Hail to the Chef

by Julie Hyzy

Sean pulled a shrimp from the pile and worked it. As he started up again, I could tell that he’d begun to develop a feel for the job-but the guy still had a long way to go. “Any idea why?”

  Helping him, I grabbed a shrimp, removing the legs, shell, and tail with swift movements. I zipped the vein out and grabbed a second shrimp. “Mrs. Blanchard begged off,” I said. “Something to do with keeping traditions at home.”

  He snorted.

  I deveined the second shrimp and tossed it into a large bowl of ice. “You think there’s another reason?”

  He frowned down at the crustacean in his hand. “Maybe.”

  I tugged a new shrimp out of the bucket, disentangling its legs from the rest of them. “You think there’s something between Blanchard and Bindy?” The words popped out before I could stop myself.

  “No,” he said with a headshake. “It’s not that. It’s just…” He glanced about the room. We were talking in low enough tones, and there was enough busy noise that the rest of the staff couldn’t hear what we were saying. “You know about Nick Volkov’s problems, don’t you?”

  I didn’t.

  “Well…” Another furtive glance around the room as he fought the little shrimp in his hand. “Do a Google search online. He’s been having problems. He could use a windfall right about now to pay his legal bills. And I think he’s convinced Senator Blanchard and Helen Hendrickson that it’s in their best interests to sell Zendy Industries.” Sean finally finished cleaning his shrimp and picked up another. I’d managed three in the interim.

  “And you think tomorrow will be some sort of ambush?”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell Aunt Elaine,” he said. “But she just sees the good in everyone.”

  I tossed another shrimp in the completed pile. “It’s a nice quality to have.”

  “Unless people are out to screw you.”

  “You don’t really believe that?”

  Sean stopped working. “The problem is, I do. I’m just glad Uncle Harrison will be there. They can try to sway her, but if she holds her ground, I know he’ll back her up.”

  “And you’ll be there.”

  He smiled at me again in a way I wish he hadn’t. “I will be. And so will you.”

  “My food will be there,” I said, looking away. “The butlers will be there. I won’t.”

  “Hmm,” Sean said, beginning to work the shrimp again. “Maybe you could put a drug in the food that makes everybody tired. Then we’d all just have a great meal and go home and sleep. No business talk.”

  He laughed. I didn’t think it was funny. Above all, the food that came out of my kitchen had to be safe. That wasn’t something I ever joked about.

  Sean must have sensed my displeasure because he sobered at once. “Listen, Ollie, I just have to tell you, I have a bad feeling about all this. The stakes are high. Aunt Elaine doesn’t realize how desperate Volkov may be. I’d hate to see her get taken.”

  I put my hand on his, belatedly realizing that was probably a mistake. “Mrs. Campbell’s a smart lady. She’s strong. I’m sure she won’t give in if she really doesn’t want to.”

  Sean had just begun to answer when Peter Everett Sargeant III strode in, one eyebrow cocked at us. “Well, well,” he said. “I see we’ve got a whole slew of new recruits.”

  Leave it to Sargeant to pop in at the exact wrong time. I sighed, reconsidering. Lately, with all the trouble and with two major events still behind schedule, was there ever a good time?

  “Hello, Mr. Baxter,” Sargeant said. Sean was the only person in the room he directly acknowledged. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Same here.” Sean glanced from Sargeant to me. “Guess I ought to be going, huh?” He shot his last shrimp a distasteful look and gave me a sideways smile. “I think I’ll stick to the turkey tomorrow,” he said. “See you then, Ollie.”

  When he left I washed my hands and wiped them dry. “Peter,” I said. Ever since taking on the role of executive chef, I had the privilege-if one could call it that-of addressing our sensitivity director by his first name. “What can I do for you?”

  “What was Sean Baxter doing down here?”

  I no longer had to answer to Sargeant. Gave me a good feeling, deep down. “Something you need, Peter?” I asked again.

  He pulled out a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Friday’s luncheon,” he began. “I took the liberty of reviewing the guest list and I want to ensure you’ve provided for all the different religious and dietary issues we’ll be facing.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. “We’ve got it covered.”

