State of the Onion (18 page)

Ten minutes later, aproned and toqued, I noticed Henry in deep discussion with the two other chefs. I deduced from their expressions that they weren't comprehending everything Henry was saying.

I edged closer to their huddle, and Henry waved me in.

“This is Olivia,” he said, taking extra care to enunciate his words. “She works with me.” He pointed to himself.

He then introduced the two men. The first, Avram, was an older fellow; he had at least five years on Henry. He was tiny, almost effeminate in his bearing, and because he had his toque in his hands instead of on his head, I could see straight over the top of his shiny pate. The second man, Gaspar, was taller than Henry—wider, too. His dark features and loud voice combined to produce an imposing presence.

They'd been arguing, in a Tower of Babel sort of way.

All three men smiled at me, and Henry took the opportunity to tell me that they had met before, several times, at chef summits, held every August, in places all over the world.

Avram and Gaspar had a decent command of the English language, and since I knew a little bit of French—in which they were both fluent—we were able to get by. Whenever stumped, we lapsed into hand motions and food-charades. By the time we'd settled on the upcoming dinner menu, we were proficient at deciphering each others' needs.

Avram held up a finger. He dug into his apron pocket and pulled out a folded paper. It was a copy of the list of foods the First Lady had taste-tested. “Here,” he said, pointing to one of the items, “is good, not spiceful?”

I ran my finger down to see where he indicated. While everything we planned to serve at the upcoming state dinner had been approved by both camps and was both kosher and
halaal
, we still understood that our guest chefs might have questions. They didn't disappoint. “Not spicy,” I said, fanning my mouth and shaking my head. “No.”

His face broke into a wide grin.

A separate section of the kitchen had been set aside for Avram's preparations to allow him to keep kosher. Separate utensils, kept on hand for this express purpose since the Camp David Accords, were pulled out and Avram pronounced the setup satisfactory.

Gaspar grabbed the note from Avram's grasp, lifted it up near his eyes, then pulled reading glasses from his pocket. He grunted twice as he followed the list with a fat finger.

Avram didn't seem to mind—he apparently didn't see Gaspar's snatch as anything but professional interest. In fact, he tilted his face upward to watch the taller man peruse the list and Avram asked a question in a language I didn't understand.

I glanced at Henry, who shrugged.

Gaspar answered Avram, again in a language unfamiliar to me and it surprised me to realize that these two were more alike than I would have expected. I said as much to Henry.

“That's why the chef summit is so special,” he said. “There are no politics. We put aside our countries' differences to come together, to learn, to grow. Mostly, to cook. I'm glad you're seeing this Ollie. It's good experience for you before you go to your first summit.”

“
If
I go,” I corrected him. “I'm pretty sure Laurel Anne has already made her travel arrangements.”

He waved a finger at me.

Avram, Gaspar, Henry, and I set to work together, surrounded by a bevy of helpers including our own Camp David staff and one assistant each from the two other countries.

While we worked, we talked. And despite the language difficulties, we got plenty done in a short period of time.

Until the room went suddenly quiet.

I looked up.

At the kitchen's doorway, a Marine, at attention.

A charge of fear ricocheted through our friendly atmosphere.

“What happened?” Henry asked.

The young man in uniform spoke clearly, but quietly. “Dinner plans have changed. President Campbell, Prince Sameer bin Khalifah, and Prime Minister Jaron Jaffe will take their meal in Hickory. They will be joined by…”

He rattled off more names of other political bigwigs.

Avram asked why the change. I didn't understand his exact words, but I knew what he meant. The Marine understood, too. “You will be contacted soon with regard to further details. In the meantime, the First Lady and Princess Hessa bint Muaath will take their dinner at Aspen cottage.”

He pivoted and left.

The moment he was gone, our group began buzzing. What was that all about?

ONE OF THE SOUS-CHEFS, JESSICA, CUT HER hand badly enough to warrant medical attention. I volunteered to take her to the dispensary, and together we walked back up the same path Henry and I had taken from the helicopter pad. Jessica and I moved quickly, with me holding her hastily bandaged hand above her heart level to stem the bleeding.

The staff at the dispensary didn't waste time. They went to work on Jessica, throwing thanks to me over their shoulders—an effective dismissal.

As I passed Birch cabin on my return trip, the front door swung open and Kasim emerged. He called to me to wait. Again he wore the traditional full-length robes of his culture. Today they were brown. With a bright red turban atop his head, he towered over me by a foot and a half, at least. Back in D.C., with the temperatures warming up nicely, Kasim must have sweltered. Here, at the higher elevation and beneath the canopy of trees, I'm sure he was much more comfortable. He seemed less tense, although I noticed he moved slower than he had in the past. I asked him how he was feeling.

“I am much improved,” he said.

“If I may say so, you look better.”

He blinked acknowledgment, and I wondered if I'd breached protocol by commenting on his appearance. Henceforth I promised myself to watch my words.

