All the President’s Menus (19 page)

I went through all the steps necessary for preparing the pork entrée, discussing how we juggled preparing multiple courses while ensuring everything was perfectly done and ready to be served at the appointed time. “I’d like you all to get a chance to try browning and turning these. It can get messy, and we can all use the practice.”

As I plated my finished example, I turned to Stephanie, who was farthest away from me and closest to the countertop. I had a supply of chopped pecans next to the stovetop, ready for use, but I’d kept a spare container of pecan halves, for garnishing the finished dish. “Could you hand the pecans to me?” I asked her.

“The what?”

“Pecans.”

She turned, looking directly at the container of nuts. “Aren’t these walnuts?”

I bit my lip to keep from reacting. Any chef, even an aspiring one, ought to know the difference between pecans and walnuts. “Pecans,” I said stiffly.

Recognizing her gaffe, perhaps, she hurried to grab the container and hand it to me.

Bucky tried to cover. “I used to make that mistake all the time, too,” he said, which I knew was a complete fabrication.

Tibor scowled. “How long have you been studying to be a chef?” he asked Stephanie.

“Oh, I’m only starting out. It’s what I . . . uh . . . always wanted to do, always . . . uh . . . dreamed of doing but I never had a chance before.” Panicked, she glanced at me, her face growing red. She tried to laugh it off, but it came out more as a stammer. “I’m learning new things every day.”

“Oh? Even a beginner has mastered some skills.” Tibor crossed his arms. “What is your preferred method for making a roux?” he asked her.

“Now, now,” I said, before this could go further. “This is Stephanie’s very first day. We shouldn’t put her on the spot.” I shot Stephanie a smile of encouragement. The girl looked like she wanted to bolt.

Nate and Hector exchanged a glance.

Cleto seemed oblivious to the food references, but tightly attuned to the men’s observations. He lifted his chin as though about to ask a question, when Bucky chimed in, “Who wants to try it?” Pointing to the slices of raw pork on the platter before us, he said, “We all need to practice.”

“Tibor, how about you go next?” I said.

He huffed, but stepped up to take over and I stifled a deep breath of relief. Backing up, I allowed the other chefs to move in closer, giving me a chance to stand nearer to Stephanie. With everyone else’s back to me, I surreptitiously patted her on the arm. “It’s fine. Just relax.”

Her jaw was clenched, but she nodded.

For the next few interminable hours, Stephanie stumbled through task after task, proving her ineptness in the kitchen with every misstep. I’d assumed that she was a woman living on her own. How she could exist and feed herself with so few basic culinary skills boggled the mind.

I could tell it was similarly baffling our Saardiscan guests. They regarded her with blatant interest and I couldn’t help noticing their expressions of disbelief when she struggled with simple things like releasing blades from a hand mixer, or being able to distinguish zucchini from eggplant. Her cover story was failing fast.

With all the Saardiscans speaking English, eliminating the need for a translator, I was tempted to say the code word,
pencil
, take her aside, and absolve her from her responsibilities. Instead, as long as she was here, I asked Bucky to take Cleto and Tibor up to the pastry kitchen, on the pretext of doing an inventory.

I didn’t have a solid plan. All I knew was that Nate and Hector had been the two who had most often lapsed into Saardiscan when we were all working in the kitchen. With Cleto out of the main kitchen, I hoped to give them the chance to converse freely again.

Stephanie and I were on one side of the countertop, Nate and Hector on the other. The two men were hard at work slicing zucchini into uniform wheels, while Stephanie and I went over a recipe we planned to use later.

She and I kept our voices low, and it wasn’t long before Nate and Hector started talking between themselves. In Saardiscan.

Stephanie gave a little start. I was half-turned away from the men, so I couldn’t tell if they’d noticed her reaction. If they had, I hoped they assumed she was responding to something she’d read.

“Easy,” I whispered. I didn’t want to confuse her, or mask the men’s conversation with words of my own, so I pointed to the recipe, as though we were both reading silently together.

Nate and Hector continued to converse, their voices growing slightly louder. Whatever they were saying had both men riled up. I thought I detected the name
Cleto
in their discussion, but I couldn’t be sure.

