State of the Onion (14 page)

Henry had finally hit his breaking point. “Is this your decision, or the First Lady's?”

“I don't see how that makes any—”

“Whose decision?”

Sargeant straightened. “My decision, and I stand by it.”

Henry folded his arms. “No. I refuse.”

Sargeant looked at him with something akin to shock. “But,” he said, clearly thrown, “with the tables I've had set up in there…there just isn't enough room…Perhaps, I suppose, there would be enough room for you, Henry, but two are too many.”

“Fine,” Henry said, “a compromise then.” He turned to me. “Ollie, will you conduct the taste-testing with the First Lady, please? I will remain here and prepare the entrées and sides.” To Sargeant, he raised eyebrows and added, “Bucky will join Ollie for a portion of the taste-testing as well. Will that arrangement be suitable?”

He didn't wait for Sargeant's answer.

“Get going,” Henry said to me.

I caught the sparkle in his eyes, even as fast panic rushed up my chest. I'd never conducted a taste test on my own. I'd done it plenty of times with Henry, but never had I sat in the position of executive chef for this important duty. I knew I could do it, and do it well, but high stakes—not to mention marinated steaks—were on the line.

I was thrilled.

I wished I could call Tom.

MRS. CAMPBELL STOOD WHEN WE WALKED into the room, welcoming our little entourage. I almost felt like Laurel Anne but with butlers instead of cameramen to assist me. The thought made me grin. Mrs. Campbell caught my expression and smiled back.

“Let me begin by apologizing for the minimal forewarning you were given on this state dinner,” she said. Her crisp apricot skirt-suit and pale print scarf at the neck complemented her trim frame. Gently coiffed dark hair. With hands clasped in front of her, and deep smile lines at her eyes and mouth, she looked more like a kindly librarian than the First Lady of the United States of America.

Sargeant made an exaggerated show of directing the waitstaff, even though we'd all been through this procedure before and he hadn't. “No apology necessary,” he said. He would have continued talking, but Mrs. Campbell interrupted.

“No,” she said softly. “I am apologizing.” She had one of those voices that made people lean in to hear. Though born and bred in Idaho, her accent made it clear that she'd spent many years in the Deep South of her husband's home. Turning to me, she continued. “You and Henry have worked miracles in the past. I know how much effort is required to come up with a creative menu. For you to do it on such short notice is remarkable. I thank you for your patience and your considerable effort.”

“My pleasure.” I was just a little bit flustered by her speech, but she wasn't finished.

“My husband has a unique opportunity to bring two opposing nations to the same table. It is up to us.” She glanced about the room. “It is up to each and every one of us to give this initiative the very best chance of success.”

With that, she reclaimed her seat.

Showtime.

“I will be conducting today's taste test,” I began, gesturing the first butler forward. Mrs. Campbell seemed unsurprised by Henry's absence. “We've prepared two portions of each item.”

Now she looked perplexed. “Two?”

Sargeant took a chair next to her. “I'm sampling as well.”

She glanced at me. I kept my expression neutral. This was not the time nor the place to air dirty laundry. Her face tightened, almost imperceptibly. A beat later, she smiled. “Well, then, Mr. Sargeant, you and I are the lucky ones, aren't we?”

He sniffed, looking over the first item the butler placed before them. “Yes,” he said slowly. His expression said, “That remains to be seen.”

I took a seat nearby, pulled out my notebook and pen and paid attention.

Four samples later, Mrs. Campbell had pronounced all but one extraordinary. Sargeant had eliminated two, grudgingly complimented the others. He claimed the first to be too bland, the third to have too strong of a garlic flavor.

I nodded for Jamal's first butler to serve number five. This next one was an appetizer that included chocolate liquor as an ingredient. I expected commentary as soon as the First Lady and Sargeant read the ingredients list and I was not disappointed.

“Can't serve this,” Sargeant said, pushing the plate aside.

I knew what was coming.

Mrs. Campbell had already raised a forkful to her mouth and seemed to be enjoying the appetizer. “This is wonderful, Ollie.” To Sargeant, she said, “You haven't even tried it.”

He snapped a finger at the provided list. “Chocolate liquor.” He shook his head, staring at me. “You should have done your homework. Muslims are not allowed any liquor of any kind.”