He changed the subject. “I have several questions with regard to the final dinner and to preparations at this location. Your Mr. Sargeant is not present here?”

“No, he's not.” When Rosa had explained how each of the delegates had cut back their staff, she hadn't mentioned Peter Everett Sargeant III. It wasn't until later, after we'd begun dinner preparations, that we found out he hadn't been included on the list of invitees. I was exceptionally happy to realize that when it came down to it, the sensitivity director wasn't as necessary as he thought he was.

“Shall I then speak with you about these matters?”

“Of course you can…” I hedged. I didn't want to sound like someone who passed the buck…“but Henry is executive chef,” I said. “I'll be happy to help you any way I can. I'm on my way back to the kitchen now. Would you care to join me?”

He nodded. “The princess has asked me to see to it that dinner is
halaal
.”

“I can assure you, it is.”

A gentle smile. “And I can assure you that my princess will not be content until I have overseen the preparation facility myself.”

“I understand.”

“Are you staying in that cabin?” He pointed to our right, a smaller structure adjacent to the president's cottage named Witch Hazel.

“Not me.” I laughed. “I don't know who's in that one. Maybe one of the Cabinet members.”

“I would expect the president's staff to be housed close by. Your accommodations are elsewhere?”

“The staff has its own section.” I pointed far north and a little bit west of our position. “There are barracks out that way—I've never seen them, but they're supposed to be nice—and there are even recreational facilities for those off-duty.” I sighed. “I wish we
were
staying here tonight.”

“You are not?”

I shook my head. “No, Henry and I are heading back after the evening meal.”

Emotion flashed in his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? I couldn't tell. “This is a most beautiful setting,” he said. “And I am most fortunate to have been chosen for this assignment—I certainly understand your desire to remain here. I find myself very…content…to spend the next several nights on these premises in anticipation of the successful completion of our trade agreements.”

We were silent for several footsteps. A golf cart whirred behind us and we stepped aside. Two Cabinet members sped by. They were both clad in Camp David windbreakers—and were both looking quite pleased. They acknowledged us with twin nods.

“Where is Ambassador bin-Saleh?” I asked, when Kasim and I continued walking.

“He will join the prince in…” He paused before pronouncing it. “Hickory…for dinner.”

“Oh.”

“You disagree?”

Embarrassed to come across as disapproving, which my “Oh,” probably had, I quickly explained, “When we were in the kitchen earlier, they announced the guests who would be dining in Hickory. I noticed that your name and Ambassador bin-Saleh's were not among them.”

“Ah,” he said, “I understand your confusion. The ambassador originally was to remain in our cabin”—he pointed behind us toward a small structure near Birch—“with me. But after speaking with the prince, it is agreed that recent events in Europe have demanded the ambassador's presence at the discussion table.”

Before I could stop myself, I asked, “We heard something was up, what happened?”

Another golf cart passed us, its riders so intent in their discussion that they didn't acknowledge us. They wore cool Camp David windbreakers, too. I wondered if there was a way to get one of those for myself.

“It is on your network television news, so there is no reason not to share the information with you,” he said gravely. “It is a good day for peace. The French have announced the death of a well-known assassin.”

“The Chameleon?”

“You know of this assassin?”

“Just a little,” I said, suddenly confused. It couldn't be. He'd been after me. Just yesterday. This morning, in fact. Something didn't make sense. “Are you sure?”

“The French authorities, acting on word from an informant, discovered the assassin attempting to detonate a bomb in Paris.” Kasim's mouth set in a grim line. “This was during very busy hours yesterday and could have easily devastated the entire city. The
gendarmes
were able to prevent him from setting off the explosion, but he could not escape this time. He was shot.”

I stopped walking. “Wow.” At the moment, it was all I could say. If the Chameleon had been killed in Paris yesterday, then it couldn't have been him running after me at the gun range, or trying to break into my apartment.

Instead of a world-class assassin after me, I was being stalked by your run-of-the-mill criminal. Or maybe I wasn't being stalked at all.

“This happened yesterday?” I said. With so much on my mind, I hadn't paid any attention to the news.

“Yes,” Kasim said as we walked into the loud, busy, heavenly smelling kitchen. “The French authorities waited until they were certain of the assassin's identity. They made the announcement just hours ago and the wires have picked it up.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I didn't know.”

“There is much to be grateful for in our world tonight.”

WAITERS HUSTLED THE COMPLETED MEAL OVER to Hickory, where it would be plated and served to all our delegates and honored guests. We'd originally expected to serve dinner just outside Aspen Lodge, where an enormous table had been set up in view of the putting greens and pool, but plans changed. President Gerald Ford had once entertained an entire delegation outdoors. For myself, I preferred serving and dining indoors. No wind. No gnats.

Henry and I worked next to each other, putting the finishing touches on the meal we would serve to Mrs. Campbell and the princess. Because he didn't have a national representative dining with the women, Gaspar took the opportunity to rest; his assistant retreated to the barracks.

