All the President’s Menus (8 page)

“My Olivia,” Marcel exclaimed when he came in. Wearing a sling around his casted arm, he could grab only one of my shoulders as he pulled me in to kiss me on both cheeks. “I would kiss you, too, my good friend,” he said to Bucky, “but I believe you would—how is the word?—slug me. No?” He winked.

Bucky pulled his lips to one side as though annoyed, but I knew better. “Good to see you back, buddy.”

Marcel had a coat draped over his shoulders, which he managed to shrug off one-handed. Beneath it he wore a pristine White House–embellished smock, and he’d even managed to work his injured arm through its sleeve. Pointing, I asked, “Since when do you keep these at home? You know they aren’t supposed to leave the building unless we’re on official duty.”

His bright white teeth contrasting with his dark face, he looked around the room as though ensuring he had an audience. The four Saardiscans watched him with patent curiosity. “It is difficult to smuggle things
into
the White House, no? But not so difficult to smuggle such things out.” He patted my cheek with his free hand and winked again. “One never knows when there will be an emergency. I keep two at home for just such uses.”

Truth was, I kept a smock at home, too, just in case. “Great minds think alike.”

I brought Marcel up to speed about the change in Kerry Freiberg’s schedule and let him know that she would be visiting our kitchen today.

“I understand,” he said. “Perhaps we will provide her a tour?”

“If she has time that sounds like it would be a wonderful idea. Incidentally,” I said, broaching what could turn out to be a touchy subject, “in your absence, Kilian generously agreed to step in and direct the dessert efforts. Now that you’re back . . .”

Marcel patted me on the hand. “Mr. Sargeant has already informed me of the changes made during my convalescence. He was right to name someone in my place.” To Kilian, he said, “Monsieur, I very much look forward to sampling your delicacies.”

Kilian blushed. “Nothing I create would be able to compare with the fantastic centerpieces you’ve shown us.”

Marcel smiled at the compliment. “You are too kind.”

“It would be my honor to work alongside you,” Kilian went on, “and take your direction. The pastry kitchen is your home, after all. I am a mere visitor.”

“We shall work side-by-side,
mon ami
.”

I smiled to myself, remembering my early morning optimism. Today was shaping up to be a very good day, indeed.

While Bucky took over the kitchen, Kilian and I decided to work with Marcel to sketch out yet another updated schedule for the rest of the week. We made our way to the library, where things were a little more quiet.

“You say these rooms are open for tours?” Kilian asked when we first entered. He ran a hand along the bookshelves and wandered the room’s perimeter.

“Most of the time, yes,” I said, “as are the state rooms upstairs. During this sequester, however, nonessential government services have been scaled back. Unfortunately, allowing visitors to tour the White House is one of those nonessentials.”

I took a moment to try to see the library as Kilian might be viewing it. I’d been working here for years now, and although I always appreciated the beauty around me, I’d probably begun to take the opulence in the White House for granted.

“And
anyone
can come in here?”

“Well,” I said, “there are rules. Tour participants have to arrange for their visits ahead of time. They need to submit information about themselves so that they can be vetted by security. And there are a whole bunch of personal items that aren’t allowed inside the building.”

Kilian nodded absentmindedly as though restrictions didn’t surprise him. “Do very many people come through the doors?” he asked. “When there is no sequester, I mean?”

Marcel guffawed. “Hundreds,” he said. “Thousands.”

“Every year?” Kilian asked.

“Every day the house is open,” I said.

Kilian stood near the center of the room. His expression was a mixture of disbelief and satisfaction. “I am overwhelmed.”

I took a seat in one of the chairs and gestured for the two men to do the same. “Time to get started.”

“We will explore the White House chocolate shop today,” Marcel said with unrestrained glee. “I believe you will find what we do there truly amazing.”

Kilian clapped his chubby hands together. “Excellent.”

“Marcel, why don’t you take our guests to the chocolate shop around two o’clock? Would that work for you?”

“Absolument.”

The three of us decided on a few other plans for the rest of the week, including having Marcel accompany the group to the florist shop. Another day, Bucky would take the visitors to the calligraphers’ office in the East Wing to observe how thematic elements were carried through from invitations to dinner.

I planned to take the Saardiscans into our storage area to show them the china collections we had at our disposal. The butlers and waitstaff had also agreed to share their knowledge with our visitors.

Marcel, Kilian, and I finished up and returned to the kitchen to find Bucky and the other men huddled over the center countertop, leaning forward, elbows perched on the stainless steel, studying a flurry of paperwork before them.

“And right there,” Bucky was saying, “is our seating chart from when the queen of England last visited the White House.”

Hector looked up and smiled at me as we entered. “We have never seen so much preparation,” he said to Kilian. “We are learning very, very quickly.”

Tibor’s head wagged back and forth. Not as though he didn’t understand, but as though he didn’t approve. “I do not believe any of this.” He shoved at the papers—not hard enough to send them flying—but enough to punctuate his words. “I believe that you have fabricated much to convince us that you are superior. But Saardisca is not unworthy or less capable.”

“No one is saying anything about your country.” Bucky looked to me for support.

“The fact that we do things differently doesn’t make us better,” I said as I made my way over to the group. “We happen to have had a great many guests here over the years. We’ve organized so many dinners that we’ve learned what works and what doesn’t. These notes help us continue to improve.”

Kilian and Marcel flanked me. “I believe this is good knowledge,” Kilian said.

Tibor bared his bottom teeth, barely containing himself. What made this man so constantly angry? Despite what Kilian had told me about Tibor’s past, his reactions were out of proportion.

“We hope to learn from you as well,” I said. “Remember, that’s one of the goals of this visit.”