  “But I haven’t had a chance to oversee the actual food preparation-”

  “And you won’t,” I said, guiding him back toward the doorway. “I sent a copy of our complete menu to your office. If you chanced to read it, you’d see that everything has been handled with our usual aplomb.”

  I couldn’t resist a tiny bit of bravado. We’d worked hard to come up with the perfect menu, with choices that would not only please a multitude of palates, but offer varieties to keep kosher, vegan, halaal, low-fat, low-carb, and non-dairy, among other things. To say this buffet had been one of my greatest challenges yet would be understatement. But everyone in the kitchen knew our guests would talk to the press afterward. We wanted-and expected-nothing short of a glowing account.

  Sargeant was shaking his head. “I didn’t read it yet. I would much prefer it if you walk me through-”

  “And I much prefer to maximize the little time we have to get our meals together. So, Peter,” I said, relishing the use of his first name again, “I have to ask you to allow us to do our jobs and to come back some other time. Preferably after the new year.”

  Blinking, he squared his shoulders and left without another word.

  Bucky slapped his hands together in slow-motion applause. “Good job, kid. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  CHAPTER 8

  ON THURSDAY, WITH LESS THAN AN HOUR TO go before Thanksgiving guests were due, food was flying. Not literally, of course. But we were all moving so fast that everything seemed a tiny bit blurred. Though there were only nine for dinner today, there were still dozens of last-minute details to attend to. We concentrated hard and talked very little.

  I glanced at the clock. Just past noon. Mingled scents of roasting meat-the turkey breasts in the far oven, and the Virginia ham resting on the counter behind me-gave me enormous comfort. We were on time. Despite the fact that we left nothing to chance, I always panicked about the turkey; in my opinion, there was nothing worse than dried-out fowl. As I poured onion gravy from a pan into a temporary tureenlike container, I shot a glance at the oven door. “Bucky,” I called over my shoulder, “can you-”

  “I just checked on them,” he answered, reading my mind. “They’re perfect. Nicely brown. Right on schedule.”

  “Thanks.”

  Agda was in charge of putting the finishing touches on each course. Every plate was arranged with exquisite precision just before it left our kitchen. At the White House, food did not simply sit on a dish-our meals required presentation. With her speed and accuracy, Agda was a natural to handle that job. Even though today’s dinner would be served in a traditional, family-style manner, the trays and platters required her full attention before they were sent to the table.

  Bent over the first tray of hors d’oeuvres, Agda was carefully placing fruits and cheeses in meticulous formation, interspersing crackers and spiced nuts to make for a beautifully appetizing display.

  I glanced up when our head butler, Jackson, came in. He’d recently taken over the position, though he’d been on staff for many years. A tall black man with curly salt-and-pepper hair, he smiled often and could always be counted on for White House scoop. Right now, however, he wasn’t smiling.

  “The president is not returning to the White House until this evening,” he said.

  All activity stopped. “What?” I asked.

  Jackson shook his head. “A change in
plans.”

  Before inquiring as to what great world event prevented the president from attending his family’s Thanksgiving dinner, I needed to know the truly crucial information. “Are we still serving?”

  “We are,” Jackson said, still not looking happy. “Sad day for the missus. She was counting on her husband’s support with these guests.” He met my gaze. “You have heard some stories?”

  I had, and I remembered Sean Baxter’s warnings. “This isn’t going to be a friendly social dinner after all, is it?”

  Jackson shook his head again. “I am concerned. But there is nothing we can do.”

  “Except feed them well and keep them happy,” I said, “and hope that they’re all so impressed with dinner that they forget about business.”

  The corner of Jackson ’s mouth curled up. “We can try. I will return when the guests arrive.” Looking around the area, he asked, “Have you seen Yi-im?”

  One of the newer butlers, a tiny gentleman of an Asian descent I couldn’t deduce, Yi-im never seemed to be available when there was work to be done. It had taken me a while to get the hang of pronouncing his name: Yee-eem. I pointed downward. “He said something about heading to the cafeteria.”

  Anger sparked Jackson ’s eyes. “Lazy man.”

