All the President’s Menus (2 page)

When the president’s son, Josh, tumbled into the kitchen that afternoon for his cooking lesson, I had the unhappy duty of letting him know that the plans we’d made for the coming weeks had been canceled.

“That stinks,” he said, brows furrowing over dark eyes. The kid was far too considerate to pitch a fit, but I detected a tiny whine in his tone. “I thought that this sequester thing meant that I would get to spend more time in the kitchen, not less.”

“I thought so, too,” I said. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Disappointed, he nodded.

“While the visitors are here, the Secret Service thinks it would be best to keep you out of the kitchen completely.”

“Stupid Secret Service.”

“Your safety is the most important thing,” I said, ruffling his hair. “And we both know that’s serious business.”

Grudgingly, he nodded again. “We can still work together today, though, right?”

Despite the fact that I had a thousand things to get done before tomorrow, I refused to disappoint him further. “Absolutely. Let’s get started.”

*   *   *

By the time the Saardiscans arrived the next morning, I’d received dossiers on all four of them as well as a little more background on why this particular diplomatic endeavor had been given the green light when so many others had not.

President Hyden and his advisers had discovered that canceling the chefs’ visit would be viewed as a personal affront to the current Saardiscan government. Rather than risk a political firestorm and public-relations nightmare with the touchy country, the president had chosen to take the high road and see this endeavor through.

I suppose I should have anticipated this, at least a little. We were, whether it was acknowledged or not, putting our neck out politically by hosting the chefs here. Saardisca would have been reluctant to let this opportunity go.

Recent unpopular decisions by Saardiscan leaders had caused several other countries to give them the cold shoulder. If passive-aggressive games could be played at high-stakes tables like the U.N.’s, then those nations were doubling down for the win.

Bucky and I had gone over the chefs’ dossiers the night before, discovering that the documents were light on substance. We’d been given copies of their solemn-faced passport photos—all of which reminded me of mug shots—along with information about which province each man hailed from and where they’d studied. There was almost zero in terms of personal information.

“Not much to go on,” Bucky had said.

I pointed at each photo in turn. “Kilian, Tibor, Hector, and Nate,” I said. “I need to memorize their faces so I don’t mix them up. You know how hard it is to keep people straight when you meet them all at once.”

“Not a very pleasant-looking bunch,” he said.

I laughed. “My passport photo isn’t much better.”

“All men, too.”

“According to the notes, Kilian and Tibor are the top two chefs in their country,” I said, “but neither was invited to the Club des Chefs des Chefs this year. Or the year before.”

“Sounds to me like Saardisca is upset that they haven’t been invited to the grown-ups’ table,” Bucky said.

“They feel snubbed; not that I blame them. This venture may be their ticket in, assuming things go well.”

Bucky stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. “No pressure on us. No way,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Seems like a lot to ask of a kitchen that’s operating short-staffed.”

I pulled in a breath. I knew Bucky was right, that there was enormous pressure on us to make this work. And yet, I was thrilled. We had a project. An important one. I couldn’t wait to meet these men.

“We’re serving as kitchen ambassadors,” I said. “Our job isn’t to craft policy. Our job is to make the chefs feel welcome. And to keep everything on an even keel while they’re here. We can do that.”

“If you say so, chief.”

“Diplomacy has to start somewhere.”

The men arrived in the kitchen a short while later, accompanied by two Secret Service agents. After we made introductions and quietly assessed one another, I showed them around the main kitchen. They took everything in slowly, occasionally asking a question, and making unintelligible noises that could have been appreciation or disdain.

While the Saardiscans were in the White House, they’d be allowed unrestricted access to the main kitchen, pastry kitchen, two pantries, the refrigeration area, and some storage. They would also be allowed in the Center Hall and ground floor as needed, but if they were to travel elsewhere in the building, they would require an escort.

Marcel had taken our visitors for a quick lunch before providing a tour of the pastry kitchen. Bucky and I planned to join them in a few minutes, as soon as we finished plating lunch for the First Lady and her staff. The president’s meal had been sent to the West Wing twenty minutes earlier.

One of the Saardiscans returned to the kitchen. He came around the corner with his hands balled, elbows up, as though looking for a fistfight. Moving quickly, he strode in, not making eye contact with either Bucky or me.

It took me a moment to remember which one he was. “Tibor,” I called to the man. Muscular and strong-shouldered, he was systematically opening and shutting every stainless steel cabinet in the room. The brisk clanking spoke to his vexation. “What are you looking for?”

He spun, scowling. Tall and solid, he was at least fifteen years my senior. His face was lined and red, like a fresh cut of flank steak. He had thick, black hair, which he wore brushed back and that quivered with gel.

“Nate told me to bring him a new apron.” Tibor flung his hands in the air. “How do I find anything in this place? Every cabinet looks the same.”

Bucky glanced at me. His lips twisted and he looked away. Neither he nor I could mistake Tibor’s contemptuous tone, but Bucky knew better than to snap back, thereby risking an international incident. He held his tongue and waited for me to respond.

“We keep our extra linens in that cabinet.” I pointed. Tibor would have found them eventually but I saved him about six cabinets’ worth of banging. “Did something happen to the one he was wearing?”

Tibor huffed, as though I’d asked a foolish question.

Bucky made a similar noise that was probably meant for Tibor’s benefit, but the agitated man ignored it.

The four visiting chefs had only been here a few hours, but I was already seeing personality traits emerge. Tibor was the hothead of the bunch. I hadn’t yet decided whether it was me he didn’t like, or women in general.

“Why do you have everything closed up?” he asked. When Tibor spoke, only his bottom teeth showed, reminding me of Jack Klugman in old reruns of
The Odd Couple
and
Quincy, M.E
. Or the cartoon dog Mutley, but without the laugh. Tibor motioned again at the gleaming row of cabinets. “Why not keep everything more easy to see?”

