Hail to the Chef

by Julie Hyzy

  The First Lady was always credited with the concept, but the truth was, from start to finish, this was a team effort. It took months for the social secretary, the florist, and a myriad of designers to bring the project to life. Most of the decorations were chosen from a vast collection stored nearby in a Maryland warehouse. Our florist alone had a team of more than twenty-five designers who worked odd hours to assemble wreaths, arrange bouquets, and bring design elements from concept to reality.

  “Together We Celebrate-Welcome Home,” I recited. “Who came up with the title?”

  Kendra blushed. “I did.”

  “I love it. And I love the way we’ve used the theme to pay tribute to diversity.”

  She gave a little self-deprecating shrug, but I knew she was pleased. “My team has been working hard,” she said. “They’ve put in a lot of time.”

  “It shows. I can’t wait to see it all put together.”

  Bradley Clarke cleared his throat and called the meeting to order. Tall, and with a perpetually friendly smile, Bradley was the kind of man you worked hard to impress. After a few brief announcements, he said, “Let’s start with the big-ticket items before we go over this morning’s situation. Thanksgiving first. Ollie?”

  I brought the staff up-to-date on our menu and made sure that the waitstaff as well as Marguerite, the social secretary, knew that Sean Baxter would be in attendance. Everyone who needed to scribbled notes, as did I when Marguerite informed me that Mrs. Blanchard had sent her regrets.

  “Does the First Lady know?”

  “I’m meeting with her right after this.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.” Mrs. Blanchard had been our only dietary-alert guest invited to dinner Thursday. “That opens up some possible last-minute additions to the menu,” I said. As I wrote myself a note, I added, absentmindedly, “We’re going to be heavy on male guests this time. Sean Baxter’s coming alone, and now without Mrs. Blanchard…”

  Marguerite interrupted. “Treyton Blanchard is bringing his assistant instead.”

  “Bindy?” I asked.

  Marguerite nodded. “It will be nice to see her.”

  “Isn’t that a little odd?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be with his wife on Thanksgiving?” I knew I’d blurted my thoughts before corralling them, but this was a staff meeting, after all. It was where we were supposed to air our questions.

  “Senator Blanchard’s family is hosting dinner at their home later that night for both sides of the family,” she said with a sniff. “Mrs. Blanchard appreciates the invitation, but she knows the Thanksgiving luncheon at the White House will be mostly business. She’d rather stay home with the kids and keep their traditions alive.” Turning down an invitation to the White House was considered sacrilege. “All of this according to Bindy, that is.”

  Bindy Gerhardt had been part of the White House staff until she’d accepted a position on Treyton Blanchard’s team. She’d fast-tracked her way into his inner circle, and I started to hear Sean Baxter’s refrain in my head. These people weren’t coming to share a Thanksgiving meal, they were intending to conduct business.

  As a former colleague and White House staffer, Bindy would be uniquely qualified to secure Mrs. Campbell’s ear. I was suddenly glad Sean would be at dinner. And especially glad the president would be there to back up his wife.

  Marguerite added, “And you know Helen Hendrickson is bringing Aloysius Fitzgerald, right?”

  Her attorney. “Yeah,” I said. “And who is Nick Volkov planning to bring? His financier?”

  The other department heads looked at me in surprise. Marguerite’s brow furrowed. “The last I heard, he’s bringing his wife.” She tilted her head. “Is there something I should know?”

  I waved off her concern. “Sorry. Stressful morning. My mind took a tangent.” Smiling brightly at the group, I continued my update before passing the floor to the next person.

  We were just finishing the meeting when one of the assistants came in with a note for Bradley. “Gene,” he said, after he’d read it. “I thought you said the power to the Map Room had been restored.”

  Gene rocked back in his chair. “Yep. Last week, just like you asked.”

  “Not according to the cleaning crew. They were just in there and couldn’t get the lights to work.”

  Gene sat forward, the front chair legs landing with a whump. “Curly said he took care of it.” Shaking his head, he stood. Like the rest of us in the White House, he knew better than to place blame. “I’ll take care of it right now,” he said, and started out as the rest of us got up to leave.