  “WE ARE READY,” MARCEL SAID, AS HE CAME around the corner, wheeling a cart. The top shelf held a tall pumpkin trifle and a selection of four different varieties of minitartlets: pecan, orange chiffon, lemon cheese, and Boston cream. The cart’s second shelf held Marcel’s famous apple cobbler with oatmeal crumble.

  “Do you need me to heat that up when the time comes?” I asked.

  His dark face folded into worry lines-he hadn’t even heard my question. “I hope I ’ave made enough.”

  I started to assure him that there was enough dessert to satisfy twenty hungry guests when he turned and beckoned someone behind. The missing Yi-im stepped into the kitchen carrying a large silver tray almost as big as he was. Just over forty, the junior butler was slim and so short that in his tuxedo he might have passed for a ring-bearer in a wedding. Except for his bald head, which he kept shaved and shiny enough to reflect lights.

  “Just in case they are very hungry, I ’ave created another option,” Marcel said, with a hint of superiority. “Chocolate truffles. Do you think they are a good choice?”

  Again, as I was about to answer, Marcel’s attention shifted. He ordered Yi-im to begin sending the desserts to the staging area: the Butler’s Pantry just outside the first-floor Family Dining Room. I recognized in Marcel the same controlled panic I felt right before an important meal. He wasn’t interested in my opinion-he simply wanted to bring me up to speed. And probably show off a little. The chocolate truffles would be a huge hit. Of that, I was certain.

  When Yi-im left the area, I told Marcel that Jackson had been looking for the diminutive butler.

  Marcel’s hands came up in a gesture of supplication. “But he told me he had been assigned to help out here today.”

  I didn’t have time to quibble. “At least we know he isn’t shirking his duties,” I said in a low voice. “And heaven knows we can use all the help we can get.”

  Marcel wiped his hands on his apron, looking thoughtful. “Yi-im has worked very hard today. As a butler, he is perhaps in the wrong department, no?”

  I followed his logic. Marcel was always on the lookout for pastry assistants. With the number of dazzling and delicious desserts his department produced, he was usually understaffed. At the moment, however, I didn’t have time to discuss personnel with him. “Let’s talk about this next week,” I said. “Monday morning staff meeting?”

  “Excellent plan,” he said. “Now I shall go upstairs to be certain my creations arrive safely.”

  Thirty seconds after his departure, Jackson returned, making me think about one of those old movies where people chase one another and keep missing their quarry by moments. “Mr. and Mrs. Volkov have arrived, as has Senator Blanchard with Ms. Gerhardt. She has requested a few moments of your time.”

  I was surprised. “Bindy wants to talk to me?”

  He nodded.

  “Sure,” I said. “You can let her come down after dinner.”

  “She would prefer to visit with you now.”

  Great. Another interruption. “Go ahead, Ollie,” Bucky said. “We’ve got you covered.”

  He was right. One of the things Henry had told me before passing the potholders was that in order to succeed, I needed to be able to rely on the efforts of others. “You can’t do everything yourself anymore,” he’d said, chiding me. He knew how much I liked to feel in control. “You have to be able to let go. Let your staff show you how good they are.” With a wink and a smile, he’d added, “That’s how I recognized talent in you.”

  “Thanks, Bucky.” I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said to Jackson. “Send her down.”

  Bindy Gerhardt had been a staffer in the West Wing during her tenure at the White House, and I liked her well enough. But she and I weren’t the kind of girlfriends who sought one another out. Although she looked like central casting’s answer to the nerdy girl with the heart of gold, she’d always struck me as a power groupie-doing her best only when people in authority were apt to notice. In fact, immediately after she’d accepted the position on Blanchard’s staff, she’d stopped visiting the White House altogether. Probably to stave off any impression of impropriety. This was the nature of Washington, D.C. -rumor and innuendo ruled. We all knew that perception was often more important than reality. Especially where the news media was concerned.

  Cyan sidled next to me. “That’s weird,” she said. “I hope she isn’t looking for a special menu at this late date.”

