All the President’s Menus (3 page)

“These other two are clearly more reserved,” I said, finishing his thought. “Nate takes in everything, but without comment. He’s so pale, so expressionless, he practically fades into the background. I’m afraid I’ll start forgetting he’s even here.”

“I doubt that,” he said. “But you’ve given me an idea. How about ‘Neutral Nate’?”

“Fair enough. Last up is this guy. Hector,” I said. “He always seems to be smiling. What do you think?”

“Looks more like a sneer to me.” When I reacted, Bucky held both hands up. “Okay, okay, that was unkind. They aren’t exactly warm and fuzzy personalities, though.”

“It’s our job to make them feel welcome,” I said. “So, how about Happy Hector?”

“Happy Hector,” he repeated. “Not terribly imaginative, but it’ll do.”

Now in the pastry kitchen, as I surreptitiously watched our visitors, I reminded myself of the nicknames Bucky and I had bestowed on them.

Terrible Tibor’s solid build, slick hair, and ruddy complexion contrasted with Nate’s physical blandness and stooped posture. Nate kept his eyes low and his shoulders hunched, constantly watching, never commenting, leading me to believe he was the least experienced of the group. Tibor kept his arms crossed as he listened, his lips curled to one side. Nate shifted his weight from foot to foot.

Hector was taller and younger than Kilian. More muscular, too. He spoke very little. His extraordinarily round face, coupled with his high eyebrows and upturned mouth, gave him an expression of perpetual wonderment. Bucky was wrong when he termed it a sneer. Hector struck me as the easiest of the bunch to manage.

Now, as Marcel turned to replace the dandelion in the display case, I quietly addressed Nate. “What happened to you?” The front of his smock was stained with what looked like red fruit juice.

Marcel answered my question, his voice booming. “Ah, you see the results of our little accident,” he said. Grabbing the new apron, he thrust it at Nate. “I am again so very apologetic for causing you to spill.”

Nate dismissed Marcel’s concerns, removing the stained item and replacing it with a new one. “Many thanks,” he said to Tibor. To me and Bucky, he offered a smile. “Not a favorable way to begin our visit, is it?”

“My fault, my fault,” Marcel said waving his hands in the air. I could tell he was eager to get back to his presentation. “Tibor was handing a pot of raspberry sauce to me, but it jumped from my fingers and attacked poor Nate. Again, I am so very sorry.”

Curious about the raspberry sauce, because nothing on display would have required its use, I was about to ask when Marcel turned to address the group once again. “As our delightful executive chef, Olivia, so eloquently told you when you first arrived, we hope you will treat our kitchens as your home during your most welcome visit.” He wiped the back of his hand across his brow.

Nate and Tibor glanced at me. It seemed the mere mention of my position startled them. Maybe I was imagining it. Marcel sniffed in deeply and blinked a couple of times as though clearing his vision. “We encourage you to share with us your particular expertise. This time we spend together promises to be a learning experience for both our countries. We—”

Marcel gripped the edge of the countertop behind him. “Oh,
mon dieu
,” he said, his eyes rolling up into the top of his head.
“Je suis—”

Pushing my way between the others who stood paralyzed in front of Marcel—who was clearly in distress—I rushed to our pastry chef’s side. Too late. His mouth falling slack, Marcel toppled sideways.

His right arm reached into the air for help. Rotating as he fell to the floor, his flailing appendage hit the frame of a nearby shelving unit with enough force to make it wobble. One of Marcel’s spare stand mixers, perched near the shelf’s edge for easy access, listed heavily from side to side. Too far away to do anything but hold my breath, I watched as the apparatus almost righted itself one-half beat before Marcel bounced against it a second time.

He fell.

The mixer fell.

It landed, with a horrifying crunch, atop his extended arm. All I could do at the moment was thank heavens it had missed his head.

“Marcel,” I shouted, kneeling next to him, searching for a pulse in his neck. I yelped at the sight of his arm, grotesquely twisted backward against the tile.

I turned to Bucky, but he was already calling for help.

Marcel was unconscious, but breathing. I loosened the neck of his tunic, doing my best not to move him, as I directed the visiting chefs to move toward the small kitchen’s far corner.

My words were quiet, but urgent. “Marcel,” I said. “Marcel, wake up.”

As if in reply, our pastry chef’s body jerked. His back arched and he began to convulse. I pulled at his clothing to loosen it further, trying to remember my first-aid training. Marcel coughed, spewing blood.

Kilian stared at Marcel’s prone form. “What happened? Is he unwell?”

I bit back the snippy response before it escaped my lips. What kind of question was that? Did he think that Marcel had simply decided to take a nap right now, in the middle of the kitchen floor? Did Kilian not see the man’s obviously broken arm? I directed my attention to Bucky, who had returned from the phone.

He took up a position next to me on the floor. “They’re on their way.”

I wasn’t a medical expert, so I had no idea what had happened. Didn’t heart attack victims usually remain conscious? Or was that just the way they were portrayed on TV? Could Marcel have suffered a stroke? He wasn’t that much older than I was. It was unlikely, but possible.