“I did do my homework,” I said quietly. Maybe if I spoke like Mrs. Campbell did, people would lean forward to hear me, too. “Chocolate liquor has no alcohol. It is considered
halaal
by Muslims—which means that it's approved for consumption.”

“I know what
halaal
means,” he said.

“You may be thinking of chocolate liqueur.” I spelled the two words for him, emphasizing the difference. Mrs. Campbell was paying close attention to our interchange so I made sure to keep my voice upbeat—helpful. “That would be considered
haram
. And not allowed.”

“I still think—”

The First Lady interrupted in her understated way. “Ollie, you are quite certain that all the ingredients in this appetizer are suitable for our guests?”

“I'm certain that all the ingredients in
all
our selections are suitable.”

She graced me with a smile. “Well then, Mr. Sargeant. I would hate to pass up serving this delightful dish over a simple misunderstanding. Ms. Paras has made it clear that we will be quite safe serving this. Additionally, our guests' chefs will go over our choices and note any inadequacies based on their requirements. Now, why don't you take a taste and rate it on your sheet before we move forward? I'm sure you'll adore it as much as I do.”

Sargeant looked ready to spit a mouthful of appetizer at my head. “You've kept detailed instructions on how to prepare each of these items on file, have you not?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“They've been added to the recipe system? All of them?”

“Yes. We've made that our standard procedure.”

“Good.” He took a moment to scribble a note on his taste-testing evaluation sheet. “I'm concerned. If Laurel Anne Braun takes over the kitchen sooner than expected, she'll need to access these files. I don't want any mishaps.”

The First Lady's brow furrowed. “Mr. Sargeant, I have not yet made my decision regarding the appointment of the executive chef.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “My mistake.”

BUCKY ACCOMPANIED THE WAITSTAFF AS THEY wheeled in the cart laden with our entrées and side selections. Sargeant's mouth tightened when Bucky sidled next to me. The moment the butlers stepped back, I stood up and began.

“The first accompaniment we have for you today is an invention from our assistant chef, Buckminster Reed.”

The First Lady glanced over at Bucky, who beamed.

I took my seat.

As Mrs. Campbell and Sargeant started in on the first main course and the Brussels Sprouts Extravaganza, Bucky's foot shook with the rhythm of nervousness. We had a cloth-covered table before us; no one could see the furious movement except for me.

I watched the First Lady's reaction. I watched Sargeant's. Bucky bit his lip.

Mrs. Campbell seemed about to speak, when Sargeant interrupted. “The flavor is…good,” he began. “But why on earth did you choose Brussels sprouts? Now that I'm overseeing the kitchen staff I've taken it upon myself to do some research on food, and Brussels sprouts are one of the most hated vegetables. In fact, I believe it's the number-one most hated vegetable in the nation—of all time.” He gave a tiny head shake, his mouth pursed. “Yes, I do believe that's a fact.”

Bucky's mouth gaped. He looked to me.

I might not like my colleague overmuch, but if I were ever to take the position of executive chef, I'd have to learn to stand up for my people.

I stood. “Mr. Sargeant, if you and Mrs. Campbell don't like the taste, the appearance, or the presentation of that particular dish, we have several other choices for you to sample.”

Sargeant scratched his pen across his notepad, not looking up. “Good.”

I wasn't done. “But, I suggest not dismissing this item just because of Brussels sprouts' reputation. As you tasted yourself, this is an excellent side dish. We would never serve anything we believe our guests would hate.” I worked a smile, glanced over at the First Lady, whose expression was unreadable. “What do you think?” I asked.

She put down her fork. “I think the combination of dill and walnut with the goat cheese is unusual and quite wonderful. I would be proud to serve this to my guests.”

I could almost hear Bucky's exhalation of relief.

“But,” she continued, “I have not done the research that Mr. Sargeant apparently has taken upon himself to do. This upcoming state dinner is, perhaps, the most important one my husband will ever host. I'm afraid that, for this event at least, I must rely on Mr. Sargeant's expertise.”

