Hail to the Chef

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 a

“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 of 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.”