State of the Onion

by Julie Hyzy

  I stared at the sink. Long-dissipated suds gave way to floaters—pieces of lettuce, onion, chicken, fish, grease. I plunged my hands into the tepid brew and fought the heaviness in my heart as I faced reality. Cooking for the White House had been my dream. A dream I’d achieved through hard work and determination. I loved it here. But Laurel Anne’s shrill directives sounded my wake-up alarm. This dream was about to end.

  I pulled the drain open, sighed, and took a moment to stare over my shoulder, watching Laurel Anne direct Carmen, who then directed everyone else. If this was how she behaved when the camera was running, I shuddered to think what this kitchen would be like when she thought no one was watching.

  Water swirled around my submerged hands—a descending vortex of spinning waste—and I thought about my ultimate goal to become the executive chef at the White House. My chances of achieving the position were about the same as any of these churning foodstuffs showing up on the president’s plate tonight. Worse, when Laurel Anne got the nod—and we all knew she would—I’d have to find a new home.

  “Sorry,” Cyan whispered, dropping off her cutting board and knife sink-side. “She wouldn’t let us keep the mess under control. Said to leave it. I didn’t know she meant it for you to clean up.”

  “No problem.”

  Cyan gave me a wry smile and started on her next task.

  The five of us had always maintained a clean-up-as-you-go mentality. We handled our messes individually. There were waitstaff folks we could press into service when necessary, but we kept their participation to a minimum because of space issues. We just didn’t have the room for extra people in this kitchen, so we made do ourselves as much as possible.

  I pulled bowls, utensils, and hollowware from the drained basin, metal scraping against sink’s stainless steel sides, clattering when a fork took a nose-dive from my fingers.

  “Keep it down,” Carmen shouted.

  I twisted long enough to meet his glare. He must have read the expression on my face because his hands came up in a placating gesture. “I know I haven’t called ‘Action’ yet, but quiet is a good habit to cultivate.” The corners of his mouth curled up grotesquely. I guess it was supposed to be a smile.

  I turned my back on him, rearranging the crusted baking pans as silently as I could, filling them with hot sudsy water and letting them soak while I attacked the remaining stack of dirties. Before I could wash, however, I needed to remove all the floppy, wet food lumped at the bottom drain.

  Just as I plopped stringy chicken fat into my left palm and reached for a fish part with my right, Cyan was back.

  “Ollie,” she said, but this time her whisper held a note of urgency, “what does she mean by ‘sauté over quince’?” She twisted around to ensure that Laurel Anne wasn’t watching, as she pointed to the back side of a pale pink, plastic-encased index card.

  I read the loopy script twice—why Laurel Anne hand-wrote her directions rather than printing them out was anyone’s guess—but I still couldn’t decide what was meant by sautéing over quince. “What are you making?” I asked, just as quietly.

  Cyan flipped the card and I scanned the recipe.

  “People!”

  Carmen clapped for our attention.

  We turned. I gave Cyan a little shove, propelling her toward her station with the hushed reassurance that I’d figure things out. Her grateful smile worried me. I had no idea what Laurel Anne wanted with the butter, onion, egg, artichoke, grape, and quince concoction she’d assigned to Cyan.

  The area was small, but Carmen raised his voice anyway. We all stopped moving. “Everyone has a job, yes?”

  We nodded.

  “Wonderful,” he said. He stroked Laurel Anne’s left arm like one would a very tall dog. “You all keep doing your…thing, whatever it is. As we film, our star here will walk among you. What I want you each to do is to greet her with a smile, but don’t stop what you’re doing. She’ll reach in, make some adjustment, and then you smile at her again, say ‘Thank you,’ and you’re done. Got it?”

  Marcel stepped forward, wagging an index finger. “No, no, no.” In his other hand, he carried a pink note card. He slapped it onto the countertop next to Carmen. “I ’ave been very agreeable to your demands zis morning. But I do not allow the executive chef to dictate my methods.” He cast a pointed glance at Laurel Anne. “And neither will I allow her to tell me how to prepare my masterpiece. I can not—how you say—compromise my integrity by preparing this…this…ordures.”

