Hail to the Chef

by Julie Hyzy

  Agda put her hand on my arm. “They are broken?”

  “No,” I said. “Last I looked, they were upstairs.”

  She shook her head. “Yi-im,” she said, pronouncing his name Yim instead of Yee-eem. “He is fixing them, no?”

  Now I was totally confused. “No. No one is fixing them. They’re upstairs.” I asked Cyan, “When did you last see them?”

  She thought about it. “This morning. Yeah. All three were there. They looked fine to me.”

  “And I saw them about an hour ago,” I said. I’d hate to think that one of them fell off their little posts. I turned to Agda. “Did one of them fall?”

  She held up her hands in the universal language of “I don’t know.” Biting her lip before she spoke again, she said, “Yi-im tell me to shh.” She placed a finger over her lips. “He say he break it, he fix it.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  Her big eyes moved up and to the left. “Eight o’clock, at night.”

  “Yesterday?”

  She nodded.

  “Wow, that’s pretty specific,” I said.

  She may not have understood my surprised reaction, but she must have understood my meaning. “I have couple minutes before I go home last night,” she said. “I want to see White House upstairs. Yi-im say, ‘Shhh.’ ”

  “You asked him about it?”

  “Yah. He say he fixing.” She tilted her head. “Fixing all three.”

  With Agda and Yi-im and their combined broken English, I couldn’t begin to guess what either of them really meant. I rubbed my eyes. The last thing we needed was another loose end. “Maybe I should go check,” I said.

  Cyan gave me a look. “And what will you tell Bindy if one of her precious decorations is broken?”

  I was already moving back into the main part of the kitchen with a plan to keep Bindy at bay. “Maybe she doesn’t have to know.”

  She was pacing the Center Hall when I returned. “Took you long enough,” she said.

  I swallowed my annoyance at her snippy remark, deciding instead to go on the offensive. “I don’t know why you even care about these gingerbread men anymore.”

  “I told you that Senator Blanchard was very eager to have his children’s-”

  “What difference does it make if he and his family aren’t coming today?”

  When her jaw dropped just a little, I realized she really hadn’t been brought up to speed.

  “Bindy,” I said. “I am not one to tell stories out of school, but I have the distinct impression that Senator Blanchard is intent on severing his ties with the White House. And I have it on good authority that he is boycotting today’s event. Or didn’t you get the memo?”

  That one struck a nerve. She pulled her shoulders back. “I spoke with Senator Blanchard just before I came here. And he told me to make sure everything was still in place for the photo-op. That’s why I came. To make sure the kids’ men are where they can be seen.”

  Blanchard must have had a change of heart, I thought. But he’d made things perfectly clear to Mrs. Campbell yesterday. I wondered what had changed, why his bitterness had suddenly made the leap to good sense.

  I sighed. “I’ll be the first to admit that plans change here faster than a collapsing soufflé. But I can’t take you upstairs.”

  “Can you just go check and report back to me?”

  Did she think I had nothing better to do than to double-check her boss’s whims? I bit the sides of my cheeks to keep from a snappy retort. I knew the relationship between Mrs. Campbell and Senator Blanchard was on shaky ground today. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt for me to just take a peek and give her an update.

  “Wait here.”

  I took the steps two at a time and turned left when I made it to the top. Crossing the Entrance Hall, I hurried past the tall pillars toward the Red Room, my soft-soled shoes making tiny squeaks on the shiny floor. There were photographers in all the public rooms. They’d been granted early access in order to set up. Big, shiny, white flash umbrellas decorated each corner, and bright spotlights were clicked on and off, as light meters were tested.

  Despite the fact that I couldn’t wait for Bindy to be gone and out of my hair, I stole a quick peek into the Blue Room where the Fraser fir stood, decked out in all its glory. Just like the rest of the house, the lights that decorated it were unlit. Everything had been tested as it had been installed. But the holiday season wouldn’t begin until noon when the First Lady threw the switch.