  Bradley held up a finger. “We’re almost done here. Before you go, I want to let everyone know that the Secret Service has arranged for”-he hesitated-“classes to educate the staff in threat assessment.”

  From the group: “Does this have to do with the thing they found this morning?”

  Someone else asked, “What aren’t they telling us?”

  Bradley raised both hands. “You guys know the Secret Service. They’ll tell us when and what they need to tell us. Just be aware that you’ll be contacted soon, and that these classes are mandatory.”

  Above the disgruntled murmurs, Kendra voiced the concern we all had. “Don’t they know we’re gearing up for Christmas? Can’t this wait till after New Year?”

  “Terrorists don’t care how much work we have.” Bradley said. That reflection sobered us all. “Sorry,” he said. “I know the deadlines we’re all up against. If everyone cooperates, we’ll get through this quickly. Okay?”

  Gene had already bolted to the door, muttering something about not being able to depend on his people. Curly was in for an earful when Gene got down to the electrical office. Staff members were rarely caught falling down on the job, and Curly, for all his unpleasantness, was generally quite dependable. I wondered what was wrong.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE SBA CHEF, AGDA, WAS HARD AT WORK when I returned to the kitchen. Even though I felt I knew her on paper, this was the first time we’d met in person. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t a six-foot-tall bombshell who chopped carrots faster than a food processor on high speed. Wielding a knife so long she could have used it in battle, she halted her chunk-chunk-chunk carrot-hacking and smiled hello.

  From Agda’s curriculum vitae I was able to determine how old she was-late twenties-right between Cyan’s age and mine. But heightwise, she had us both by about a foot.

  I was in for another surprise. Her command of English was limited. Severely.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Agda,” I said, reaching up to shake hands with her.

  With a supermodel’s smile, she nodded down to me. “Hallo,” she said, then hesitated. I could practically see her searching her brain before her next words came out, enunciated with care. “You are born France?”

  “I was born in the United States,” I said, thinking that was a mighty peculiar question to ask the first moment on the job. From the sound of her last name and the natural blond of her chignon, I’d already deduced her to be of Swedish descent.

  When she spoke again, haltingly, I smiled at the lilt in her words, even as I worried about communication in an already stressed kitchen. “They tell me you are… Paris.”

  “Oh.” Realization dawned. “I get you,” I said, knowing she was clearly not getting me. Slowing down, I pointed to myself. “Olivia… Ollie… Paras.” I nodded encouragingly. “My name is Ollie Paras.”

  Her mouth turned downward. “I am to work for French chef.”

  “Marcel has an assistant,” I said. “He’s the pastry chef.”

  “No, no. No pastry,” she said, shaking her head in emphasis. “I can be sous-chef. I work here for French chef.”

  “You speak French?” At least we could have Marcel translate when necessary.

  She shook her head apologetically. “Ah…” she said as she put her fingers up to indicate, “un peu.”

  “Well, now that that’s cleared up,” Bucky said from the far e
nd of the kitchen. “Isn’t this great? Even if she’s capable, the best we can do is give her tasks we can pantomime.” Using exaggerated hand motions, he pretended to stir an imaginary handheld bowl. “Like this. And you wonder why Henry always insisted on an interview first.”

  Agda’s forehead crinkled. She may not have understood him completely, but his manner was distressing her.

  “What a laugh,” he continued. “We’re working shorthanded, and instead of sending us someone we’ve used before, the service expects us to be the United Nations.”

  “Bucky, that’s enough,” I said.

  He fixed me with a glare, but at least he shut up.

  “Come here,” I said to Agda, leading her to the side of the room farthest from Bucky. The White House kitchen is surprisingly small. For all the meals that come out of this place, everyone expects a larger area and state-of-the-art equipment. To be fair, some of our stuff is cutting-edge, but because all purchases must come out of a budget supported by the public, we learn to make do with what we have. “When you finish the carrots”-I pointed-“why don’t you begin making the soup?” I pulled up the recipe from our online files.