“That’s a fair question,” I said. A tuxedoed butler arrived to pick up the chicken pita sandwiches and bowls of quinoa and chicken soup we’d prepared for Mrs. Hyden’s lunch meeting. “Glass-front cabinets would make it easier to find things, but a lot more difficult to hide the mess.” I smiled. Tibor didn’t.

Bucky and I covered the lunch items then handed them to the butler for loading onto his rolling cart. “Thanks, Jackson,” I said to him.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said with a wink. “Looks and smells as wonderful as always.”

Once Jackson had taken off, Tibor—having procured the apron he sought—scowled again. “I don’t understand you Americans.”

Bucky’s face twitched. In a heartbeat, I knew this was going to be a long couple of weeks.

As much as I wanted to fire off a retort, I held back. I needed to remain tactful. More important, I needed to maintain control. Until I got to know these visitors a little bit better I couldn’t risk offending them.

“What don’t you understand?” I asked, keeping my tone lightly conversational. “Maybe I can help you.”

“Never mind.”

I’d learned early on that crusty people often used their crabby demeanor to mask insecurities. It was taking a great deal of effort on my part, but I vowed not to judge these new arrivals. They were probably as uncomfortable in a strange workspace as we were having them here.

I wiped my hands on my apron, addressing both Bucky and Tibor. “Are you ready to head upstairs?” I asked, pointing in the direction of the pastry kitchen.

*   *   *

When we arrived, Marcel was holding court in his deliciously creative kingdom.

Cramped and mostly windowless, this nonetheless efficient pastry kitchen had been created by carving out space from the home’s high-ceilinged pantry below.

This mezzanine-level work area, which was always tight, felt overwhelmingly warm today with the addition of four sizeable Saardiscans. Their tangy body odor made me wonder how often they bathed. Bucky and I stood closest to the exit, where I shifted from foot to foot, feeling a tingle of claustrophobia crawl up the back of my neck.

Oblivious, or merely accustomed to the compact surroundings and warm scent of humanity, Marcel was in his element. His dark, round face gleamed with pride as he showed off samples of the remarkable desserts he’d lovingly created for dozens of state events. Years before either of us had started working here, one of Marcel’s predecessors had installed a glass cabinet on the wall to display the exquisite models, which sat like priceless works of art on shiny shelves.

While some of Marcel’s most noteworthy accomplishments had been removed from the glass case due to deterioration, age, or from gathering too much dust, our ebullient French chef’s all-time favorite item was still holding strong. It was my favorite as well. A few years back, when President Hyden had invited the illustrious author Ray Bradbury for dinner, Marcel had created sunny dandelions fashioned from pulled sugar. A fist-sized bouquet of them in an edible vase had served as centerpiece.

Kilian, the leader of the Saardiscan contingent—the top chef, if you will—shook his head, his pale, soft face creasing into a frown. He used a chubby finger to scratch the top of his freckled crown. I put him in his early fifties, but he may have been younger. His baldness, ample girth, and cheeks blazing with broken blood vessels gave him the appearance of a well-fed, successful businessman.

“Is that not a weed plant?” he asked. While all of them spoke English far better than I would ever be able to speak Saardiscan, Kilian’s command of our language seemed to be the best of the bunch. “Why would you choose to decorate an elegant dinner with unwanted shrubbery?”

“Ah, but you see, this is a very special plant,” Marcel began in his mellifluous French accent. He must have anticipated the question, because as he launched into a nostalgic chronicle of Bradbury’s work, he leaned over to pull a slim paperback from a nearby shelf. Holding up a well-worn copy of
Dandelion Wine
, Marcel waxed poetic about how both he and President Hyden were enormous fans of the late master’s work. As was I.

The dandelions’ graceful, lance-shaped leaves and their heads’ luminous yellow rays, crafted from sugar and talent, never ceased to astonish me. These stunning decorations appeared so real that even though I knew the truth, it took all my self-control to stop from touching them, just to make sure. Every piece Marcel created in this cramped kitchen was edible. The work involved and level of precision required made my head spin.

Marcel often told me that he was in awe of my talents, but I believed his gifts far surpassed mine. These were masterpieces. I wished there was a way to display each and every one in the Smithsonian so that others, beyond those lucky enough to score a White House invitation, would be able to see and appreciate them.

When Tibor, Bucky, and I had gotten up here, Tibor had given the apron to Nate. Right now, the item sat unattended on a nearby countertop. I couldn’t imagine why they’d needed one from the main kitchen, rather than grabbing one from the supply here.

While Marcel continued to talk about the work done in his kitchen and about the members of his staff who were currently on furlough, I studied our new additions. I was having a very tough time remembering who was who.

When the four men had originally accompanied Marcel upstairs, and before Tibor had returned for the apron, I’d mentioned to Bucky that I was afraid I’d have to rely on mnemonic devices to keep the chefs straight.

“Kilian is easy,” I’d said. Short and pudgy, he was the head chef, “He’s the leader of the group. No problem there.”

“What about the rest of them?” he asked. “Can we come up with hints?” He pointed to one of the photographs. “Tibor the Terrible would work for this guy.”

“Tibor’s actually pretty easy to remember,” I said. “He’s always scowling and unpleasant. Whether or not it’s a good thing, it makes him memorable.”

“I have the hardest time with these two.” Bucky tapped the photos.

“Hector and Nate.” I read their names aloud. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Neither one of them seems particularly thrilled to be here,” he said.

“Like Terrible Tibor does?”

Bucky shrugged, but I knew what he meant. “You can tell that Kilian can’t wait to get started. And Tibor, for all his grousing, asks good questions and seems like he’s, if not happy to be here, then at least willing to give it his best.”