Hail to the Chef

by Julie Hyzy

  I stifled an impatient response. Escalating the incident would only make things worse. I’d gotten what I wanted-what decorum demanded-but in doing so had I just quashed the easygoing cheer that characterized our kitchen? I bit my lip. Was it too much to ask that he comport himself like a professional rather than a troublesome fifth-grader? But that was Bucky, and such was the nature of temperamental geniuses. The man could nuance a dish in surprising and delightful ways, but put him in a social setting and all subtlety vanished like powdered sugar on hot pastry.

  A voice behind me. “Ms. Paras. What are you doing here?”

  I’d recognize Peter Everett Sargeant III’s precise elocution anywhere. “Good morning,” I said, turning. “What brings you to my kitchen today?”

  He was perfectly pressed, as always. But today his characteristic etiquette was augmented by a nasty gleam in his eye. “I was under the impression you were scheduled for another emergency training session,” he said. “After all, considering yesterday’s… er… confusion it appears you’re in need of remedial attention regarding proper protocols where security is concerned.”

  Did everyone intend to take a shot at me today? I wanted to scream the truth. But, to what end? To allow me to save face and possibly set up a panic situation? Yesterday, as we walked back to the kitchen, Gav had instructed me to keep quiet about what I knew. The Secret Service believed that the president’s absence from the residence would prevent any future explosive attempts on the White House. At least until President Campbell returned. But by then, he assured me, they’d be ready.

  “Thanks for checking with me, Peter,” I said, minimizing the peculiar document I’d been studying. I slid off the seat. “But I think I’ll be okay now. I was fortunate to be able to confer with Special Agent-in-Charge Gavin. He told me I did the right thing.”

  Sargeant had a squirrel-like way about him. He held his hands in front of his chest and tilted his head. “Wasn’t that kind of him.”

  He looked ready to say more, but I interrupted. “Was there anything else?”

  Nonplussed, he gave the kitchen a once-over. “Will everything be ready on time for today’s reception?”

  “Of course.”

  He sniffed. “I will return later.”

  As he left, I caught Cyan mouthing, “Much later.”

  I was beginning to think the entire place had turned negative. We were all stressed-this time of the year had that effect on us all-but Bucky and Sargeant were pushing it. If it hadn’t been for Gav’s pep talk and Tom’s tutorial yesterday, I’d wonder if I were turning negative, too.

  Back to the computer. I restored the minimized document and reread the first line. “Shrimp processing for the uninitiated.”

  What the heck?

  Below that were crudely described directions for cleaning shrimp. I shook my head. I hadn’t recorded this, and I doubted anyone else on my team had.

  “What’s up, Ollie?” Cyan asked.

  I pointed to the screen. “There’s a document here I’ve never seen before.”

  “That’s weird,” she said as she began to read.

  “Yeah…” Then I remembered. I snapped my fingers.

  “What?”

  “Sean used this computer the other day,” I said. “Remember?”

  “To check his e-mail, right?”

  I read the strangely worded preparations out loud: “Shrimp in a big bowl. Take them out one at a time. They can be slippery little buggers. Really hard to cut that vein thing out. See below for important safety warnings.” Mystified, I turned to Cyan. “Sean must have recorded this, but why?”

  “In case he ever came here to help again?” she said, but I could tell she was as unconvinced as I. “So he didn’t forget how to do it?”

  “No,” I said, scrolling down the page. “I think he recorded this for us to find.”

  “For you to find, maybe.” Cyan said. “I think he liked you.”

  Heaviness dropped in my heart like a lump of cold dough. Sean had indeed “liked” me, or so the First Lady had led me to believe. As I tripped past his crazy notes, I wondered why on earth he’d taken the time to write any of this up when he said he was checking e-mail.

  I stopped scrolling when I saw my name.

  A letter. Directed to me.

  Ollie,

  Hey. I don’t know how soon you’ll see this. Those shrimp are a pain to work with-did you give me that job because you think I’m a pain in your kitchen? Bucky seems annoyed that I’m on your computer. I’d swear he’s baring his teeth at me. LOL. I hope you don’t think I’m a pain. In fact I hope to pop in here more often in the coming weeks.