  Agda’s eyes lit up. “I read,” she said with some pride. “I know how”-she searched for the right phrase-“follow recipe.”

  “Great,” I said. As I headed to the computer to update my notes from the staff meeting, she called out to me.

  “Ollie,” she said, making my name sound like oily. “You are kitchen assistant, yes?”

  Bucky barked a laugh.

  “No,” I said, slowly, moving back toward her. “I’m the executive chef.” Even now, months after my appointment, I still felt a little thrill anytime I said it. Pointing to myself yet again, I smiled. “I’m the boss.”

  “You? Boss?” She laughed, not mean-spiritedly. Her voice went up an octave as she hovered her hand, flat, just inches above my head. “You are little for boss, no?”

  From the corner, Bucky guffawed. “I like this girl already.”

  NOT TEN MINUTES LATER, ONE OF THE SECRET Service guys appeared in the kitchen. “Time for the meeting, Ollie,” he said.

  My hands and attention deep in the floured batter that would become soft biscuits, I looked up. “What meeting?”

  “The Emergency Response Team. The ERT guys. They have that department-head meeting going in the East Room.”

  Bucky and Cyan grumbled. Marcel was out of the room at the moment, and Agda clearly didn’t understand.

  “Now?” I asked.

  He tapped his watch. “Hurry up. The sooner we get in there, the sooner you’ll get back.”

  “But-”

  “I know, I know. I’ve heard it from everybody so far. Too much to do. No time. Today’s bomb scare threw everyone off and believe me, we’re hearing about it.” Pointing upstairs he added, “It’s mandatory.”

  I washed my hands and dried them hastily on my apron as he talked. For the second time that day, I grabbed my notebook and pen and put Bucky in charge of the kitchen. “Get as much done as you can,” I said. “I’m sure I won’t be long.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bucky said.

  Cyan rolled her eyes. Agda smiled and waved her knife.

  Measuring about eighty by thirty-seven feet, the East Room is the largest room in the White House, and is generally used for social events, such as when singer Karina Pasian performed here, in celebration of Black Music Month during the George W. Bush administration, or in the 1980s for President Ronald Reagan’s seventieth birthday bash. Although the room is also used for more down-to-business purposes, such as bill-signing ceremonies and award presentations, I liked to think of it as the party room. The White House’s first architect, James Hoban, probably had a similar idea in mind, because he had dubbed it the “Public Audience Chamber.”

  Today, in addition to the stunning eagle-leg grand piano that sat beneath a protective dust cloth in the southern corner and the collection of chairs brought in for the staff, the room was lined on two walls by folding tables. Whatever they held was also covered by white cloth, but I didn’t imagine their role was to keep away dust. The lumpiness beneath the white fabric led me to believe that whatever was under there was to be kept from the staff’s prying eyes.

  I took a folding chair toward the back, finding myself seated near Gene again. “How’s it going?” I asked, not really expecting much of a reply.

  “I can’t find Manny or Vince,” he said.

  I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information. Manny and Vince were journeymen electricians who did a lot of the maintenance work around the grounds. “They’re… missing?”

  “Damned if I know,” he said, leaning close enough for me to smell his stale coffee breath. “Curly told them to get the Map Room hot again, but now he’s gone for the day and I can’t find either of the two young guys.”

  Vince might be considered youthful. Manny, not so much. Of course, from Gene’s point of view, twenty- and thirtysomethings probably did seem like youngsters.

  “Curly’s gone? With everything we have to do?”

  Gene shook his big head. “His wife’s in the hospital. They called him out there. What could I do?” he asked rhetorically. “I need to make sure they take care of things. With the Map Room out of juice, I start worrying about the Blue Room and the Red Room. Even though they’re on the floor above, they’re close, you know.”

  I knew where the Blue and Red rooms were, but I also knew Gene was just working off stress by explaining it to me. The Christmas tree, due here in just a few days, would be set up in the Blue Room for White House guests to see and admire. The Red Room would host the gingerbread house. Lack of electricity in either location was not an option.