  Carmen turned to Laurel Anne, who shrugged. The rest of us waited, wide-eyed. So Marcel wasn’t the only one who considered today’s menu garbage. I just hadn’t realized how worked up he’d become.

  Carmen tried to placate our pastry chef. “Let’s take a look at what Laurel Anne assigned to you,” he said. “I’m sure we can work things out.”

  “No!” Marcel said, thrusting his shoulders back. He jammed a finger against the small pink note. “Do you see what she has given me for direction? Sacre bleu! I will not accept assignment from one so clearly untrained.”

  “Untrained?” Laurel Anne asked, giving an angry wiggle. “Before I went to Media Chefs International I attended the prestigious California Culinary Academy, where I worked my butt off.”

  With a comedian’s perfect timing, Marcel twisted his head, made a show of inspecting Laurel Anne’s backside, and said, very clearly, “I think not.”

  She stamped her foot. Literally. “How dare you!”

  Cyan giggled. My hand flew to my mouth.

  I knew I shouldn’t laugh, and I was about to suggest we all take a moment to settle down when Henry pushed his way into the little group, forcing all parties to take a step back. “Marcel is correct,” he began. “I do not control his portion of the meal. We do, however, confer.”

  I knew Henry well enough to understand that his emphasis on the word confer was meant to impress upon Laurel Anne the importance of teamwork.

  The subtlety was lost on her. Lost on Carmen, too. The two began arguing that the success of the final broadcast of Cooking for the Best required they take a little liberty with procedure.

  As Henry strove for compromise and Marcel strove for calm, it became clear to me that Laurel Anne and Carmen were unwilling to budge on anything.

  Bucky joined their little group but didn’t say a word. I got the impression he wasn’t quite sure whose side to take this time.

  While they “conferred,” I dried my hands and studied the recipe Cyan had given me. She tiptoed over. “I can’t make sense of that,” she said, with a cautious glance at the growing mêlée.

  Laurel Anne was one of those people who didn’t list ingredients first. She included each individual item and its quantity as it was utilized. Side one of the card gave directions for the eggs, butter, artichokes, and onion. It ended with “sauté over.” Side two began with “quince” and continued with the tossing of grapes and the additions of sugar and heavy cream. “What’s it supposed to be?”

  “A quiche.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Didn’t she do her homework?” I asked. “We sent all sorts of information about the Campbells’ likes and dislikes. President Campbell hates quiche.”

  We kept our backs to the agitated crowd of chefs and camera crew, but stole occasional glances to check on their progress. Things were growing more heated by the moment. Even Henry, who almost never got riled, was speaking more slowly than normal, his face red with the exertion of keeping his temper in check. As though by tacit agreement, the combatants all kept their voices low, out of respect for the White House protocols, I hoped, and not because Laurel Anne didn’t care for noise.

  “You know what I think?” I asked Cyan.

  “What?”

  Turning the card over, then back, then over again, I gave her the only explanation that made sense. “She’s got two recipes here. She must have started one on the front, and finished the second one on the back. Quiche. Quince. Makes sense. It’s alphabetical.”

  Cyan turne
d the card over a few more times. “Duh,” she said. “You’re right. But now what do I do?”

  “Is this for lunch?”

  “Yeah.”

  I thought about it. “Don’t make the quiche. It’s just a bad idea.” I tilted my head toward the computer. “She probably meant to assign you the fruit recipe anyway. Check our database of recipes. See what you can come up with using the ingredients on the back. Make that. As long as it’s a success, she’ll never know you substituted.”

  “Thanks. You’re a doll.”

  “Yeah, well,” I said, “in about two seconds, you’re going to be the only person in this kitchen who thinks so.”

  With that, I turned and strode toward the furious group, calling out for them to stop. This was getting ridiculous. We were in the White House kitchen, for crying out loud. And I refused to let it be treated this way. “Marcel,” I called. He ignored me.

  I tried again. “Henry!”

  I couldn’t believe this was happening in our kitchen. Conflagrations of this sort would not, and should not be tolerated in the home of the president of the United States. The only reason nearby Secret Service hadn’t intervened, I knew, was because we had our doors closed, and the cleaning staff was running the floor buffers in the hallway, masking the rapidly escalating argument.