  In the Red Room, Marcel had an icing bag in his right hand, a tiny trowel in his left, and a panicked look on his face. “They have ruined it,” he said.

  “What?” I asked. “Where?”

  “Ici,” he said, pointing. “Again, I have found a piece that should not be open to the eye. This should have been covered earlier.”

  The flaw Marcel spoke of was another wire appearance. This time the wire was gray, and attached to the back of the structure. “Maybe when Yi-im was fixing the gingerbread men,” I said, “he bumped it and the icing fell off?”

  “Fixing what gingerbread men?”

  The fear on Marcel’s face made me sorry I’d said anything.

  “Oh,” I stammered. “Maybe I’m wrong. One of my chefs said…”

  I purposely let the thought hang as I moved closer to inspect the three gingerbread men perched just above the cookie White House. Not one of them looked marred in any way. Perhaps Agda had been mistaken. Perhaps Yi-im had been working on other gingerbread men. They were all certainly fragile.

  “I guess Agda meant different gingerbread men,” I said. “She told me some were broken.”

  “And thank heaven for that,” Marcel said with spirit. “Some of them were… exécrable, and I would be ashamed to show them to the public. Even if they are made by children in America, we must always strive for the best display we can manage.”

  Personally, I thought Marcel was missing the point of the exercise, but I kept quiet. Scrutinizing the decorations, I tried to see if I could find any evidence of them having been repaired.

  Marcel was so intent on his own repairs that he no longer paid me any mind.

  Each of the three men sat perched atop a pole. None of the poles had cracks or anything visibly wrong with them. I remembered being impressed with the gingerbread men because each held a tiny flag made out of sugar. Even these delicate details looked to be perfect.

  “These are supposed to light up, too?” I asked, pointing to the three men.

  Marcel gave me a brief glance. “No,” he said. “Only the house is to light. And these poles.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of a corner of the building. “You remember? The sparklers. We have added more for effect.”

  They certainly had. In addition to the three poles attached to the Blanchard gingerbread men, there were several additional ones along the side and back of the White House itself. I could only imagine what a beautiful background it would make for the house when the creation was officially lit this afternoon. I selfishly wished they’d had them in place when we’d tested it earlier.

  But I would see it later. One of the nicest things about being executive chef was the fact that I was not only welcome, but featured, at many of these official events.

  “Okay, thanks,” I said. “Good luck with your repairs.”

  Marcel grunted.

  WITH BINDY FINALLY GONE-PLEASED WITH the knowledge that her boss’s kids’ artwork was in place-and the last of the hors d’oeuvres complete, all we had to do now was wait. In twenty minutes, one of the assistants would come down to escort me upstairs for the media event.

  I checked my watch for the fifteenth time in the space of twelve seconds.

  “Nervous, Ollie?” Cyan asked.

  I pretended not to hear her. The last thing I needed was to endure the well-intentioned jibes of my coworkers while I was fighting off butterflies in my gut.

  “Agda,” I said, trying to divert everyone’s attention. “I checked those gingerbread men upstairs. None o
f them were broken.”

  Her brows came together in a puzzled look. “Yah,” she said. “All three broken.”

  “Not the ones from the Blanchard family,” I said patiently.

  Her perplexed frown grew tighter. “Yah,” she said again, with feeling. “Three from box.”

  As luck would have it, Marcel walked in just then. “Ask him,” I said to Agda. “He and I both checked the gingerbread men. There’s nothing wrong with any of them.”

  She seemed so miserable to be wrong, that I added, brightly, “It must have been some of the others,” I said.

  “No.” She gave me the most direct look she had since she’d begun working here. “I see him fix två.” She stabbed three fingers into the air for emphasis.

  “What is wrong?” Marcel asked, glancing from one of us to the other. “Something is amiss?”

  I explained, but even as I began, Marcel shook his head. “Once we installed the three gingerbread men above the house, they were not to be moved,” he said. “Yi-im knew this. He would not move them.”