From his corner seat in the kitchen, Gaspar threw out occasional suggestions for arrangement or garnish, all of which Henry and Avram took in stride. I saw it as an opportunity to learn new techniques and was thrilled to be surrounded by three giants in the field.

Which reminded me of something that I didn't understand. When Avram set off to get ingredients out of the refrigerator, I moved closer to Henry.

“Why are we here?” I asked him in a whisper.

He shot me a quizzical glance as he twisted sprigs of parsley. “Because of the importance of these meetings.” He pointed to the desserts. “More raspberry on that one.”

“What I mean is…” I added more raspberry. “Camp David is obviously fully staffed, and the prince and the prime minister have their own chefs…”

He waited.

“Why fly us—you and me—out here? I think they could have handled everything perfectly with the staff on hand.”

Henry graced me with one of his “here comes a lecture” smiles. “You and I are President Campbell's best. Today is the first day of important negotiations. It sets the right tone for him to bring us here, to show that he understands the magnitude of these talks. We are a symbol of the president doing his utmost, of offering the best he has.”

I nodded. I hadn't thought of it that way.

“And when we leave tonight, to return to the vital job of preparing for the state dinner, we will have imposed ourselves on the Camp David staff and on these two visiting chefs. Imposed,” he repeated, “in a very good, very powerful way. All remaining meals served during these negotiations will be seen as our progeny.”

“That's heavy.”

He winked. “Heavy as whipping cream.”

IN AN UNUSUAL TURN OF EVENTS, WE CHEFS were called upon to serve courses in the Aspen dining room. Highly uncommon, but then again, the entire atmosphere at Camp David was different. Everyone was more relaxed here. It was as though serenity hung in the fragrant air, just waiting for us to take a deep breath and share it.

I tied on a fresh apron before meeting the First Lady and her guest. It wouldn't do to have raspberry splatters all over my chest as I served the women their first course.

When I voiced my concerns about taking on the added responsibility of actually serving a meal, Henry waved a hand in the air as if to say this would be no trouble at all. I had two assistants: one Camp David regular and one Muslim assistant, both female. That was the primary reason we'd been tagged for service. Our waitstaff tonight was predominantly male, and we'd been given explicit instructions by Kasim to have only females serve the princess.

Fair enough.

Just before we served, the three of us stopped to give the food-laden cart another inspection. We'd begin with soup: a light combination of vegetables, lemon, and coriander, accompanied by an assortment of breads prepared without lard or milk.

I was particularly proud of tonight's entrée, a roasted squab—boned by our Muslim assistant—stuffed with curry-coconut flavor–infused rice. I couldn't wait to see if our menu passed muster with the princess. Still clad in the sky-colored robes, she sat erect, hands in her lap. Behind, the handmaidens sat, dressed in pale beige gowns and scarves that covered only the lower portion of their faces. Across the table from the princess, the First Lady smiled. Dressed more casually, in linen slacks and a plaid gauze shirt, she licked her lips twice before saying, “…and walking trails. Do you enjoy walking outdoors?”

One of the handmaidens blinked, tilted her head, then stood to translate in the princess's ear.

The princess faced her handmaiden—or so I assumed, because it was impossible to tell through the fabric precisely which way her attention was turned—and whispered in return. The handmaiden said, “No. The princess does not,” before returning to her seat.

Mrs. Campbell's smile didn't fade. I gave her credit. In her position, I'd be wishing for a face-scarf of my own.

I smoothed my apron, gave the cart one more check, then grasped its stainless-steel handles. My assistants fell in behind me.

“Good evening, Olivia,” Mrs. Campbell said with obvious relief.

The princess immediately leaned back, then lowered her head.

I made eye contact with the First Lady, then turned to our guest. “Good evening, Mrs. Campbell, Princess Hessa.”

She didn't acknowledge me, and I worried that I'd made some gross faux pas by addressing her directly. The First Lady didn't miss a beat. “Thank you for preparing this lovely meal,” she said, with a smile powerful enough to banish my princess-addressing doubts, “This soup looks deli—”

Before she could finish her sentence, the princess stood. Her handmaidens rushed to her side. The two girls chattered in high-pitched foreign voices, until the princess quieted them with a raised hand. She gestured, and one of the assistants rushed to the door, summoning Kasim from outside.

He brought his face close enough to hear the handmaiden whisper.

I stood, soup bowl still in hand, unsure of my next move.

“I am sorry,” Kasim said a moment later. “The princess begs your indulgence to be excused.”

Mrs. Campbell had already come to her feet. Concern tightened her gentle features. “Of course,” she said. “Would the princess prefer to have dinner served in her own quarters?”

Kasim asked the handmaiden in their native tongue. Then he listened. The handmaiden spoke softly; I couldn't hear her.

Facing us once again, Kasim said, “We thank you for you kind hospitality, but the princess is overheated and does not care to eat at the moment.”

Mrs. Campbell looked as puzzled as I felt. “I hope she's not ill,” she said. “Please let us know if there's anything we can do.”