I stole a quick glance at Stephanie, who had straightened up, her back rigid. Her body language practically broadcast that she was paying attention. I wanted to bump her sideways, but there was no way to loosen the girl up without bringing attention our way.

Nate said something to Hector that caused me to take extra notice. Perhaps it was the change in inflection. He slowed his words down, and raised his voice ever so slightly, almost as though striving to be overheard.

I made a pretense of needing to retrieve a spoon from across the room. Walking over, I was able to watch all three at once. Nate continued to talk. Hector looked confused.

Nate’s body language, however, spoke volumes. He continued to slice zucchini, speaking Saardiscan as he worked. What was obvious to me was that he was paying little attention to Hector, yet watching Stephanie’s every move.

Keeping his voice steady and calm, he said something that caused Stephanie to react. She gave a little gasp of surprise and her cheeks flamed bright red. Flustered, she glanced over to me. “I need a pencil,” she said in a quavering voice. “Do you have a pencil?”

“Sure,” I said, letting her know I’d heard the word. I then reached for one, intending to hand it to her while I came up with a credible reason to call her out of the room.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was high and thin. “I said I needed a pencil.”

“I heard you,” I said in as soothing a tone as I could muster. “Give me a minute, okay?”

She bit her bottom lip, sent a furious glare toward Nate, and then stomped out of the kitchen. “I didn’t sign on for this.”

I pressed my hand against my forehead for a precious second, then excused myself and took off after her. I didn’t like the idea of leaving the two chefs in the kitchen without supervision, but there wasn’t much choice.

Stephanie stormed south down the corridor that led to the Center Hall. “Wait,” I said.

She turned and slowed. I had no idea where she thought she was going. I got the impression she didn’t, either. When we reached the Center Hall, I tapped one of the Secret Service agents there on the arm. “I had to leave the kitchen, and two Saardiscan chefs are all alone in there. Could someone please stay with them until I return?”

The agent acknowledged me with a nod, conferred briefly with his counterpart, and spoke into his microphone as he made his way back the way we’d come.

“Stop,” I said to Stephanie. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She spun, her dark eyes searching behind me, as though worried we were being followed. “They are not nice men,” she said. “You said you wanted me to listen to see if they knew anything about that other man who died.”

“Did they?” I asked. “Say anything, that is?”

“They said too much.” She pressed the fingers of both hands to her brow, then clasped them against her lips, her body jittering with what could have been nervousness, or perhaps even fear. Finally clasping her hands together tightly at her chest, she took a long breath.

Slightly more composed but still shaking, she pursed her lips, took another breath, and said, “They talked about me.” She patted a high spot on her breastbone. “Me,” she repeated. “The two of them were discussing what they would like to do with me. If they had me alone.”

Although she’d started out in hushed tones, her voice had risen to the point that I worried we might be overheard. I led her into the Diplomatic Reception Room. “What, exactly, did they say?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I refuse to repeat it.”

“I’m sorry you had to hear that. I’m sorry to have put you in that situation.”

Her hands had stopped trembling. “I’m not going back in there,” she said.

“Of course not.” I grasped her by her forearms. “Truly, I am sorry. No one should be subject to that. I can’t apologize enough.”

She breathed in deeply through her nose, staring across the room. “I think,” she said, much calmer now, “they were testing me, to see if I understood.”

I’d come to the same conclusion.

“I should be apologizing to you,” Stephanie said. “I’ve blown the mission. It seems I’m not cut out to be much of a spy, doesn’t it?”

“It’s all right,” I said, though the untruth came out lame. If Nate and Hector had, indeed, engineered their conversation to ascertain if Stephanie understood, they’d achieved success. At this poor young woman’s expense.

“I am sincerely very sorry to have put you through that,” I said, apologizing yet again.

“I’m better now, thanks. Although I don’t know how they knew, I think they suspected me right away. I’m sure this was a test. And I failed.”

“I’ll call Secret Service to have you escorted out.”

She flashed one of her timid smiles. “If there was any other way to help, you know I would.”