  Agda’s lips were tight and her entire being seemed to reverberate with tense frustration. I rested the tips of my fingers against her forearm. “I believe you saw him fixing gingerbread men,” I said. “But the three from the Blanchard family-from the box-are looking great.” I didn’t reiterate that they’d never been broken. I just wanted to put this matter to rest. In the large scheme of things-with an event the size of which we would be working today-this was nothing. “What’s important now is that there are only about ten minutes to go before the ceremonies begin, and everything is perfect.”

  The words hadn’t left my mouth before one of the assistants, Faber, appeared in the doorway. “Five minutes.”

  Marcel and I didn’t waste another moment. “Bucky, come on,” I said, inviting him to join us. “I’d like you to be part of this, too.”

  Pleased, he hurried along with us to don clean jackets-crisp, white, recently pressed-and our tall toques. While we kept them here in the kitchen for occasional use, we always wore them for media events. I liked the fact that wearing one made me seem taller.

  Marcel was repeating things to himself in a low voice.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  With an abashed look, he whispered, “I am trying to remember key words to respond when the First Lady asks me the questions.”

  He and I had been provided with scripts, ahead of time. Nothing in them was difficult or unusual, but I understood his discomposure. We were supposed to recite from our prepared scripts, but make it look conversational. Sure. Get in front of the cameras and all memorization, all practice, goes out the window.

  I’d surprised Bucky by inviting him to participate with me. My intention was not to make him eat his words about being left shorthanded in the kitchen but to foster a sense of inclusion. Henry was my idol where that talent was concerned, and I was eager to prove myself a worthy pupil. As my second-in-command, Bucky wasn’t likely to be called upon to answer any questions on camera. But you never could completely predict these things.

  Bucky’s eyes were wild as he straightened and re-straightened his white jacket. “Do I look okay?” he asked.

  “You look great,” I said. And it was true. Though he and I occasionally bumped heads and ideas in the kitchen, we had a mutual respect and I was, if not glad, then resigned to the fact that he would always be part of our crew. No doubt about it: In the kitchen, he was an asset. Unfortunately, he was also a pain in mine.

  “Where’s Yi-im?” I asked Marcel. “Didn’t he want to be part of this? He’s done so much lately.”

  Marcel wagged his head sadly. “He has taken ill.”

  I’d seen him this morning, and he’d looked fine to me. I said so.

  Marcel gave a very French shrug. “What can I say? He tells me he is sick; I have to believe him. We do not want germs on our precious creations.”

  “That’s true.”

  Faber led the three of us up, using the stairs closest to the usher’s office. I felt the nervous jitters myself and I, too, started to rehearse my lines for when the First Lady would ask about menu preparations.

  On our way up, we met Curly coming down. Looking a lot like an angry bulldog, he seemed not to even notice us until we passed him. But then he grabbed my arm and looked directly into my face. “You seen Manny?” he asked.

  “No,” I said wiggling my arm to dislodge his hand. But he held fast.

  Faber cleared his throat. “We are on our way to the official opening-”

  “I know where the hell you’re headed,” he said, his voice a growl that matched the bulldog visage to perfection. The long, pinched scar throbbed red. “But since you’re always chasing after Manny and Vince, I figured you’d know where they are. It’s the last minute before everything goes hot and they ain’t anywhere.”

  Although he let go of my arm, he stood right in front of me, blocking my passage.

  “So I’ll ask you again,” Curly said. “Where are they?”

  Faber stood two steps higher than I did. “Ms. Paras,” he said, meekly. “It’s almost time.”

  “I don’t know what your problem is, Curly,” I said. “But I have a commitment and I believe in doing my job. Maybe it’s time you started doing yours.”

  His face whitened even as his scar burned crimson. I stepped around him, shaken by the altercation. With Gene around all these years, I’d never had to deal with Curly directly before-at least, not so often. I sincerely hoped Paul would not see fit to promote him from “acting” to “permanent” chief electrician.