Expertise?
The man had no expertise. He was a protocol guru and knew nothing about food preparation. He probably went online to look up the top-ten most-hated vegetables and used the tidbit he found there to position himself as an authority. I'd read the Brussels sprout report myself, when it came out. In my humble opinion, Sargeant was skewing the results. Something had to be the “most-hated”—that's what happens whenever there's a poll. But just because folks were judging based on the boiled, bitter, tight-packaged greens their mothers served them as kids, didn't mean that these tender, garlicky offerings from Bucky should be dismissed out of hand.

My mind raced. I didn't know how to react without my words being seen as a confrontation to the First Lady's decision—one with which I most heartily disagreed. A quick glance at Bucky confirmed he was deflated, angry, embarrassed.

What would Henry do?

I said, “The official dinner scheduled for August has a cauliflower side dish on the menu. Would you consider allowing us to replace it with Bucky's Brussels sprouts creation?”

Sargeant began to shake his head, but this time Mrs. Campbell interrupted.

“What a clever suggestion, Olivia. Yes, I believe that would be an excellent change. Thank you.”

BACK IN THE KITCHEN, CYAN'S HAND SLIPPED. A cabinet door slammed shut with a bang.

“Cut!” Carmen yelled, and lowered his camera.

The crew relaxed.

Laurel Anne's million-dollar smile dropped like rotten tomatoes on hot cement.

Jamming his free fist against his hipbone, Carmen advanced on Cyan. “What the hell is wrong with you? I told you all—no unexpected noises.” He turned to face the rest of us. “Control, people. We gotta maintain control.” He wagged his wide head, the mop of black draping over the front of his face when he finished shaking. “I need a goddamn cigarette,” he said, and stormed out the kitchen doorway.

I hoped he knew there was limited smoking on the White House grounds. And that he'd have to be escorted to the designated smoking area and escorted back. Each administration set its own policy regarding tobacco. President Campbell occasionally perched an unlit cigar in his mouth, but I'd never seen him smoke one here, or anywhere. Why the news media folks cared one way or another was beyond me. But these days, every tiny tidbit of a politician's life was fodder for commentary.

Carmen's departure notwithstanding, Jake continued to film.

Laurel Anne paced the small kitchen. Fury emanated from her like heat from a banana flambé. “I can't believe I'm doing this,” she said. Grease splatters covered her pink apron. It was her third one, at least—she might've changed aprons again while I'd been out of the room. “They wouldn't let me bring in a wardrobe or makeup person, can you believe it?” she asked rhetorically.

I returned my attention to the computer to finish recording the results of our taste-testing. Henry stood over my shoulder as I noted which items had been approved, which rejected, and why. We had a comprehensive list of possibilities out there. Some we'd try again someday, others we knew better. But we kept them on file, just the same, for reference. No such thing as too much information where individuals' tastes were concerned.

Despite Sargeant's dark cloud of input, and Bucky's disappointment, I considered the taste test a success. We had the equivalent of three complete menus to submit to our guests' dietary consultants for final approval.

I typed while eavesdropping on Bucky's conversation with Henry. Poor Bucky. He chopped artichoke hearts even as he dissed Peter Sargeant. “Good thing I'm not an alcoholic,” he said in a low voice. “I'd be tempted to break into the cooking sherry today.”

“Will you be done soon?” Laurel Anne asked.

She repeated herself twice before I realized she was talking to me.

“I'm finished right…” I hit “Save” and “Exit” as I spoke. “…now.”

“It's about time. Not only do I have to work with half a staff,” she flung an arm toward the other end of the kitchen, “but I'm stuck trying to impress the First Family on a day when the president's wife is probably stuffed from your taste-testing.”

She had a point. A good one. I'd questioned Sargeant's wisdom on the timing of this audition, but he'd made it clear that I just couldn't see “the big picture.”

And as much as I didn't care for Laurel Anne personally, I could empathize with her plight. I wouldn't want to be auditioning today either. At this point, however, there wasn't much to be done. I attempted to soft-pedal. “Mrs. Campbell didn't eat much,” I said. “I'm sure the little bit she sampled this morning—”

Laurel Anne plunked her hands on the countertop and spoke through her teeth. “Listen, I don't need you to tell me what to do. What I need are bodies. I've been shorthanded since early morning. I'll never make the lunch and dinner deadlines unless you get off that damn computer and start helping get things done.”

