All the President’s Menus (5 page)

I stole a few precious minutes to put in a call to Gav, to ask about how things were going with Bill and Erma. His phone went to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message, knowing he would return the call when he could.

I then hurried up to the pastry kitchen, taking a quick look around for the raspberry sauce that the Saardiscans and Marcel had all tasted. None of the other men had fallen ill, so I didn’t believe the sauce was at fault, but I did want to get a closer look at it.

I found it in a small, open container, sitting on a countertop. This probably should have been refrigerated, but in the excitement and chaos from the day before, no one would have thought to put it away. Four spoons sat next to the container, and it was clear from the smeared red markings on their bowls that these had been used for sampling.

What I wanted, most of all, was to reassure myself that the red fluid I’d seen Marcel cough up was not blood. I dunked one of the spoons and spread the viscous goo onto an empty plate. Not that I could remember specifically, but the color looked familiar. I heaved a small sigh of relief. Perhaps Marcel had simply had a moment of light-headedness and there was nothing more worrisome about his health than that.

The doctors would have a diagnosis soon, I was sure. Trouble was, I wasn’t the most patient person in the world.

I spent a little time tidying up the pastry kitchen before heading back downstairs.

“How are things going?” I asked Bucky when I returned.

The four visiting chefs were hard at work around the center counter and it appeared as though they were busy with preparations for tonight’s dinner offerings. We had a few guests coming this evening, including the speaker of the house and the senate minority leader. They were charged with corralling members of their respective parties to cooperate to end this sequester before we entered another week of cuts.

Everyone glanced up at my question. Kilian waved his colleagues back to work as though my return to the kitchen was of no consequence.

“Good, you’re here,” Bucky said with undisguised relief. To the chefs he said, “We’ll be right back, don’t worry.” They didn’t look terribly concerned. Bucky motioned me to follow. He headed out of the kitchen, through the corridors, and across the basement hall into the White House chocolate shop.

He shut the door to the little room once we were both inside. This windowless, close room was lined on one side with a countertop. Although there were cabinets, drawers, and sufficient kitchen equipment to produce fine and fancy chocolates here, the space lacked any sort of personality or decoration. It was bland, tiny, utilitarian.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “What happened?”

“Got a call from Marcel. He wanted to talk with you. I thought you were upstairs with Sargeant but when they patched me through, your meeting with him was over.”

“I took a detour coming back. What did he want to talk about? Did the doctors deliver bad news?”

“He needed surgery on his arm.” Bucky’s face was a mixture of worry and strain as he forced himself to speak slowly. “And he’ll be in a cast for at least six weeks.”

This
was
bad news. “Oh no.”

Bucky’s agitation grew. “You and I were depending on Marcel to shoulder some of the work during the Saardiscans’ stay. Not that I’m blaming Marcel—of course not—but we had a structure planned that’s completely blown now. It’s enough work to prepare all the First Family’s meals without tripping over four more bodies while we do it. What are we going to do with them? We’ve been able to scramble since the accident, but I don’t know how you and I will be able to maintain control without help. Not to mention that there’s no way we can cover desserts properly.”

Bucky’s words had tumbled out quickly and I agreed with everything he’d said. Not that I had any answers for him. I ran a hand through my hair. “In other news, I talked with Tom this morning about getting a linguist to join us in the kitchen.”

“I can guess by the look on your face how well that went over.”

“I’ll talk with Sargeant about arranging to have one of Marcel’s assistants return for the duration.”

Bucky shook his head.

“What?” I asked.

“Not happening,” he said. “When I called up there and found out you’d already left, I decided to ask Sargeant about it myself.”

“And he said no?”

Bucky folded his arms across his chest. “He told us to find other ways to keep the visiting team busy.”

“We’ll manage. I don’t know how yet, but we will.” I took in a breath. “I may wait a bit then take another run at Sargeant about getting a pastry chef back on board.”

“Good luck with that.”

“The Saardiscans are here; we’re stuck with them. Nothing we can do to change that. What you and I have to do is find a way to keep order in the kitchen and the First Family happy and well fed. In the meantime, I think we ought to try to persuade our guests to lighten up and take in the town as tourists. A little free time couldn’t hurt.”

“They don’t strike me as the type who know how to lighten up.”

I chose not to share Sargeant’s suggestion about Bucky taking charge of the kitchen, with me assuming more of a backseat role. Even though I had no intention of implementing the idea, right about now my assistant was too worked up for me to mention it. “Let’s take this one day at a time, shall we?”

*   *   *

Sargeant sent an e-mail, detailing specifics for candidate Kerry Freiberg’s dinner. To my surprise, it had been decided that the affair would be hosted at Blair House.

Blair House was an opulent residence on Pennsylvania Avenue across from the White House. It was purchased by the United States during World War II when President Franklin Delano Roosevelt decided that guests were best accommodated elsewhere. Legend has it that this determination was made after Eleanor Roosevelt happened upon frequent guest Winston Churchill wandering the White House corridors at three in the morning, looking for Franklin to chat with.

From that point on, Blair House became the first choice for providing dignitaries with elegant accommodations. Through the years, adjacent buildings were acquired, walls were torn down, and renovations were made, turning four separate structures into one stately residence. Harry Truman and his family lived in Blair House for a good portion of his presidency while the White House—which had fallen into sad disrepair—was gutted and refurbished.