While monitoring him as best I could given my limited capabilities, I was aware of the visiting chefs murmuring among themselves across the room. They were clearly as confused as I was about what to do next.

Marcel didn’t require CPR, but his breathing was labored and his face glistened with sweat.

The moment the doctor and his assistants arrived, I stepped away, giving them as much pertinent information as I could.

The doctor, a slim, handsome man with prematurely white hair and a calm demeanor, turned to me. “What has he ingested today, do you know?”

“Marcel tends to taste as he works,” I said, feeling profoundly unhelpful. Our pastry chef’s girth was testament to the appeal of his creations. He was much too careful and too diligent, however, to accidentally nibble an ingredient he shouldn’t. Yet, what if? Despite the fact that everything he produced was edible, the kitchen itself was filled with items not meant for human consumption. “I’ve been downstairs most of the day.” A second later, I remembered, and turned to the visitors. “Did he sample anything?” I gestured the act of putting food in one’s mouth. Even though these men understood English quite well, I couldn’t help the instinctive movement.

The four men looked at each other, Kilian and Nate shaking their heads, and Tibor shrugging. “We stopped for the noon-hour meal. He ate with us,” Nate said, as though that explained it. Belatedly, I remembered that Marcel had arranged for the Navy Mess to provide lunch for our guests.

Hector’s eyes went wide. “What are you saying? There was something wrong with our food?”

“That’s not what I meant,” I began.

“Wait.” Kilian stepped forward. “He did taste more. We did.” Wiggling a finger between himself, Hector, and Nate, he said, “The raspberry sauce.”

Nate made a face, then held a hand to his stomach. “Yes, you are right.”

Hector stared at me. “Your Marcel had us try it when Tibor was downstairs.” His eyes were wild, his tone panicked. “He said there was only sugar and fruit. What was in it?”

I glanced back at Marcel’s unconscious form, hoping that what he’d coughed up might actually be raspberry sauce rather than blood. “We don’t know what affected Marcel; I’m simply trying to find out what may have gone on here while Bucky and I were downstairs.” Another thought came to me and I turned to one of the doctor’s assistants, a young man tapping information into a tablet. “I don’t know Marcel’s health history. Maybe he’s on medication?”

The assistant nodded, not breaking his concentration from the tablet’s screen. “Accessing his White House records now.”

The two Secret Service agents who had accompanied the medical personnel began herding us toward the spiral staircase that would lead us down to the Butler’s Pantry. “Let’s let the professionals handle this,” one said.

Bucky started down first. I let the visitors go next before following. As I stepped through the doorway, I gave Marcel one last glance. “Be okay,” I whispered.

There were two more Secret Service agents waiting for us when we arrived in the Butler’s Pantry. They politely, yet firmly, ushered our Saardiscan guests to stand against the long countertop that lined the room. Even though I’d only known the men for a couple of hours, I could sense their agitation.

Kilian whispered to Bucky. “What is happening?”

Bucky held his hand out toward me, a deferential message that Kilian ignored.

He pressed his case to Bucky. “Why are we made to wait here? Are we to be questioned?”

Bucky and I exchanged a glance. We’d both heard stories of brutal interrogations that were rumored to occur regularly in Saardisca. The men watched us with a fear that was palpable.

I took a step forward, which had the desired effect of garnering Kilian’s attention. “The doctor and Secret Service will update us on Marcel’s condition when they can.” My words were calm, but worry for my colleague’s health made my heart race in my chest and my breath come quickly.

Bucky kept his gaze on me, forcing the other man’s attention. Kilian’s words were clipped when he said, “We are concerned.”

“Of course you are,” I said. “We all are. I promise to keep you posted when we find out what happened.”

I tried to project an air of control, but I was anxious. Marcel had fainted without any forewarning. And that arm . . .

I couldn’t think about that now. The White House remained charged with collaborating with our Saardiscan guests and it was up to me and Bucky to shoulder that responsibility. “I’m certain that Marcel will recover and we’ll find out what’s ailing him. I’d rather not speculate.”

Clapping my hands together the way our former chief usher, Paul Vasquez, used to when he required our cooperation, I took charge. “We planned for most of today to be an overview, an introduction to our kitchens, and orientation,” I began. “I know that the next stop on your tour was supposed to be the chocolate shop. Let’s hope that Marcel recovers soon, because I know he would prefer to show you that area himself. In the meantime, let’s return to our main kitchen.” I held out a hand toward the doorway, encouraging the others to enter ahead of me.

Kilian took a deep breath. He nodded. As he proceeded into the kitchen, the others followed. I made eye contact with one of the two Secret Service agents. “I think we’re settled here,” I said. “Unless you feel the need to stay.”

One of the two spoke into his microphone, waited for a reply, then turned to me. “Let us know if you need anything, Chef,” he said. Two seconds later they were gone.

Bucky sidled up as we made our way into the kitchen. “You’ve got an uphill battle on your hands with these guys,” he said under his breath. “I don’t think they’re comfortable with a woman in charge.”

“You think it’s that, or that they don’t like me?”

