Hail to the Chef

The other department heads looked at me in surprise. Marguerite’s brow furrowed. “The last I heard, he’s bringing his wife.” She tilted her head. “Is there something I should know?”

I waved off her concern. “Sorry. Stressful morning. My mind took a tangent.” Smiling brightly at the group, I continued my update before passing the floor to the next person.

We were just finishing the meeting when one of the assistants came in with a note for Bradley. “Gene,” he said, after he’d read it. “I thought you said the power to the Map Room had been restored.”

Gene rocked back in his chair. “Yep. Last week, just like you asked.”

“Not according to the cleaning crew. They were just in there and couldn’t get the lights to work.”

Gene sat forward, the front chair legs landing with a whump. “Curly said he took care of it.” Shaking his head, he stood. Like the rest of us in the White House, he knew better than to place blame. “I’ll take care of it right now,” he said, and started out as the rest of us got up to leave.

Bradley held up a finger. “We’re almost done here. Before you go, I want to let everyone know that the Secret Service has arranged for”-he hesitated-“classes to educate the staff in threat assessment.”

From the group: “Does this have to do with the thing they found this morning?”

Someone else asked, “What aren’t they telling us?”

Bradley raised both hands. “You guys know the Secret Service. They’ll tell us when and what they need to tell us. Just be aware that you’ll be contacted soon, and that these classes are mandatory.”

Above the disgruntled murmurs, Kendra voiced the concern we all had. “Don’t they know we’re gearing up for Christmas? Can’t this wait till after New Year?”

“Terrorists don’t care how much work we have.” Bradley said. That reflection sobered us all. “Sorry,” he said. “I know the deadlines we’re all up against. If everyone cooperates, we’ll get through this quickly. Okay?”

Gene had already bolted to the door, muttering something about not being able to depend on his people. Curly was in for an earful when Gene got down to the electrical office. Staff members were rarely caught falling down on the job, and Curly, for all his unpleasantness, was generally quite dependable. I wondered what was wrong.

CHAPTER 4

THE SBA CHEF, AGDA, WAS HARD AT WORK when I returned to the kitchen. Even though I felt I knew her on paper, this was the first time we’d met in person. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t a six-foot-tall bombshell who chopped carrots faster than a food processor on high speed. Wielding a knife so long she could have used it in battle, she halted her chunk-chunk-chunk carrot-hacking and smiled hello.

From Agda’s curriculum vitae I was able to determine how old she was-late twenties-right between Cyan’s age and mine. But heightwise, she had us both by about a foot.

I was in for another surprise. Her command of English was limited. Severely.

“It’s nice to meet you, Agda,” I said, reaching up to shake hands with her.

With a supermodel’s smile, she nodded down to me. “Hallo,” she said, then hesitated. I could practically see her searching her brain before her next words came out, enunciated with care. “You are born France?”

“I was born in the United States,” I said, thinking that was a mighty peculiar question to ask the first moment on the job. From the sound of her last name and the natural blond of her chignon, I’d already deduced her to be of Swedish descent.

When she spoke again, haltingly, I smiled at the lilt in her words, even as I worried about communication in an already stressed kitchen. “They tell me you are… Paris.”

“Oh.” Realization dawned. “I get you,” I said, knowing she was clearly not getting me. Slowing down, I pointed to myself. “Olivia… Ollie… Paras.” I nodded encouragingly. “My name is Ollie Paras.”

Her mouth turned downward. “I am to work for French chef.”

“Marcel has an assistant,” I said. “He’s the pastry chef.”

“No, no. No pastry,” she said, shaking her head in emphasis. “I can be sous-chef. I work here for French chef.”

“You speak French?” At least we could have Marcel translate when necessary.

She shook her head apologetically. “Ah…” she said as she put her fingers up to indicate, “un peu.”

“Well, now that that’s cleared up,” Bucky said from the far end of the kitchen. “Isn’t this great? Even if she’s capable, the best we can do is give her tasks we can pantomime.” Using exaggerated hand motions, he pretended to stir an imaginary handheld bowl. “Like this. And you wonder why Henry always insisted on an interview first.”

Agda’s forehead crinkled. She may not have understood him completely, but his ma

“What a laugh,” he continued. “We’re working shorthanded, and instead of sending us someone we’ve used before, the service expects us to be the United Nations.”

“Bucky, that’s enough,” I said.

He fixed me with a glare, but at least he shut up.

“Come here,” I said to Agda, leading her to the side of the room farthest from Bucky. The White House kitchen is surprisingly small. For all the meals that come out of this place, everyone expects a larger area and state-of-the-art equipment. To be fair, some of our stuff is cutting-edge, but because all purchases must come out of a budget supported by the public, we learn to make do with what we have. “When you finish the carrots”-I pointed-“why don’t you begin making the soup?” I pulled up the recipe from our online files.

Agda’s eyes lit up. “I read,” she said with some pride. “I know how”-she searched for the right phrase-“follow recipe.”

“Great,” I said. As I headed to the computer to update my notes from the staff meeting, she called out to me.

“Ollie,” she said, making my name sound like oily. “You are kitchen assistant, yes?”

Bucky barked a laugh.

“No,” I said, slowly, moving back toward her. “I’m the executive chef.” Even now, months after my appointment, I still felt a little thrill anytime I said it. Pointing to myself yet again, I smiled. “I’m the boss.”

“You? Boss?” She laughed, not mean-spiritedly. Her voice went up an octave as she hovered her hand, flat, just inches above my head. “You are little for boss, no?”

From the corner, Bucky guffawed. “I like this girl already.”

NOT TEN MINUTES LATER, ONE OF THE SECRET Service guys appeared in the kitchen. “Time for the meeting, Ollie,” he said.

My hands and attention deep in the floured batter that would become soft biscuits, I looked up. “What meeting?”

“The Emergency Response Team. The ERT guys. They have that department-head meeting going in the East Room.”

Bucky and Cyan grumbled. Marcel was out of the room at the moment, and Agda clearly didn’t understand.

“Now?” I asked.

He tapped his watch. “Hurry up. The sooner we get in there, the sooner you’ll get back.”

“But-”

“I know, I know. I’ve heard it from everybody so far. Too much to do. No time. Today’s bomb scare threw everyone off and believe me, we’re hearing about it.” Pointing upstairs he added, “It’s mandatory.”

I washed my hands and dried them hastily on my apron as he talked. For the second time that day, I grabbed my notebook and pen and put Bucky in charge of the kitchen. “Get as much done as you can,” I said. “I’m sure I won’t be long.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said.

Cyan rolled her eyes. Agda smiled and waved her knife.

Measuring about eighty by thirty-seven feet, the East Room is the largest room in the White House, and is generally used for social events, such as when singer Karina Pasian performed here, in celebration of Black Music Month during the George W. Bush administration, or in the 1980s for President Ronald Reagan’s seventieth birthday bash. Although the room is also used for more down-to-business purposes, such as bill-signing ceremonies and award presentations, I liked to think of it as the party room. The White House’s first architect, James Hoban, probably had a similar idea in mind, because he had dubbed it the “Public Audience Chamber.”