  My heart jolted again. I bit my lip and continued to read:

  Forget that for now. I’ve only got a second here before Bucky the wonder dog gets suspicious. I wanted to talk with you alone, but the more I spend time here, the more I realize that isn’t going to happen. Not today. And tomorrow’s going to be a tough one, too. I’ll be here because Aunt Elaine asked me to, and because you did. Aunt Elaine doesn’t know the people she’s dealing with as well as she thinks she does. They’ve been trying to muscle me out. But their threats are meaningless. There’s nothing to hold over my head.

  But that makes me a pretty good catch, don’t you think? LOL.

  Ah… I’ve said too much.

  Let me know when you get this. If I’m not already dead of embarrassment, we’ll talk.

  Yours,

  Sean

  I felt my shoulders slump.

  “What’s wrong?” Cyan asked.

  I scrolled back up the page, unwilling to share this with anyone else just yet. “I… I’m not sure,” I said. Pressing my fingers into my eye sockets, I rooted in my brain for ideas. What this note meant, I had no idea, but I knew with certainty this could help prove that Sean hadn’t committed suicide. I needed to get this to someone in authority-someone with the ability to prove that Sean hadn’t taken his own life.

  I clicked the print command and stood up. Easing the paper out of the machine as soon as it was done, I folded it and tucked it in my pocket, then closed out the file. My stomach jostled. If Sean hadn’t taken his own life, who had taken it from him?

  “You okay, Ollie?” Cyan asked. “You’re awfully pale.”

  “I’m…” I swallowed. “I’m okay.”

  Marcel’s arrival in the kitchen prevented me from having to explain further. In a tizzy, he stood in the doorway and begged for help.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “The house. I cannot get it into the elevator,” he said.

  Bucky made a disparaging noise. “If we all run over to help him, who’s going to get the hors d’oeuvres done on time?”

  The clock was ticking. “Rafe,” I said, “can you get Agda to help put the appetizers together?” He nodded. Agda, having heard her name, stood up straight, apparently ready for whatever task I would assign. “Bucky,” I continued, “you’re doing fine there. Cyan will stay here, too.” I held up my splinted hand. “I’m off kitchen prep, so I’ll work with Marcel.”

  More often than not, Marcel reacted first and thought things through later. I hoped that was the case now.

  When I followed him into the hallway, I understood the problem. The gingerbread house was enormous. “Marcel,” I said, in awe, “this is incredible.”

  Larger than last year’s gingerbread house by half, this year’s version was a meticulously perfect model of the current White House. We’d had a hard time getting the house in the elevator last year. I couldn’t imagine why Marcel had decided to up the scale. A quick glance at his distraught face convinced me not to ask.

  The annual gingerbread house creation always fell under the purview of our executive pastry chef. The rest of us in the kitchen helped out where needed, of course, but Marcel enjoyed this project more than any other all year.

  The house itself took more than two weeks to create. Last year’s version had weighed more than three hundred pounds, and this one was most d
efinitely bigger. Marcel had designed this tiny mansion with staggering accuracy, creating individual baked gingerbread pieces in varying shapes and sizes and bringing them together with architectural precision.

  This was no half-baked endeavor. Marcel had, in fact, made several duplicates of each section in anticipation of breakage. Every single piece was hand-crafted in proportion to the whole. The gingerbread, though edible-and delicious-was never consumed. Marcel carefully shaped individual pieces, then baked and set them aside until needed for the final construction in the China Room. I’d walked in on Marcel and his team a few times over the past couple weeks. They worked with the quiet intensity of adults, but maintained the wide-eyed optimism of school-children. Every little detail, from side walls to windowsills, was identified, numbered, and set aside for placement at exactly the right time.