“Thanks,” I said. “My guess is that there won’t be a great deal of Saardiscan chatter in the kitchen now that they’re aware we’re interested in what they’re saying. You helped us in that way, no question about it. I’m sure we were all worried for nothing.” That was another lie, but it was the only way to make her feel better about how things had turned out.

Gav met me after work on 17th Street, just outside the southwest appointment gate. We had tickets to see
Peter and the Starcatcher
tonight and had decided to grab dinner in the Foggy Bottom area beforehand.

As we made our way to the restaurant, I told Gav about what a mess the day had turned out to be.

“How did you explain Stephanie’s sudden departure to the Saardiscans when you returned to the kitchen?” he asked.

I took a deep inhalation of the fall air. A gentle breeze carried the heady scent of soft earth and fallen leaves. It was the time of the year I’d loved as a child. I’d always been an indoor kid, and cooler weather meant books to read and cooking projects to tackle. “I can’t wait until these visitors are gone,” I said, staring up at the overcast sky.

He waited.

Returning my attention to where I was walking, I shrugged. “To answer your question, though, it didn’t really matter what I said. There’s no doubt in my mind that Nate and Hector, at least, knew that Stephanie was an interpreter. When Cleto and Tibor returned, I made an excuse about how Stephanie had decided that perhaps she didn’t want to follow a career as a chef after all, and how amazing it was that one day’s experience in the kitchen had opened her eyes.”

“That probably didn’t convince anyone.”

I waved a hand in the air. “Oh, they had plenty to say on the subject of young people. You know, how they don’t appreciate the opportunities they’re granted, and how they possess an overblown sense of entitlement, and how they—Stephanie in particular—must be a disappointment to the relative who stuck his neck out on her behalf.”

“You didn’t argue the point, did you?”

“How could I?” The aggravation I’d been feeling all day rumbled in my chest again.

“That had to really bother you.” Gav’s eyes narrowed as he glanced down at me. “I know how much it upsets you when people make sweeping generalizations.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “I know. I feel as though I single-handedly painted all twenty-somethings as a group of ungrateful slackers. You know as well as I do that there are many wonderful young people out there. Strong, energetic, smart youngsters, poised to do great things in this country.”

He grabbed my left hand with his right. “Slow down,” he said.

It took a split second to understand. “Oh, right,” I said, and decreased my pace.

“The more you talked, the faster you walked. You tend to do that.”

“Pent-up frustration makes me jittery.”

“I know.”

I bumped my shoulder into his arm and laughed at myself. “One of the perks of the job. Unintentional exercise.”

We walked for a few minutes in silence before I thought to add, “There is some good news, though. Marcel called. He’s been given the okay to return to work.”

“Wow. That poor guy has been through so many ups and downs—he’s in, he’s out, he’s in . . .” Gav said. “But won’t the broken arm prevent him from being any real help?”

“Marcel will do what he can, with the Saardiscan chefs assisting him, for casual dinner meetings. When the time comes to prepare for the big Saardiscan dinner, however, Sargeant will be bringing back one of Marcel’s assistants to lend a hand. Hallelujah.”

We arrived at the restaurant, a tiny Italian place that smelled of garlic, basil, and comfort. We gave the hostess Gav’s name and were seated at a shiny cherrywood table for two tucked into the room’s far corner. The walls were buff-colored stucco, the lighting indirect and warm. As I settled into my chair and accepted a menu from the hostess, I thought about how it might be best to cast off the day’s stresses and concentrate on the here and now. Yet, I knew myself well enough to know that until I came up with a plan of action, I wouldn’t be able to completely relax.

After we’d made our selections, and our waitress brought us the chianti we’d ordered, Gav lifted his wineglass and waited for me to do the same.

“What are we toasting?” I asked, holding my glass aloft.

“The plan you’re hatching.” He pointed to his head, and then to me. “There’s something generating in there.”

This man knew me well. “You’re right.”

We both took a sip, and when I placed my glass back down, I folded my hands in my lap and leaned forward, whispering, “Before Stephanie left, she said that she’d be willing to help me, as long as it didn’t involve her facing those men. You know that mini tape recorder I use when coming up with recipes at home? What would you think about me taking that in tomorrow to catch some of what they’re saying?”