  Just then, three men dressed in black marched into the room. All had enormous rifles, solemn expressions, and baseball caps pulled low. Behind them four other men followed. These guys were dressed in camouflage gear. When the procession came to halt before our gathering of department heads, the men pivoted and came to attention. I didn’t know whether I should stand, salute, or what.

  “Welcome to the first round of educational seminars scheduled for White House personnel.” I leaned to see around the people in front of me. A tall, fortyish man stood in front of us on a raised dais. Watching us, he ran both hands through his sandy hair before he leaned forward to grip the sides of a lectern. With a voice like his, he didn’t really need the microphone, but that didn’t stop him from using it. “I am Special Agent-in-Charge Leonard Gavin. I am in command of this endeavor.” He worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth, and tugged his head sideways the way men do when their collars are too tight. “In the course of White House business, you will refer to me as Special Agent Gavin.”

  Now I really felt like saluting.

  Still booming, he continued. “You will be given name tags and asked to sign in so we know you were here. I will attempt to learn all your names. We have a lot to accomplish, so we will begin by passing out a study guide. Nickerson?”

  One of the camouflage men stepped forward to begin distributing booklets.

  Gene muttered under his breath, “We’re never going to get out of here.”

  “Don’t say that.” I took one of the handouts and passed the rest to Gene, whispering, “I’ve got two big events-”

  Special Agent Gavin pointed to me, his voice loud and irritated. “Is there a question?”

  Startled, I shook my head. “No.”

  As though I wouldn’t be able to hear him, he came around the lectern, his voice still about fifty decibels higher than it needed to be. “What is your name?”

  “Ollie,” I said. “Ollie Paras.”

  “What is your position?”

  I stood. “I am the White House executive chef.” Wow, I got to say that twice in an hour. But would he view me as “too tiny” like Amazon Agda had?

  “Come up here,” he said.

  I started to protest, then thought better of it and decided to comply. Wasn’t this great?
I’d inadvertently become today’s troublemaker for talking in class. Just like in school. Years of not knowing when to keep my mouth shut taught me it was better to go along with the teacher’s orders and take my lumps right away, than to suffer built-up wrath later. I scooted sideways from my chair and made my way forward. Going with the flow might help things move along faster here, too.

  I skipped up the steps to the dais, presenting myself as willing and cooperative. Or at least I hoped that’s how I came across.

  “Now, Ms. Chef, look out there,” Gavin said, pointing to the audience. Department heads and assistants stared back at me from the safety of their folding chairs.

  I followed Gavin’s direction. “Okay.”

  Way back, next to where I’d been sitting, Gene squirmed. A half beat later he sat up and twisted, as though someone had called his name. Apparently someone had. Manny stood in the room’s doorway, beckoning to Gene, who needed no further encouragement. Hefting his bulk, he was up and out the door within seconds. I was glad for Gene that Manny had found him. At least one of us was getting something accomplished.

  I chanced a look at Special Agent Gavin, who stood next to me-imposingly-looking as unperturbed as I was discomfited by the heavy silence in the room. I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he silenced me with a look and pointed out to the audience again.

  Was there something I was supposed to notice? Something amiss? I shifted from one foot to the other, thinking about my crew downstairs. About Bucky running things. About Agda’s professed ability to follow recipe directions in English. That made me squirm.

  The camouflage guys and the black-clad snipers were busy organizing the displays on two of the long tables at the far side of the room. They’d peeled away the white coverings to reveal an odd assortment of gadgets. No doubt Gav here was supposed to be the warm-up act, and I the unfortunate audience volunteer.

  I wanted to be back in my kitchen. Now.

  When I bit my lip in impatience, I noticed Peter Everett Sargeant III grinning viciously up at me from the front row. Sargeant, the head of cultural and faith-based etiquette affairs, and I had never been able to see eye-to-eye about anything. I smiled back at him, as evenly as I could manage.