Hail to the Chef

by Julie Hyzy

  “How come you’re so chipper?” I asked Rafe.

  He shrugged. “Stress manifests itself differently in each of us.”

  I thought about Bindy’s tendency to giggle. “Too true.” The phone rang. I was closest, so I wiped my hands with one of the antiseptic towels we kept just for that purpose, and answered it.

  Jackson informed me that the First Lady would be out all day, meeting with relatives to make arrangements for Sean’s funeral. His parents lived nearby in Virginia, and Mrs. Campbell was not expected to return to the residence until after dinner.

  “The president is returning this evening as well,” he said.

  “For dinner?”

  “No. He’ll be joining Mrs. Campbell at his sister’s home first, and the president and his wife are expected back here after eight o’clock.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and hung up. Not having to prepare lunch and dinner today made things easier on us, but I couldn’t imagine how hard the day would be for the First Couple. It was a wonder that Mrs. Campbell had made it through yesterday at all, but having to prepare for the funeral of someone so close and so young had to be devastating.

  I announced the change in plan to the rest of the kitchen staff, and I watched tension seep out of them-by the change in their stances, the position of their shoulders, their very breathing. “We still have a lot to get done,” I added, unnecessarily. “Let’s hope that…”

  Before I could finish my wish that the rest of the day proceed uneventfully, Marcel stormed in, with Yi-im trotting faithfully behind him. Without greeting any of us, Marcel began ranting. “I ’ave no method to make use of these… these… childish efforts.” He held out a tray displaying some of the gingerbread men that had been turned in yesterday. “These do not complement the gingerbread house I am slaving over. The house that is my crowning achievement this year. No. These are… le pire.”

  I stepped closer to look.

  “Do you see?” he asked. “How can I use such a terrible mess as these? No one will look at the exquisite structure. No. Their eyes will all be drawn to this mishmash.”

  Although Marcel and I generally worked independently of each other, we had a friendly, symbiotic relationship. He needed to vent and I was happy to oblige him. But maybe there were options he hadn’t considered. “Have you spoken with Kendra?” I asked.

  “She is the one who presented these to me! She wants me to fix them. I have no time for such nonsense.”

  While I had to agree that the workmanship on the eight-inch cookies left a great deal to be desired, I thought they were kind of cute. “The idea is to showcase the country’s kids,” I said quietly.

  “Are we raising a nation of imbeciles?” he asked, his big eyes bulging. “Look at this.” He pointed to one of the corner pieces. The cookie man was missing one eye and half of one foot. The squiggled icing that decorated the cutout’s perimeter had been squeezed off the edge repeatedly, but it was the smudgy unevenness of it all that made it look like it was put together by a bored kindergartner. Marcel practically sputtered as he spoke. “This was made by a boy of seven. By the time I was his age, I was creating three-layer cakes with handmade candies. Each one I produced was perfect.”

  I didn’t doubt that. “Kendra is in charge of the overall design,” I said soothingly. “And you know what a perfectionist she is. I’m sure she’s hoping to use most of the submitted cookies.” I took another pointed look. “Did you ever consider that these are the best she received?”

  The horror on Marcel’s face would have been laughable if I didn’t know how much pressure we were under to get the residence together and ready for presentation in the next two days.

  “I cannot work with this,” he said. He dropped the tray in the center of the countertop and backed away from it, with an unconcealed look of contempt. “I will not use these. You may crumble them up and feed them to the dog.”

  Marcel left the kitchen. I blew out a breath as I stared after him. Although he occasionally had his prima donna moments, he didn’t usually draw such a hard line. Bucky, Cyan, and Agda shared a glance of wariness before returning to their tasks. I locked eyes with Rafe, and it was as if we both shared the unspoken sentiment about stress manifesting itself differently in each of us.

  “Ho, ho, ho!”

  I turned at the exclamation to see chief usher Paul Vasquez come in, carrying a diplomatic parcel and wearing a wide grin.