According to Sargeant, the location was ideal for Kerry Freiberg’s visit. Blair House provided an informal and warm setting to host dinner for the visiting dignitary without raising the ire of those who would question the president entertaining at the White House during the government shutdown.

Later that day, Bucky and I presented a new agenda to our chefs, one that allowed them a bit more free time.

“Our original schedule had the four of you here every day, from about eight in the morning until about four in the afternoon.” I made eye contact with them as I spoke. “And you all had rotating time off.” At this point, I hadn’t told them anything they didn’t already know. “With Marcel out of the picture, Bucky and I have come up with a new plan, one that will give you more free time to explore the city.”

I went on to cover the specifics of the schedule, with Bucky chiming in to clarify as needed.

Their reaction was mixed. Kilian nodded often. I thought I detected a gleam of interest in his expression.

“Remember,” I said, “this is only a possibility. If we’re able to bring back Marcel, even if he’s stuck working one-handed for a while, we’ll revert to our original plan.”

Nate and Hector kept nodding as Bucky and I talked, but otherwise showed no reaction. I got the feeling they didn’t completely comprehend.

Tibor, however, understood. He practically scalded me with a look of disgust. “We do not come here to waste time. We came here to benefit Saardisca.” He flung his hands up, fingers extended like ten tense exclamation points. He cast his gaze about the room, looking for support from his colleagues.

Hector and Nate exchanged a confused glance and whispered to each other, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Kilian tried to quiet Tibor’s rant. “This could be a very good chance for us,” he said in a calming voice. He then lapsed into Saardiscan and spoke so quickly that I couldn’t even get a sense of what the message was. Was he chastising his colleague? Was he in agreement with Tibor but asking the man to cooperate? There were times I believed I could understand anyone, no matter the language. Body movement, tone, and expression all combine to provide context. This was not one of those times.

When Kilian finished his speed-speak, he turned to me and asked if he and I could have a moment alone. Tibor folded his arms and looked away.

Surprised by the request, I agreed, leading the Saardiscan back toward the refrigeration area. “This should be sufficiently private,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”

Kilian’s smile rose and fell quickly in that fake way people do when they’re working hard to minimize tension. “You must forgive my friend Tibor. He is a master chef in his province, as I am in mine. It was difficult to decide between us who was to be in charge during this voyage, but the decision was made to make me our official leader. This has not set well with Tibor.”

That explained a good deal of the man’s surliness. “Go on,” I said.

“If he were in charge of making decisions for all of us, he would never agree to take time away from working.”

“And if we didn’t allow you access to the White House? What could he do then?”

“With Tibor in charge, he would no doubt find work for us to do in our hotel rooms. You must forgive him. He is driven to succeed. He will stop at nothing to see that we achieve many goals here.”

“I have no doubt that success, whatever you take that to mean, will be yours as long as we work together,” I said. “Our goal here, remember, is to exchange knowledge and forge a bond. We don’t intend to submit a report to your government on any of you. A little time off isn’t going to hurt anyone.”

Kilian’s expression shifted in a way that I didn’t understand. He glanced back the way we’d come, as though to assure himself that no one else was nearby. Lowering his voice, he stepped closer. “You, Bucky, and Marcel have been kind to us. I realize we have only been here for little more than a day, but I sense no animosity from any of you.”

“Did you expect to?”

His expression was earnest. “Of course.” He held both hands out. “The kitchen is a place of great competition. Only he who works hard to be the best will survive.”

“Or she.”

His brow furrowed. “May I speak plainly?”

“Of course.”

“You are female.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

He either didn’t understand the humor or chose to ignore it, and continued without missing a beat. “In our country, females rarely hold such a position. We expected to encounter more difficulty with you. How is it that you have come to this level? How is it that you are above men in your field?”

“I don’t understand your confusion,” I began. “I may be the executive chef here, but there are many women—hundreds, if not thousands—who hold positions far more impressive than mine. Not only chefs, of course. There are female lawmakers, scientists, artists, ambassadors, and businesswomen all over this country. All over the world, in fact. You can’t possibly be surprised by that. Saardisca has a woman running for president, for heaven’s sake. You do know that, don’t you?”

He waved that away. “She will not win.”

I thought about my discussion with Sargeant earlier. “How can you be so sure?”

“If she were to gain the presidency, it would be only because many men have helped put her in that position. And when she is there, they will demand a share of her power.”

“That’s very cynical. Maybe her message is resonating with voters more than you realize.”

“The changes she speaks of would be wonderful for our citizens,” he said. “But how can I believe that she is not merely a puppet?”

“I don’t know,” I said, for I truly didn’t. “All I can tell you is that when I vote in an election, I choose the candidate whose views most closely align with my own. Maybe I’m naïve, but I tend to believe that most men and women running for office do so because they hope to improve the world.”

“We should all be so naïve,” he said. “When we have access to your news,” he said in a hushed voice, “we are told it is propaganda. That none of it is true. And yet . . .” He held his palms up. “Here you are.”

“Are you telling me that your government sent you here, not knowing that you’d be working with me?”

“We were told that your presence in the kitchen is a publicity stunt to allow women to believe that they have potential. Giving them such hopes encourages them to work harder at their jobs. We were told that life here is much the way it is at home: Women work but they cannot achieve positions of power.”

“I think that’s deplorable,” I said.

I don’t know what it was—the look on his face at that moment, or some vague sense that he agreed with my pronouncement—that spurred me to ask, “What do
you
think about that?”