  That was it. I clapped my hands together loudly, just like Carmen had done earlier. “People!” I shouted.

  They stopped and stared.

  I held up my left wrist. “It’s almost noon. Back to work.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “AND SO ENDS ANOTHER EXCITING DAY IN the White House kitchen.”

  My colleagues didn’t react much to my pronouncement, other than to shoot me derisive stares. Henry, perched on the computer stool, rested his florid face in deep hands. “Thank God that’s over.” He raised his eyes to meet mine, and then scanned the room. “But…” I could hear his bright-side-tone returning, “I’m sure that if Laurel Anne is chosen to replace me, things will go much smoother than they did today.” One shoulder lifted. “At least she won’t have a camera crew following her every move.”

  Cyan leaned against the countertop, her arms folded, head down. She lifted it to say, “You wound up being the lucky one, Ollie.”

  “How so?”

  “She shrieked at me,” Cyan said, squinting for emphasis. “Shrieked. I thought the quince thing was supposed to be served in a compote glass. But noooo…” She strung the word out. “Laurel Anne wanted it served like a parfait instead.” She returned to staring at the floor. “She could have just asked nicely. At least you weren’t working with food today. That kept you safe from her attacks.”

  I sneaked a glance at Bucky, expecting him to rise to Laurel Anne’s defense. He didn’t. Just like the rest of us, he’d found a comfortable spot—leaning in the doorway—and stared at nothing. Even prim and proper Marcel reclined, sort of. He sat on a step stool, elbows on knees.

  “Oh,” he said, leaping to his feet. “I have forgotten.”

  Henry raised weary eyes. “What?”

  Marcel checked his watch, then the wall clock, then his watch again—all in the space of two seconds. His eyes popped as he spoke. “The ambassador—oh, his name escapes—the Muslim ambassador—he is due here in fifteen minutes to discuss menu changes.”

  No one moved.

  “Marcel?” I said quietly, “are you sure?” I knew it had been a trying day for all of us, Marcel in particular, but we always got more notice than this.

  He collapsed back onto the step stool. “Oh, it is my fault. My grievous fault. It was I who answered the telephone during the…the…”

  Bucky supplied: “The meltdown?”

  Henry snorted a laugh. Elbows on the countertop, he covered his face with his hands as his shoulders shook.

  Cyan started to laugh. I did, too. Even Bucky turned away, his grin belying his normally taciturn expression. Marcel looked confused but cheered by the room’s sudden lightheartedness.

  I tried to hold back, but bubbles of laughter accompanied my words. “We need to get ready for the ambassador.”

  Henry planted both feet on the floor. His face, red with mirth, was a welcome change from being red with fury as it had been earlier in the day. “And so we shall. Troops,” he said, as we quieted, “we have yet another battle to face. If they are sending their ambassador here to discuss the menu selections, then we must rise to the challenge—fatigued though we are from Laurel Anne’s incursion.” He wiggled bushy eyebrows, narrowing his eyes as though preparing for attack. “Where are the ingredients we used for the taste test this morning?”

  “I have them set aside,” I told him.

  “Good. We must be prepared in the event Ambassador bin-Saleh requests his own tasting.”

  Cyan groaned—stopped when she caught Henry’s frown—and worked up a smile. “I’m rarin’ to go,” she said.

  I spoke up. “I’ll print up working copies of the menu items so we can take notes.”

  Marcel apologized again.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, “we all had a lot on our minds this evening. I’m glad you remembered before they showed—”

  My words died as Peter Everett Sargeant barged into the kitchen with Labeeb bin-Saleh and Kasim Gaffari close behind. “You will want to speak with our executive chef and executive pastry chef,” Sargeant was saying over his shoulder. “They’re both here tonight.”

  He carried a sheaf of papers, and despite the late hour, looked crisp and clean as though it were the start of a new day. He stopped the little parade short, just inside the door.

  “Is everyone still here tonight?” he asked.