  “You’re back,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “And the tree is beautiful,” he said. “This year we have a magnificent Fraser fir. Breathtaking. I can’t wait until we get it set up.” His jovial expression dropped. “That’s the good news. Unfortunately we’ve had our share of bad, haven’t we?” He made eye contact with each of us in turn. Paul had a way of making every staff member feel important. “I’ve been in contact with the White House over the days I was gone,” he said, “so I am aware of what has transpired. We will discuss everything at the next staff meeting. In the meantime,” he handed me the diplomatic pouch, “this came for you.”

  “Me?” I said, surprised. Belatedly, I realized I knew exactly what this was. As I opened the parcel, Cyan edged up. I held my breath.

  “More gingerbread men?” she asked.

  I nodded. “These must be the ones created by the Blanchard children.” And they were. A letter from Bindy accompanied them. I pulled the three men out, one at a time. They’d been boxed separately, and wrapped in tissue paper surrounded by bubble wrap.

  “Somebody isn’t taking chances on these getting damaged,” she said. Then, “Wow. His kids made these?”

  We stared at the first cookie I’d removed from its container. “This is amazing.”

  Paul whistled. “Kendra must be thrilled. If this is the caliber of submissions she’s receiving-”

  “Eet ees not,” Marcel interrupted, coming up behind us. “Sacre bleu.” He held out both hands and I placed the little decorated man into them. “Where did this come from?”

  Paul excused himself to return to his office and I took the opportunity to explain Bindy’s request to Marcel.

  “This is wonderful. Marveilleux,” he said, placing the cookie back into its box with great reverence. “Let me see the others.”

  The three cookies were whimsical and perfect. So perfect that not even Marcel could find fault with them. They were, of course, the right size, browned to perfection, and each of the three men sported a combination of patriotic red, white, and blue icing piped along their edges so perfect it looked fake. I commented on that.

  “I don’t care if it is plastic.” Marcel said, beaming. “No one is to eat these. They are for display only.”

  The piped edge was the only requirement the White House had made for consistency’s sake. I never would have thought to give them little sugar flags to hold, nor would I have come up with the idea of carving into the cookies themselves for a textured background. These were not cookie-gingerbread men; they were works of art.

  “I promised Bindy we’d find a prominent place for these in the Red Room. I’m glad I did,” I said, winking. “I had no idea the kids were so talented.”

  Missing my sarcasm, Marcel said, “Children did not make these.” He pronounced the word, “shildren.” He shook his head. “These are the work of a master.”

  “Bindy did hint that Treyton Blanchard’s chef might have helped a bit.”

  Marcel barked a laugh. “I would say he created these single-handedly. And the project took several days, at least. I will have no problem including these with my own masterpiece.”

  I grinned, pleased to have one less thing to deal with, and handed him the three boxes. “All yours.”

  Marcel gave a little bow. “I accept with pleasure.”

  THE LAST THING I NEEDED WAS TO INCUR THE wrath of Curly again, but when I saw Manny later, still wearing the clanking tool belt, I couldn’t help myself. In a repeat of the morning’s move, I called out to him.

  He turned, and this time when he sa
w me, he shook his head and backed away.

  “I just have a question for you,” I said.

  “What did you do to get Curly all fired up?” he asked. “The guy’s been on my case all day. Vince’s, too. He said you ticked him off.”

  “I asked him about floating neutrals, and he-”

  Manny looked just as surprised as Curly had this morning. “What?”

  I explained about Stanley ’s mock-up.

  “No wonder Curly’s so pissed. He wouldn’t tell us what was going on, just that you keep bullying him about Gene getting electrocuted.”

  “I keep picking on him? Since when does asking a question constitute bullying?”