  Marcel had five assistants for this project. Three were SBA chefs, and two were permanent. Marcel usually made do with only one assistant, but Yi-im had proven so adept at the pastry tasks, Marcel had seized him for his own. Cross-training happened now and again in the White House, but it wasn’t the norm. Yi-im’s change of status from butler to assistant chef had caused a few raised eyebrows-particularly from the waitstaff. They weren’t happy at the prospect of having to fill another empty position.

  When I finished my slow-circuit inspection of the house, I had to say it again. “This is incredible.”

  “Merci,” he said, absentmindedly, his gaze flipping back and forth between the cookie house and the elevator doors. The giant structure sat on a massive piece of covered plywood, which itself sat atop one of our wheeled serving carts. The design took my breath away so completely that I nearly forgot the problem at hand-getting it up to the main floor.

  Yi-im appeared from around the back of the gingerbread house. “I didn’t see you,” I said.

  His cheekbones moved upward in a polite smile, but it came across more as an affectation than his being happy to see me. The dilemma of how to get this beautiful monstrosity to the Red Room was obviously weighing heavily on everyone.

  “What are these?” I asked Marcel, pointing to the mansion’s edges. Small postlike structures were attached to the miniature-and I use the term loosely-White House’s corners. Like flagpoles, but without flying any banner, each inner and outer corner of the building had one of these, painted white with icing to make it less noticeable.

  Marcel heaved a big sigh in front of the elevator. “I do not wish to disassemble my masterpiece,” he said with a forlorn expression. “I have just now put it together. It is exactly right. If I were to take it apart once again, it will never be so perfect.”

  “Can’t we just carry it up?”

  “Are you insane?” he asked. “Do you know how much this must weigh?” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “It would take the strength of six men to carry this up the stairs, and my assistants are not capable of such heavy lifting. Not only that, but if they were to tilt it to any extreme, the walls would crack and my masterpiece would be ruined.” He looked ready to cry. “Do you hear me? Ruined!”

  I blew out a breath. Marcel had been executive pastry chef for a long time. I couldn’t imagine how he’d forgotten the limitations there were on transportation. Of course, when one is in the throes of creativity, sound reasoning often flies out the window. That’s probably what happened in this case. Scope creep. A little flourish here, a little detail there, and pretty soon you’ve created a big monster.

  I took another look at the grand cookie White House. I had to admit again it was gorgeous. Every window had icy corners, as though Jack Frost had decorated the panes himself. The Truman Balcony was not only perfectly represented, but it was dressed with snow, miniature evergreen roping, and wreaths decked with red bows. I couldn’t see inside, but I knew Marcel had outfitted the piece with inner lights. I couldn’t wait to see it lit.

  Marcel paced as Yi-im fiddled with different sections of the structure. I asked him about the poles at each of the corners. He shrugged and did that nonsmile thing again but said nothing.

  There was no way this creation would fit in any of the elevators. Not even close. I shook my head as I pondered our next move.

  “You agree it is hopeless, no?”

  “Nothing is hopeless,” I said, walking slowly around it. Six men, Marcel had said. Personally, I thought it could be handled by four. “Who’s available to help us?”

  Marcel gave me a wary look. “What do you have in mind?”

  “If we can get four sturdy men to each take one corner of the plywood, and if they go up those stairs”-I pointed-“very, very carefully, I think there’s a good chance of moving this in one piece.”

  Skeptical, Marcel pressed me for reasons why I believed a bunch of burly men wouldn’t be clumsy with his masterpiece. After a ten-minute discussion, he agreed to give it a try. “But if the men cannot lift this easily-immediately-we will call off the experiment,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling downward. “And I will return to my kitchen to take my beautiful building apart.”

  “Don’t get defeated. We haven’t even attempted this yet,” I said.

  Marcel nodded and spoke to Yi-im. “Can you find us several men to help?”

  With a nod, he was off.

  “What about the gingerbread men?” I asked, looking around the wheeled cart. “I don’t see them here.”

  “They will come later,” Marcel answered, still a bit more distracted than he usually was. “Yi-im will arrange those when the house itself is in place.”