  “I don’t remember her having dietary restrictions.” I was pretty good at remembering unusual requests. Plus, Bindy would have known to send her preferences early. I couldn’t imagine why she’d asked to come down here, so I shrugged. I’d find out soon enough. “Maybe she wants to swap recipes.”

  Cyan laughed. I washed and dried my hands, taking a long look around my kitchen. It hummed. Without a doubt, this would be the best Thanksgiving dinner any of our guests had ever experienced. I savored the moment-the instance of absolute certainty that we’d achieved greatness. I couldn’t wait for our guests’ reactions.

  Deciding it would be best to keep Bindy out of the kitchen proper-and hence out of the staff’s way-I came into the Center Hall just as she made it to the bottom of the stairs. “Ollie!” she said when she saw me.

  I almost didn’t recognize her. Bindy had lost at least twenty pounds, and although I knew it was impossible, it seemed she’d grown taller, too. “Wow!” I couldn’t stop my reaction. “You’re… so…” I almost said, “slick,” but caught myself before the word escaped. “So… chic. I mean… not that you weren’t before, I just…” I’d fallen so far into the open-mouth-insert-foot trap that I couldn’t escape without a massive recovery effort. “What I mean to say is that you look wonderful. The new job must be going great.”

  Sunny smile. “It is. And believe me, everyone has the same reaction. Quite the change, isn’t it?”

  Understatement, I thought.

  She spun on a navy blue heel. Her dress was navy, too, a perfect contrast to her pearly skin. “What do you think?”

  “You look fabulous.” She did. Although she hadn’t been exactly overweight before, the new, slimmer look suited her. The last time she’d been here, she preferred easy-comfort clothes and ballet flats. Back then she’d had loose, curly hair that she wore to her shoulders. No makeup. Now her hair was cropped short and slicked back, framing her carefully made-up face and exposing a pair of pert diamond earrings. The nose was still wide, the chin still weak, but she’d evidently been schooled in how to play up her better features because her eyes drew my attention first. Bindy would never be considered beautiful, but the change in her appearance certainly made her more attractive.

  She tapped one of the earrings. “Fake,” she sa
id, “but aren’t they great?”

  At the moment, I would have much preferred to be discussing turkey dressing with Bucky than fake baubles with Bindy. “So, you’re here in Mrs. Blanchard’s place today?” I asked. I knew my voice held just enough curiosity to prompt her to get to the point.

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “There are some personal business items Senator Blanchard needs to discuss with the First Lady.” Bindy wrinkled her nose, giving a little giggle. “Mrs. Blanchard didn’t want to be in the way. I’ve done a lot of research for the senator…” She waved both her hands at me. “That sounds so stilted. I do a lot for Treyton and his wife, and they both thought it would be smarter, strategically, for me to be here today when the partnership is discussed.”

  So Sean’s fears had been warranted. Again, I was thankful he was due to arrive soon. “I thought this was supposed to be a Thanksgiving celebration.”

  “That, too. There’s never any downtime in D.C., is there?” She licked her lips. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk with you about. I wanted to ask you about the gingerbread men.”

  “The ones Marcel is creating?”

  “No, the ones being sent in from across the country.” She giggled again. I’d forgotten that she had the tendency to do that when nervous. “Treyton knows that you’re choosing the best ones from the thousands you’ve received to display in the Red Room next to the gingerbread house. Is that right?”

  “It’s not just me; Marcel has the final-”

  “Yes, but you’re in on it, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Treyton’s kids are submitting gingerbread men they’ve been working on. It would mean a lot to them to have their work displayed in the Red Room during the holiday opening ceremonies.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Where all the cameras will be?”

  “Well, yes…” She punctuated her words with another little laugh. “You know those pictures will be seen everywhere as soon as the celebration is complete…”

  She let the thought hang and I finally understood why she was uncomfortable talking with me. Treyton Blanchard wanted his kids’ handiwork plastered all over every newspaper, White House-related Web site, and on TV. Rumor had it that the man was considering a run for the presidency. Getting his kids’ artwork prominently displayed must feel a little like squatter’s rights. A thought occurred to me. “Aren’t his kids kind of young for this?” Blanchard had three little ones, and the oldest was eight or nine.