  “Hey, I’m just saying. Vince has gotten his head bitten off about five times today, and whenever we ask Curly why he’s so ornery, he just gives us more work to do. He keeps checking on us, too. Like every fifteen minutes, he’s there again. You shouldn’t have started all this. You have no idea what you’re doing. And now he’s worse than usual. But at least now I know what’s behind it.”

  “What’s so bad about me asking?”

  In even more of a hurry to get away now, Manny shrugged one shoulder and shifted toward the door. “I dunno. Maybe Curly thinks you’re trying to show him up. Maybe he’s worried you’ll cost him the chief electrician position.”

  “Don’t be silly.” I could tell Manny was ready to bolt, so I pressed my point, explaining again what Stanley had explained to me. “Is there any way you can check to see if Gene’s accident was due to a floating neutral?”

  He shook his head even before I finished making my request. “Let it go.”

  “But I don’t believe Gene would’ve made an electrical mistake.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said.

  “Just check, please?”

  “No way. It’s not a neutral. I guarantee it. And even if I could check on it, I wouldn’t want to mess with this one. Not with Curly around. If it were up to me,” Manny said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’d kick his sorry butt out of here. The guy’s got too much on his mind with the sick wife and all. And now he’s so worried I’m going to make a mistake, or that Vince is, that he’s not letting us do our jobs. That guy should get canned before he does more damage. Seriously.”

  CHAPTER 13

  WHEN THE KITCHEN PHONE RANG AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN that evening, I was surprised to see the in-house ID indicate it was the First Lady calling.

  “Hello, Ollie,” she said. “I’m glad it’s you who answered. Are you very busy?”

  A visit from Gavin-who pilfered Bucky and Cyan for half the afternoon-had set us even further behind than we’d been. We had all hoped to leave by eight tonight, but from the looks of things now, we wouldn’t get out until after ten.

  “Not at all,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “My husband and I are expecting a guest this evening. I inquired and found that he hasn’t eaten yet. In fact, neither have we.”

  That surprised me. I said so.

  “Yes, I know,” the First Lady continued, her voice just above a sigh. “We had planned to, but I don’t find myself with much appetite today.”

  With everything that was swirling around in their lives-the president’s high-level meetings, Sean’s death, Gene’s death-I couldn’t imagine eating either. “I understand.”

  “I knew you would, Ollie. That’s why I have a particular favor to ask. Would you be willing to prepare something for us and for our guest this evening?”

  “Of course,” I said. I was about to ask a question when she interrupted.

  “There’s one other thing. Could you take care of all this up here? In the family kitchen? I’d prefer to keep it informal. I don’t want any other… anyone else… present. Would you be willing to do that?”

  “I’d be glad to,” I said. “Can you tell me who the guest is, so I can look up his dietary requirements?”

  “Yes, of course. Senator Blanchard will be joining us this evening. He and I have much to discuss.” She paused for a moment and I sensed it best to give her time to collect her thoughts rather than rush off the phone. “We have a lot to talk about that”-she hesitated before saying his name-“that matter Sean advised me on. You have been privy to information of which the rest of the staff is unaware. I would prefer to keep it that way. Just a limited contingent tonight. Dinner doesn’t need to be elaborate. Do we have any leftovers you can use?”

  In my mind, I’d already begun pulling together a menu. “How soon would you like to sit down?”

  “Whatever works best for you. Just come up as soon as you can; the kitchen will be yours alone. After a day like today, I’d like to relax and not stand on ceremony for once.”

  WE KEPT SO MUCH ON HAND IN THE WHITE House kitchen that the First Lady’s request made for no difficulty whatsoever. After assigning Bucky to take over holiday preparations-and it seemed there was no end to them in sight-I gathered ingredients, utensils, and assorted necessities onto one of our butler’s carts and made my way up to the second floor.

  The kitchen here was cozy-flowered wallpaper and warm-wood cabinets similar to those found in middle-class homes across the country. Although there would have been enough room for two of us to work comfortably together, I was content to handle this dinner for three myself. More important, that’s what the First Lady had requested.