I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from lashing back. Next to me, Henry made an unintelligible noise, then brought his lips close to the back of my head. “It's her kitchen today, Ollie.”

A reminder to go with the flow, which I knew all too well—even if Henry hadn't prompted me. Difficult as it was to take with a smile, I wasn't about to complain. But taking the high road didn't make Laurel Anne any easier to deal with.

She wiggled her fingers and turned. I followed.

As far as I could tell, Laurel Anne had done nothing in the past hour. Nothing of substance, in fact, since she'd arrived.

I stole a glance at Marcel. His head tilted, his aristocratic nose wrinkled, he studied a set of directions Laurel Anne had provided him. When left to his own devices, he was brilliant—unstoppable. I knew Marcel well enough to recognize that his expression, his stance, and his pursed lips were precursors to a major eruption.

Cyan chopped lettuce. Bucky still had a pile of artichokes to work through. Henry was stuck boning fish, the worst job of all.

Or so I thought, until Laurel Anne gave me my assignment. She stopped at the wide, piled-high-with-detritus sink, pivoted, and smiled. “Here's your station.”

“Clean up?” I said, “But…”

She silenced me with a look, then leaned close so only I could hear.

“I'm not stupid,” she said in a minty-breath hiss. “I'm not letting you
anywhere
near the food.” Righting herself, she spoke louder then, so that everyone understood. “If we keep one person dedicated to sink duty, we'll be that much more efficient.”

No one grumbled, but I caught pity in my colleagues' eyes. I knew why. This wasn't just scut work: This was Laurel Anne sending me a clear message.

Carmen returned, looking no more relaxed from his cigarette break than he had before he left. Laurel Anne scurried over to talk with him.

I stared at the sink. Long-dissipated suds gave way to floaters—pieces of lettuce, onion, chicken, fish, grease. I plunged my hands into the tepid brew and fought the heaviness in my heart as I faced reality. Cooking for the White House had been my dream. A dream I'd achieved through hard work and determination. I loved it here. But Laurel Anne's shrill directives sounded my wake-up alarm. This dream was about to end.

I pulled the drain open, sighed, and took a moment to stare over my shoulder, watching Laurel Anne direct Carmen, who then directed everyone else. If this was how she behaved when the camera was running, I shuddered to think what this kitchen would be like when she thought no one was watching.

Water swirled around my submerged hands—a descending vortex of spinning waste—and I thought about my ultimate goal to become the executive chef at the White House. My chances of achieving the position were about the same as any of these churning foodstuffs showing up on the president's plate tonight. Worse, when Laurel Anne got the nod—and we all knew she would—I'd have to find a new home.

“Sorry,” Cyan whispered, dropping off her cutting board and knife sink-side. “She wouldn't let us keep the mess under control. Said to leave it. I didn't know she meant it for you to clean up.”

“No problem.”

Cyan gave me a wry smile and started on her next task.

The five of us had always maintained a clean-up-as-you-go mentality. We handled our messes individually. There were waitstaff folks we could press into service when necessary, but we kept their participation to a minimum because of space issues. We just didn't have the room for extra people in this kitchen, so we made do ourselves as much as possible.

I pulled bowls, utensils, and hollowware from the drained basin, metal scraping against sink's stainless steel sides, clattering when a fork took a nose-dive from my fingers.

“Keep it down,” Carmen shouted.

I twisted long enough to meet his glare. He must have read the expression on my face because his hands came up in a placating gesture. “I know I haven't called ‘Action' yet, but quiet is a good habit to cultivate.” The corners of his mouth curled up grotesquely. I guess it was supposed to be a smile.

I turned my back on him, rearranging the crusted baking pans as silently as I could, filling them with hot sudsy water and letting them soak while I attacked the remaining stack of dirties. Before I could wash, however, I needed to remove all the floppy, wet food lumped at the bottom drain.

Just as I plopped stringy chicken fat into my left palm and reached for a fish part with my right, Cyan was back.

“Ollie,” she said, but this time her whisper held a note of urgency, “what does she mean by ‘sauté over quince'?” She twisted around to ensure that Laurel Anne wasn't watching, as she pointed to the back side of a pale pink, plastic-encased index card.