Bucky shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Kilian talked with his group in their mother language as Bucky and I decided on a plan of action.

“It bugs me that we can’t understand what they’re saying,” Bucky said softly. “Yet you and I don’t have that advantage.”

“I’m sure they’re unsettled by Marcel’s collapse. I know I am.” I bit my bottom lip. “One of the goals for this visit is to help Kilian and his team learn more about how we do things in this kitchen. Marcel was planning to handle a good chunk of that.”

“It’s a good thing you came up with plans for our portion,” he said. “Looks like we’ll be getting started on those sooner than we expected.”

“There’s not much choice, is there?”

Bucky lowered his voice further. “Who’s brainy idea was it to host them here for two weeks, anyway?”

I ignored that and called the group to attention. “As you know, our country is in the midst of a sequester.” I caught a gleam in the eyes of a couple of the Saardiscans, giving me the impression that they wanted to ask more on that topic. We could save that for later. Right now I needed to establish order.

I went on. “Because the president is entertaining fewer guests these days, we don’t have an official dinner scheduled until the one for your country’s presidential candidate, Kerry Freiberg. From what I understand, she’ll be stopping by briefly to visit with President Hyden before she embarks on a tour of several North American cities. We’ll have more than a week and a half to plan for the dinner, and I think that’s plenty of time. What Bucky and I plan to do is to take you through the steps before big events, show you what we do in advance, and explain what methods we rely on to stay organized. We’re also eager for this opportunity to learn from pros like yourselves.”

“You Americans,” Tibor said, echoing his remark from earlier, “I do not understand you.”

“What don’t you understand?” I strained for politeness, but this guy’s attitude was getting old.

Tibor took a step toward me. His feet were planted shoulder width apart, his arms crossed in front of his chest, and his head tilted to one side in a signal I read as condescending. He offered what might have been a smile, but it was too forced, too harsh. His eyes remained tight. “We have come to visit, to learn about your country’s cooking methods, correct?”

I nodded.

“In our country, we feed our leaders using a traditional menu. Very little deviation. We order our ingredients in advance, and we prepare the food for consumption. We do not have a ‘main kitchen,’ a ‘chocolate kitchen,’ a ‘pastry kitchen,’ or a ‘navy kitchen.’” He shook his head as though the very thought of so many options disgusted him. “You may have six more kitchens you haven’t even revealed to us yet. I do not care. What I care about is pleasing our country’s leaders. We have been here many hours and have not prepared a single item yet.”

As Tibor was delivering his speech, Kilian grew visibly agitated. He pushed past his colleague, his attention defaulting, once again, to Bucky.

“My friend speaks out of turn,” Kilian said. “He is correct in that our country’s chefs do not have access to the tools and resources we’re seeing here, but he forgets that we are here to learn.” With that, he shot a pointed look at Tibor.

“How do we learn anything when all they do is talk at us?”

“Tibor.” Kilian’s voice strove for calm. “Have you no patience? We have not been here a full day yet.”

Tibor pointed at the kitchen clock as he faced Kilian. “Our day is almost over.” Then, with a sidelong glance at me and Bucky, he lapsed into Saardiscan, his voice rising.

Happy Hector and Neutral Nate watched their colleagues in what looked like horrified disbelief, saying nothing.

Kilian grasped Tibor’s forearms, hard. “Enough,” he said in English. Through clenched teeth, he added, “We are guests here. Stop behaving like a spoiled young child.”

Bucky nudged me. I didn’t look up at him.

“I would appreciate it very much,” I said, injecting authority into my voice, “if while we are working together in the White House, we all speak English.”

Tibor shot me a scathing look. “We are here one day and already you want us to forsake our home language?” If we were anywhere else, I believed he would have spat on the floor.

“I’m
asking
you to keep to English as much as possible,” I said, stressing the word
ask
, “because as of today, we’re a team. And in order to work together, we need to keep our communication open.”

“Bah.” He stared at the floor and scowled.

Kilian grabbed Tibor’s arm again and squeezed. “We will try our best to speak in English.” In a carefully modulated tone, he switched subjects. “One of the many things I seek to know more about is your culture. I believe Marcel was attempting to share some of that with us before his unfortunate accident.”

“Yes, he was,” I interjected before any of the visitors could launch into another speech. “I guarantee you will all learn much about the foods we prepare and how we plan for important events. I’m hoping that in doing so, you are encouraged to share with us some of your tricks of the trade.” I took a breath, watching their reactions, hoping “tricks of the trade” wasn’t too much of colloquialism, and that they’d understood. “Because we’re currently entertaining fewer guests for dinner, it appears as though we don’t work very hard at our jobs. I assure you, we do.”

I took another look at the wall clock. Not quite two thirty. Sargeant had warned me to be mindful of the fact that our guests would be suffering from jet lag and had set our first day’s schedule to end at three. “The car to take you back to your hotel will be here in thirty minutes,” I said. “Why don’t we go over tomorrow’s schedule in our remaining time, and plan to start fresh in the morning?”

When they were finally gone for the day, Bucky folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Doesn’t ever get easier around here, does it?”