fact that he is retiring today, I have no intention of replacing Henry.” She shook her head.
I noticed I was shaking, too. Not quite the same way.
“Today we begin anew. With recent international events happening, literally, on our doorstep, we know that we’re at the dawn of a new era. Keeping that in mind, the White House is choosing to welcome a new era in the kitchen as well.” She glanced at Henry. “I can never replace this man. Nor would I try. But, I can appoint a woman. It is with enormous pleasure that I announce to you today, the first female White House executive chef…” She turned to me and extended her hand. “Ms. Olivia Paras.”
Henry wrapped me in a hug. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move. But when he released me, I somehow managed to cross the stage and shake Mrs. Campbell’s hand. “Thank you,” I said.
“No one is more deserving than you.”
The room, full of staffers, jumped to their feet, applauding. My eyes were on Tom, who grinned with pride and clapped harder than everyone else.
“Thank you,” I said into the microphone. I sure hoped they could read lips.
As the applause continued, Henry pulled me aside. “I knew you’d get it.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s not every chef who can please the president’s palate and also save his skin.”
I touched Henry’s cheek. “I’m going to miss you.”
People rushed up to congratulate, tugging me into their midst, pulling me into a massive group hug.
Henry winked, and stepped aside.
A PRESIDENTIAL MENU
ONE OF THE STRANGEST CONUNDRUMS OF being a White House chef is that, perhaps because they spend so much time eating fancy food at official functions, most First Families want simple fare or comfort food when they eat in their private quarters. What the White House chefs are expected to provide for official functions often has nothing to do with the kinds of food that the president likes to eat when he’s away from the public eye. A White House chef might spend weeks organizing the hautest of haute cuisine for a single state menu, while in private the president’s favorite foods might be cereal for breakfast, a bowl of soup and a sandwich for lunch, and barbeque and corn on the cob for dinner.
These kinds of extremes in the menu keep the White House kitchen on its toes. In addition to the wide range of cooking, there is also the issue of getting a new slate of “Deciders” in as primary customers every four or eight years. Each president is unique, and that includes what he likes to eat. Early in the presidency, the kitchen staff sits down with the First Family and gets copies of favorite family recipes from them, as well as lists of allergies, food likes and dislikes, and sample menus and wish lists. As time goes on, those menus are updated and refined until tuned to the liking of the primary customers.
Through the years, presidential appetites have varied widely. FDR insisted on serving hot dogs to the king and queen of England and wanted to serve chicken á la king for his inauguration luncheon only to be told that the White House chefs had no way to keep that much food hot. He settled on cold chicken salad instead. Given Washington, D.C.’s weather in January, there was no problem keeping that much food cold. Dwight D. Eisenhower liked to cook; he said he found it relaxing. His beef stew recipe was a staple for White House chefs during his administration. JFK and Jackie had a fondness for upsca
le Continental cuisine. President Johnson, not surprisingly, loved good Texas beefsteak. Both the Carters and the Clintons liked down-home Southern fare, though both also appreciated voyages into more stylish cuisines. President George W. Bush made simple homestyle food a staple during his White House years, while his father, the First President Bush, had more formal tastes—though, of course, no broccoli.
“Whatever the president wants”: That’s the ground rule for the job of White House chef. My first duty is to make the president happy. And the First Family, as well. Or, at least, their stomachs. So I listen when the commander in chief speaks about his food. What the inhabitants of the White House do with their political capital is somebody else’s problem. I’m concerned with their taste buds—in public and in private.
The commander in chief I work for is a fan of simple meals, which makes my job both easier and harder. In private, he prefers peanut butter and honey sandwiches and chicken pot pies. In public, we both know it’s important to fly the flag and impress the sophisticated visitors at state dinners and official functions—but he still wants to enjoy the food. So I get to design menus that work on both levels—impressing the guests, and not being too fancy for the current gourmand in chief.
Here are some representative foods I serve to the First Family in the current White House in a typical twenty-four-hour rotation. Given the president’s taste, all are simple enough for any kitchen:
BREAKFAST
Honey-Almond Scones
Virginia Ham and Spinach Omelet
Henry’s Famous Hash Browns
Broiled Grapefruit
LUNCH
Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwich on Cinnamon Bread
Matchstick Vegetables with a Kick
Apple Tart
DINNER
Oven-Fried Chicken
Garlic Mashed Potatoes
Ollie’s Green Beans
Chocolate Angel Food Cake with Fresh Berries