I read the loopy script twice—why Laurel Anne hand-wrote her directions rather than printing them out was anyone's guess—but I still couldn't decide what was meant by sautéing over quince. “What are you making?” I asked, just as quietly.

Cyan flipped the card and I scanned the recipe.

“People!”

Carmen clapped for our attention.

We turned. I gave Cyan a little shove, propelling her toward her station with the hushed reassurance that I'd figure things out. Her grateful smile worried me. I had no idea what Laurel Anne wanted with the butter, onion, egg, artichoke, grape, and quince concoction she'd assigned to Cyan.

The area was small, but Carmen raised his voice anyway. We all stopped moving. “Everyone has a job, yes?”

We nodded.

“Wonderful,” he said. He stroked Laurel Anne's left arm like one would a very tall dog. “You all keep doing your…thing, whatever it is. As we film, our star here will walk among you. What I want you each to do is to greet her with a smile,
but don't stop what you're doing
. She'll reach in, make some adjustment, and then you smile at her again, say ‘Thank you,' and you're done. Got it?”

Marcel stepped forward, wagging an index finger. “No, no, no.” In his other hand, he carried a pink note card. He slapped it onto the countertop next to Carmen. “I 'ave been very agreeable to your demands zis morning. But I do not allow the executive chef to dictate my methods.” He cast a pointed glance at Laurel Anne. “And neither will I allow
her
to tell me how to prepare my masterpiece. I can not—how you say—compromise my integrity by preparing this…this…
ordures
.”

Carmen turned to Laurel Anne, who shrugged. The rest of us waited, wide-eyed. So Marcel wasn't the only one who considered today's menu garbage. I just hadn't realized how worked up he'd become.

Carmen tried to placate our pastry chef. “Let's take a look at what Laurel Anne assigned to you,” he said. “I'm sure we can work things out.”

“No!” Marcel said, thrusting his shoulders back. He jammed a finger against the small pink note. “Do you see what she has given me for direction?
Sacre bleu!
I will not accept assignment from one so clearly untrained.”

“Untrained?” Laurel Anne asked, giving an angry wiggle. “Before I went to Media Chefs International I attended the prestigious California Culinary Academy, where I worked my butt off.”

With a comedian's perfect timing, Marcel twisted his head, made a show of inspecting Laurel Anne's backside, and said, very clearly, “I think not.”

She stamped her foot. Literally. “How dare you!”

Cyan giggled. My hand flew to my mouth.

I knew I shouldn't laugh, and I was about to suggest we all take a moment to settle down when Henry pushed his way into the little group, forcing all parties to take a step back. “Marcel is correct,” he began. “I do not control his portion of the meal. We do, however,
confer
.”

I knew Henry well enough to understand that his emphasis on the word
confer
was meant to impress upon Laurel Anne the importance of teamwork.

The subtlety was lost on her. Lost on Carmen, too. The two began arguing that the success of the final broadcast of
Cooking for the Best
required they take a little liberty with procedure.

As Henry strove for compromise and Marcel strove for calm, it became clear to me that Laurel Anne and Carmen were unwilling to budge on anything.

Bucky joined their little group but didn't say a word. I got the impression he wasn't quite sure whose side to take this time.

While they “conferred,” I dried my hands and studied the recipe Cyan had given me. She tiptoed over. “I can't make sense of that,” she said, with a cautious glance at the growing mêlée.

Laurel Anne was one of those people who didn't list ingredients first. She included each individual item and its quantity as it was utilized. Side one of the card gave directions for the eggs, butter, artichokes, and onion. It ended with “sauté over.” Side two began with “quince” and continued with the tossing of grapes and the additions of sugar and heavy cream. “What's it supposed to be?”

“A quiche.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Didn't she do her homework?” I asked. “We sent all sorts of information about the Campbells' likes and dislikes. President Campbell hates quiche.”

We kept our backs to the agitated crowd of chefs and camera crew, but stole occasional glances to check on their progress. Things were growing more heated by the moment. Even Henry, who almost never got riled, was speaking more slowly than normal, his face red with the exertion of keeping his temper in check. As though by tacit agreement, the combatants all kept their voices low, out of respect for the White House protocols, I hoped, and not because Laurel Anne didn't care for noise.