  No longer lounging against countertops or doorjambs, we stood in a rough semicircle. I said, “Today was Laurel Anne’s audition. It took a while.”

  Sargeant’s face went through a two-second contortion. “So I heard.” Sargeant turned his full attention to Henry and gestured Marcel forward. “Ambassador bin-Saleh and his assistant Kasim have just a few questions regarding the items you plan to serve at the state dinner.” He stepped back like a well-trained emcee, passing the spotlight on to the next performer.

  “It will be our pleasure to answer all your questions,” Henry said, bringing me into the group. He called Marcel over, too. “What are your concerns?”

  As it turned out, we were able to preserve all our first choices for the meal. Once the ambassador was assured that we knew how to keep halaal, his worries were put to rest. He told us, through Kasim’s translation, that he’d been worried that our kitchen would equate kosher with halaal, when in fact the two were not identical. We knew that, and further assuaged his concern.

  Kasim asked if we would be holding similar discussions with the prime minister and his entourage.

  “Yes,” Henry told him. “We will ensure that all parties agree.”

  “You will not adjust the menu beyond these parameters without consulting us?” Kasim asked.

  Henry started to explain our procedures, when Sargeant piped in, “Certainly not.”

  Kasim bent toward us. “Then I am satisfied with the arrangements.” He turned to Labeeb, spoke in their native tongue, then asked in English, “Ambassador, are you ready to return to our quarters?”

  It had been a long day, and even Henry’s jovial face showed strain. I could detect a bright glimmer of hope that Labeeb would depart with Kasim, allowing the rest of us to go home for the night. I held my breath.

  “No,” Labeeb said. “I am yet unready. I am…intrigued with the usage purpose of herewith item.” He picked up a garlic press and turned the handles into an upside-down V while the press-part of the device dangled. “What is the need of such item?”

  Always the perfect host, Henry demonstrated. He even allowed Labeeb to press several cloves of garlic till the ambassador had gotten the hang of it. The room was cramped, getting warm, and I inched away for breathing space.

  Thoroughly enraptured by our gadgetry, Labeeb asked to see how another sm
all item worked. He grinned, white teeth dazzling against his dark skin. “Very highly technical,” he said. “For perhaps James Bond to cook, no?”

  We laughed. It was funny.

  Cyan, Bucky, and I exchanged glances as we huddled near the door. So near, yet so far. It would be the height of impropriety to leave at this point, but my feet ached and I wanted to be home.

  I thought about Tom.

  As Henry and Marcel regaled Labeeb with more gadget magic, Sargeant made his way to our little group. I already knew what was on his mind. “So,” he began, addressing me, “how many assistant chefs does it take to destroy a competitor’s chances?”

  “We did nothing to Laurel Anne,” I said. “She brought it on herself.”

  Cyan agreed. Bucky said nothing, but he didn’t defend Laurel Anne either. I took that as a good sign.

  “You’re very fortunate,” Sargeant said, “that her food presentations to the president and Mrs. Campbell went as well as they did. I know that they were impressed with Ms. Braun’s variety. The trout was superb, the side dishes imaginative. Mrs. Campbell particularly enjoyed the Asparagus Hollandaise.”

  I winced. Hardly what I’d call imaginative. The items she’d prepared were basics I’d mastered early in my career. And the fact that she’d used frozen vegetables for her White House audition was mind-boggling.

  Sargeant, still extolling Laurel Anne’s virtues, continued. “Oh, and the quince parfait…” He pressed his fingers to his lips and kissed them into the air. “Magnificent.”

  Cyan chimed in. “That’s only because Ollie covered Laurel Anne’s—”

  “Ah-ah-ah,” Sargeant said, stopping her midsentence. “The only reason everything worked is because Ms. Braun was able to pull it off. Despite your attempts to make her look foolish.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off. “She told me everything.”

  “I’ll bet she did.”

  He fixed me with a stare. “She has no reason to lie. She knows she’s as good as in.”

  My heart dropped. I looked away. Clenching my teeth to keep from an improper outburst, I avoided eye contact with Cyan. Seeing her sympathetic face would have put me over the edge. “Believe what you want,” I said. “Are we excused?”