The look on Gav’s face made me talk faster, as though doing so would convince him that my hare-brained scheme was actually a great idea.

“If I can record some of their conversations, Stephanie can translate without her ever having to step foot in the White House again.”

He nodded. “You, as an individual, can probably get away with it. The government, on the other hand, is required to clear specific legal hurdles before it’s allowed to tape individuals’ conversations.”

I shot him a skeptical look. “And we all know that the government has always adhered to those rules, without exception.”

“I’m no lawyer, but it seems to me that if your expectation is that kitchen communications remain open, then you’re on solid ground. That, and the fact that you don’t intend to introduce your recordings as evidence against these men in a court of law.” He took a sip of his wine. “Do you?”

“All I want to know is if there is something going on behind the scenes that I’m unaware of. I need to know.”

The waitress brought us our steaming first course and we halted our conversation until she’d retreated.

“The Secret Service can’t possibly sanction this.” He dug into his linguine and raised one eyebrow. “Not officially, of course.”

“Understandable,” I said as I took a deep whiff of my ribollita. “This smells wonderful,” I said. “I may need to ask the chef for the recipe.”

We ate in silence for a few minutes, until Gav said, “In other news, I talked with Erma.”

“Bill is improving, I hope?”

“He is,” Gav said, “and we discussed the winery again. As well as our plans—yours and mine—for our future.”

I felt the delicious bread soup do a flip-flop in my stomach. “What did she say?”

“She understands how much of a bombshell this is for both of us and completely agrees with our decision to put off a final decision until we’ve had time to fully digest it all.”

“And?” I asked, because I could tell there was more.

“She also suggested that we take time to learn the business from them directly, which is exactly what you and I talked about. She was quick to clarify that they don’t want us to devote all our free time to them. She is suggesting, however, that it might help us make our decision if we understand what’s involved in running the place. And the only way to learn is to involve ourselves.”

“What do you think?”

He took another bite of linguine as he considered his answer. “I always prefer having more information rather than less.”

“Same here.”

He smiled. “I’m not opposed to spending more time with Erma and Bill. If I happen to learn some basics about running a winery while I’m there, so be it.”

“That makes perfect sense.”

“I know how little time off you get from the White House, Ollie. Which is why I don’t want to put this burden on you.” He stared at me across the table. “I can do this on my own. Visit there from time to time, I mean. I don’t want to eat up your free time with this. Not unless you and I decide this is something we want to pursue.”

“How will
we
know what we want,” I asked, “if
you’re
there learning the business on your own?”

He patted his napkin against his lips. “I don’t know.”

“The idea of spending time with people who are important to you is a good one,” I said carefully. “And if you warm to the notion of owning a winery, well—stranger things have happened. Who knows? The more I think about this, the more potential I see. Not that I’m ready to pack up and move this minute, but we could open a restaurant there, couldn’t we?”

Gav’s eyes lit up.

I continued, “What I want you to know is that I’m willing to consider the possibility. There are options we haven’t yet considered, and amazing potential. We could turn this into a real opportunity that works for both of us. But before we go there, I have to ask: Is this what you want? Or are you going down this road because you don’t want to disappoint Bill and Erma?”

He rubbed one side of his forehead. “I really don’t know. I’m saying that a lot tonight, aren’t I?”

“I’m going to give you some advice,” I said.

“Please do.”

“Someone I care deeply about always tells me to trust myself.”

He smiled. “Anyone I know?”

“I’d say you do. Seriously, Gav. Does being a surrogate son to them feel like the right thing to do?”

He stared at the table for a moment, but when he looked up his eyes were clear. “It does,” he said. “Whether that’s because I want to keep Bill and Erma happy a little longer, or whether it’s because I’m actually intrigued by the opportunity, I’m not entirely positive. But this feels like the right step right now.”

“Then that’s all that matters,” I said. “And while I may not be able to go with you every time you visit them, I do hope to join you as often as I can.”

“You’d do that?”

“Last time I checked we were in this together,” I said. “And you know me. I’m always up for an adventure.”