  I glanced at my watch. Marcel noticed.

  “I know. I know.” He paced the corridor. “What was I thinking? Why did I not ensure the house was in place yesterday?” Turning to face me, he continued his one-sided conversation. “I will tell you why. Because I have had nothing but trouble with my assistants. Do they not know how important it is that we have our work of art in place when it is to be unveiled? Does that not follow? Do they have no sense?”

  I glanced in the direction his assistant had gone and I gestured for Marcel to lower his voice. “I thought you said Yi-im was working out very well.”

  Marcel rolled bugged-out eyes. “He is, what you say… the harbor during the hurricane.”

  “Any port in a storm?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. That. While he is willing to put in many hours, he is not trained in methods nor in kitchen procedure. He has much to learn.”

  Conversation from behind caused me to turn. Yi-im had drawn out the electrical staff. Curly, Manny, and Vince were following the small man; Curly looking ever unpleasant, and Manny and Vince sharing a joke.

  Yi-im nodded, gesturing the other men forward. He’d snagged only three. We clearly needed four. Marcel, I knew, had no intention of helping carry the house, and Yi-im was just too small. I chewed the inside of my lip. I was strong for my size, but I had doubts about my ability to hold up my end of the structure. The last thing we needed was for the house to crash to the ground. And the very last thing I wanted was for it to be my fault.

  Before I could step forward to lend assistance, however, Yi-im grabbed the corner nearest me. He grunted some imperative and the three other men took corresponding positions at each end. Marcel covered his eyes. “I cannot bear to watch.”

  The four men, with set expressions, wrapped their fingers around the curved ends of the platform, and as one, lifted the board into the air.

  Marcel moaned, turning his back now. “Ollie, you must oversee this. Tell me when I may look.” Hands covering his eyes like horse blinders, he started back to the kitchen.

  “Marcel,” I called.

  He turned, but only enough to face me. “Take the cart in the elevator,” I said. “We’ll need this as soon as we get up there.”

  With pain twisting his aristocratic features into a horrified frown, Marcel quickly stepped forward, grabbed both handles, and maneuvered the cart out from beneath the men’s pole positions.

  Within moments, Manny and
Vince were four steps up the staircase, Curly and Yi-im still on the floor, raising their end high to keep the house level. Marcel chanced a look back, let loose another groan of total despair, and practically ran the cart to the nearest elevator.

  I hated accompanying the four men on their painstaking crawl up the stairs, but I sensed they hated my presence even more. They had all obviously carried cumbersome, heavy items up staircases before, because they used minimal conversation to guide the collective group effort. Although I had faith in the strength of these men, I sweated out my position, low on the steps as they climbed up. If, heaven forbid, the house did topple, I could just see myself now, crushed below it, my feet sticking out like those of the Wicked Witch of the East.

  I scampered up past them and breathed a little easier.

  Curly, Manny, and Vince labored against the project’s weight, grunting as they inched up each individual step. Yi-im’s face showed no such strain. All four were careful to keep the board level. Too late, I thought about borrowing an actual level from the carpenter’s department; I could have monitored the progress up the stairs.

  One look at the contorted expressions on these guys’ faces, however, and I realized my coaching and calling out levelness might have tempted them to dump the house smack on top of my head.

  Marcel met me at the top of the stairs, cart ready.

  Several long, sweaty minutes later, Manny and Vince cleared the top landing, holding their ends low until Curly and Yi-im were able to join them. Relief washed over every one of their faces when the board was settled softly atop the cart. We wheeled the house into the center of the Entrance Hall.

  “Merci, er, thank you,” Marcel said to the men, but he clearly didn’t care whether anyone heard him. Walking around the giant confection, Marcel slowly examined his masterpiece, inspecting every inch. If I would have had a magnifying glass on me, I would have offered it to him.

  Curly was just starting back toward the steps when Paul Vasquez called out to him to wait. Our chief usher hurried across the hall, his shiny black shoes clipping in sharp measure. “I just left a message for you. I didn’t realize you’d be up here.”