Tibor’s eyes narrowed. Hector touched him on the arm, speaking softly in Saardiscan. A few tense moments later, Tibor’s shoulders relaxed and his posture softened.

“I had a plan to teach all of you one of our traditional desserts,” Kilian said with a pained smile on his face.

“Yes? That would be kind of you,” Marcel said in an unusually high voice. It seemed everyone in the room, with the exception of Tibor, was striving to lighten the mood.

“The dinner for our country’s candidate will provide us an opportunity to see for ourselves how events are organized here,” Kilian said. He walked over and placed his hands on Tibor’s shoulders. “You don’t want to believe any of this is true. We’ve been taught that Americans have produced nothing but propaganda. We’ve believed this all our lives because we did not know better. Tibor, my friend, you are uncomfortable because all that we were taught now seems to be what is faulty. Perhaps
we
have been mistaken. I do not want you to lose out on this opportunity to learn because your mind is closed. You may have to begin to consider the possibility that our government has been lying to us all our lives.”

Tibor shook Kilian away. “You talk blasphemy,” he said, and stormed out of the kitchen.

Hector moved to follow, but Nate grabbed him back.

Kilian said, “Let him go. You do not know the man as well as I do. Everything he believes in is crumbling before his eyes.”

“Why did they send him with us?” Hector asked.

That was a good question. I waited for Kilian’s reply.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps they are testing him.”

*   *   *

We were in the midst of a discussion when Tibor returned a short while later. He mumbled what might have been an apology, but sounded to me more like a low-toned complaint.

“Chocolate,” I continued. “That’s the next stop on your agenda. I know Marcel can’t wait to show off his magnificent designs there. You won’t believe the beauty this man is capable of.”

“Ah, you exaggerate.” Marcel waved his free hand toward me, but he beamed, enjoying the compliments.

I decided to indulge him further. “You remember the gorgeous centerpieces Marcel showed you your first day here?”

The four men nodded.

“Be prepared to be amazed. Chocolate creations are, without a doubt, among the most popular desserts we serve. But you won’t believe your eyes when you see how it can be presented.”

Marcel lifted his broken arm up enough to call attention to it. “I may not be able to show many of my tricks, but I am happy to share the magical workshop with you. Would you all care to join me?”

Kilian spoke for the group. “Of course.”

I glanced up at the clock. Right on schedule. Bucky and I had the First Lady’s afternoon meeting to prepare for. Getting these four swarming bodies out of here and into the chocolate shop would be a great boon to us while we put together the snacks and savories.

“This way then,” Marcel said, and led them out.

“Our job is becoming more traffic cop than chef,” Bucky said when they were gone. “Timing is critical and moving them from place to place is a challenge.” He waited a beat, then asked, “What’s with that Tibor, anyway?”

I decided it might be best to share a little of what I knew with Bucky. Enough to give him insight, without divulging specifics. “From what Kilian’s told me, Tibor has had a rough life. Sounds like he sees the Saardiscan government almost as a father figure. It’s got to hurt if all of a sudden you realize that figure has been keeping you from learning the truth about the world.”

Bucky perched his fists at his waist and stared out the way the team had gone. “Then why send him here in the first place? There has to be a reason.”

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wondered that myself.” I shrugged. “With any luck, they’ll be back in Saardisca soon and we’ll never find out.”

Bucky gave me the oddest look. “This from you? I thought you got your kicks out of digging into things that don’t make sense.”

“As long as our kitchen is shorthanded and as long as I’m responsible for the actions of these men—one of whom seems determined to make trouble—I’m keeping my nose as clean as possible.” I held up both hands. “I never go looking for trouble. You know that. This time, I’m doing my best to avoid it, too.”

*   *   *

Later, moments after we’d sent the First Lady’s meeting fare upstairs, a Secret Service agent appeared in the kitchen’s doorway. He spoke quietly, barely moving his lips. “Candidate Kerry Freiberg is on her way,” he said.

Instinctively, I glanced up at the clock, even though I’d done so moments earlier. “Should we bring the Saardiscan chefs back in here?” I asked.

“I was told to alert you,” he said. “Nothing more.”

“Thank you. How long before she gets here?”

I heard the elevator open. “They’re here.” He motioned toward an unseen person. “This way,” he said. He held his other hand out toward me.

Kerry Freiberg came around the corner, peering into the kitchen, a wide smile on her face. She was accompanied by President Hyden, who followed with his hands in his pockets, his voice booming. “And this is the kitchen where our wonderful chefs keep us happy and healthy, and oftentimes safe.” He winked at me. “Hello, Ollie.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. President.”

“Kerry,” he said to his guest, “I would like you to meet our incomparable executive chef, Olivia Paras, and her outstanding assistant, Buckminster Reed.”

“How do you do?” I said, reaching to shake the candidate’s hand.

After we greeted our guests, Bucky whispered that he would let the Saardiscans know that she was here.

Kerry Freiberg was even more lovely in person than her newspaper photos had led me to believe. Her blonde hair, worn loose and long, curled into perfect waves around her shoulders. She had an inquisitive, authoritative quality, yet looked to be a person accustomed to smiling, and who enjoyed doing so.

If that astonished me—and it did, considering that her fellow Saardiscans rarely smiled at all—that surprise was eclipsed by the fact that she wasn’t alone. In her arms, Kerry Freiberg carried a fluffy white dog with perky ears and bright brown eyes.

“And who is this?” I asked.

“Her name is Frosty,” she said, with a light roll to her
r
.

“She’s adorable,” Reaching my hand toward the little pet, I asked, “May I?”

“Of course.” As I scratched Frosty’s neck, the dog nosed my hand. “She is a West Highland white terrier,” Ms. Freiberg said.