  Dinner was to be served in the adjacent dining room. Occasionally referred to as the family’s private dining room, it was often confused by non-White House personnel with the Family Dining Room on the first floor, or with the President’s Dining Room in the West Wing. But we staffers knew the difference. This room, formerly known as the Prince of Wales Room, due to the fact that the Prince of Wales slept there during James Buchanan’s presidency-before it was outfitted as a kitchen-became the First Family’s private dining room under Jacqueline Kennedy’s direction.

  I’d just started breading the chicken breasts I’d pounded the heck out of earlier when Mrs. Campbell knocked at the doorjamb.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said.

  “Not at all. I’m hoping to be ready to serve at eight-thirty. Will that be all right?”

  She nodded, and wandered into the kitchen. “I asked the butlers to set places for three, but now I understand that Treyton may bring Bindy along. Would it be too much inconvenience to prepare dinner for four, in the event she does show up?”

  I’d brought extras up with me. One doesn’t get to be a top chef without preparing for such exigencies. “Not a problem,” I said.

  Mrs. Campbell began opening cabinets. “Can you believe I haven’t yet figured out where everything is in here?” She gave a sad laugh. “I’m getting too used to having people wait on me all the time. I don’t think I like that.”

  “Enjoy it,” I said. “We’re happy to be here.”

  She had her back to me, two side-by-side cabinets open. “I’m glad you’re here, Ollie. I trust you.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, but Mrs. Campbell wasn’t finished.

  “My husband and I don’t believe Sean took his own life. His mother doesn’t believe it either.”

  I hadn’t expected her to talk about Sean, but I covered my surprise as best I could. She turned to me, tears swimming in her eyes. “You knew him, too. Maybe you saw something we didn’t see? Do you think it’s possible that… that he-”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I don’t.”

  She graced me with a sad smile. “Thank you.”

  Although I was often sorry for speaking out of turn, this time I really couldn’t help myself. “If I may say so…”

  Mrs. Campbell inclined her head. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I just want to tell you how much I admire your composure.” I groaned inwardly. Composure? There had to be a better word. That wasn’t what I meant and it was coming out all wrong. “Dignity, I mean. I admire the way you handle everything. What I mean to say is, Sean’s death has been so hard on y
ou. On everyone…”

  She flinched at Sean’s name, but her eyes urged me to continue.

  “I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to entertain all those women yesterday. And yet you’re still always…” I was trying hard to get my point across without babbling. Failing miserably. Summing up, I said, “You truly are the epitome of grace under pressure.”

  Another sad smile. “When my husband agreed to serve our country by taking on the presidency, we knew we would be held to a higher standard than we had been as civilians. As First Lady, my actions have a ripple effect across the country.” She seemed to be speaking to herself. “It’s frightening in some ways, empowering in others. I realize the effect my actions have, and try to comport myself in a way that deserves emulation, no matter how hard the circumstances.” She squinted at me. “I see a lot of that trait in you, too, Ollie. We have a core”-she pulled both fists in, toward the center of her body-“that holds us steady even when the rest of the world is falling apart. You have the same strength you claim to admire in me. I just pray you never have reason to call upon it the same way I’ve found myself doing these past few days.”

  I felt my face grow hot. Worse, I was speechless.

  Mrs. Campbell must have sensed my surprised amazement. Without waiting for me to reply, she turned her back to me again and grabbed a stack of white bowls in the cabinets. “You can use these,” she said setting them on the table between us. “Like I said, I had dining places set out earlier. We can serve ourselves family style. After all, we are practically family. I’ve known Treyton since before he was born.”

  One of her assistants peeked around the door to let Mrs. Campbell know that Blanchard had arrived. I secretly hoped Bindy wasn’t with him. If Mrs. Campbell was looking to share memories with an old friend, the last thing she needed at the table tonight was an ambitious political emissary who giggled whenever she got nervous.