  When we finally got upstairs, I was blown away by the number of people. Sure, we’d been given a list and a head-count, but it’s one thing to expect a specific number of guests, and another to see them up close. On paper, and during planning, it’s abstract. Here, it was very real. Warm, close, sweaty real. Hundreds of milling folks. Mostly Capitol Hill types, media moguls, and their families.

  The holiday opening was, indeed, one of the more family-friendly events the White House threw each year and I was pleased to see so many little ones in attendance.

  Camera crews behaved themselves, maintaining the decorum prescribed to them by social secretary, Marguerite Schumacher. She was on hand, of course, overseeing every minute detail. This was her moment, as well as Kendra’s. The two had worked side-by-side with the First Lady to create the rich, warm, welcoming festival that was the official beginning of the White House holiday season.

  Faber led us through a cordoned-off walkway where Marcel, Bucky, and I were directed to stand. He waited with us, one hand low, keeping us behind the ropes, until one of the other ushers nodded. Continuing along the cordoned-off path, we smiled at the reporters, who lobbed questions at us as we passed.

  All three of us nodded, looking as happy and content as possible. We knew that we were not to answer any questions directly. The only time we were to speak to the reporters was in the Red Room, and only when we were addressed by the First Lady.

  Marcel stood to the right of the gingerbread house. I stood to its left, with Bucky next to me. Had Yi-im been here, he would have taken my position, and Bucky and I would have stood a bit farther away. Photo-op-wise, however, it looked better to have the house flanked by two chefs. Symmetry and all that.

  The crowd was currently enraptured by the show in the Blue Room behind us, while we waited, practically standing at attention. I twisted to peer into the next room, to watch the delight wash over the faces of the kids and the adults when the marvelous White House tree was lit.

  I stifled a sigh. Marcel shifted his weight and adjusted his neckline.

  We waited.

  In the next room, the First Lady was answering questions. I could just make out her words, high and clear over the crowd sounds. The tree hadn’t yet been lit, and she was explaining the logic behind this year’s theme, and how she, Marguerite, and Kendra had worked together for nearly half a year, planning the celebration. Mrs. Campbell was effusive with pr
aise for her social secretary and florist.

  I let my gaze wander toward the First Lady.

  In the doorway that connected the Red Room to the Blue Room, I spied a familiar face. Little Treyton Blanchard, the senator’s oldest son, peeked around the corner. He smiled when he saw me, and gave a quick wave. I waved back. His mother, with her back to us, didn’t notice.

  Bindy was right, after all. I guess the temptation of seeing her children’s creations up close and personal when the world got its first look was too much for Mrs. Blanchard to pass up.

  Little Trey broke away from his mother and made his way over, all smiles. He pointed. “Those are ours,” he said, with more than a little pride.

  “They sure are,” I said in a soft voice as I bent down to talk with him. “I bet you’re glad now that you made them.”

  He gave me a face that looked out of place in someone so young. Cynical and amused. “We didn’t really make those,” he said, inching closer. “But we helped a little bit. I helped the most.”

  “I had a feeling you did.”

  Mrs. Blanchard had turned around to look for her son. When she saw him talking with me, she came over, carrying the youngest Blanchard on her hip, the middle one toddling behind. “I’m so sorry,” she said in a stage whisper. “I hope he hasn’t been bothering you.”

  Her eyes raked the gingerbread house and her gaze settled on the three gingerbread men just above it.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  The murmurs in the other room grew, perhaps in response to one of the First Lady’s comments. Maryann Blanchard shot a nervous glance back to the Blue Room. “My husband didn’t want us to come today,” she said, with a guilty smile, “but I couldn’t bear to miss this opportunity.” She shifted little Leah in her arms and spoke to the children. “Do you see?” she asked them. “Look!”

  Pointing with her free hand, she indicated the three gingerbread men. “You made those, and now the president of the United States is using them to decorate his house for Christmas.” The woman positively glowed. “Isn’t that great?”