Immaculate Reception (16 page)

W
aking up groggy from too little sleep, I jerked to consciousness, startled with apprehension. I'd been dreaming of ants escaping across a thin twig above a rain-puddled patio. I poked the cloud cover that was fogging over my unconscious to remember the end of the dream. The ants were marching, now that I thought about it, to Encino.

It was 4 a.m. and time to scramble. In the darkness of Wesley's guestroom, I felt lonely and out of place. I had missed Wes again. He had just left the duplex before I got in at midnight. We'd meet up at the Otis Mayfield Pavilion at five.

While showering, I reviewed the schedule for the party ahead. The guests would begin to arrive at seven, while waiters passed trays of juice. Coffee stations, along with platters of fresh bakery goods, would flank the lobby of the Otis Mayfield Pavilion. We would then open the doors to the auditorium at eight o'clock.

If all went according to plan, the mayor and his entourage would arrive shortly after that and then, finally, the pope himself would make an appearance at eight-thirty.

Xavier had already informed me that the pope would not be eating from our menu. His food was meticulously fussed over by a special team of Vatican chefs who traveled with him. Nevertheless, he would certainly see my food, even in passing, and so I was going over early to make sure that everything looked right and to give Wesley moral support.

I wiped the steam from the guest bathroom's mirror with the corner of my towel, and sighed. Too much hair is just a pain. I sat down and began the careful process of French braiding it up off my face. Whenever I do this I'm reminded that my hair has really gotten long. It normally shrinks up in tight ringlets, but now, wrestled into a plait, the subdued curls reached well past my shoulders.

Chefs, especially the young ones that Wes and I hang around with in California, work in a uniform, of sorts, mixing elements of the traditional with the hip. Most of us still honor the classic chef's white tunic, but we like to update the look by wearing it with clogs and a baseball cap.

Even though we had assembled a great staff of chefs to work the pope's breakfast, I always like to be prepared to cook. I slipped into a fresh tunic, with its double row of white buttons and “Madeline Bean” stitched in black above my heart, zipped into a pair of white jeans, pulled on white cotton anklets, and stepped into my trademark red clogs.

Clogs are it. They can save your back. This, of course, means everything to a crowd who spends night after night, hour after hour, standing on hard floors. There's a wonderful little shop near the Beverly Center that supplies Swedish clogs for all the best chefs in Los Angeles, and the owner special orders my favorite model in red. She has this amazing talent to fit anyone and know exactly what style one should buy. How could I argue?

For today's event, I selected a charcoal-colored baseball cap from Notre Dame and put it on, pulling my braid through the small opening in the back. I had a lucky superstition about matching the hat to the occasion, and although Holly had bought me a special cap that said “I
Pope,” it was not me.

My hanging suitcase held my good clothes and I planned to change before the mayor arrived. I grabbed it and stepped into Wesley's dining room, where I'd left my purse and my toolbox.

Professional chefs can be weird about cooking utensils.
We get fond of a vegetable brush. Or, we discover a whisk or a peppermill that fits our hand perfectly. Over the years, we build up a personal
batterie de cuisine
. Those of us who travel put our indispensable spatulas and our discontinued instruments and our revered knives into a toolbox. Mine was the big kind you can buy at Sears.

I poured hot tea into a thermos cup, clicked on the top, and loaded my Wagoneer. From Wesley's duplex in Hancock Park, I was able to make it downtown to the Otis Mayfield Pavilion in fifteen minutes. There's something to be said for driving before 5 a.m. I parked in the loading dock and showed the officer stationed there my pass. Security would be tight all day, and I was glad.

The kitchen complex at the pavilion was in the basement and I headed there, toting toolbox, purse, and suitcase. It was quite a walk through the complex maze of halls. In the bowels of the Mayfield I passed several cooks I knew from past events. Everyone had that special zing: excitement mixed with espresso. We were stoked.

I entered one of the main tunnels that led to the cooking rooms. The Otis Mayfield was equipped with three hulking commercial kitchens, with enough oven capacity between them to cater a dinner for three thousand. In one of the mammoth stainless steel and white rooms stood Wesley, tall and handsome and alert, amidst the bustle and noise of over fifty cooks doing their thing.

Miniature lemon croissants were popping out of the ovens, moist and chewy and the size of a baby's hand. These pastries were destined for the silver trays, which would line the outer foyer of the Mayfield auditorium. Bite-sized was our opening theme. These goodies were the perfect size to nibble while standing around and schmoozing. Since most of our guests would be politicos and others who had friends in high places, we figured no one would want his mouth too full to make a false promise or his hand too sticky to shake on it.

Many of the morning's most complicated dishes would have to be prepared immediately before they were served,
so this was a time of baking, prepping our special ingredients and creating fresh sauces.

“Madeline, you're here.” Wes came over as soon as he spotted me. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with a half-apron wrapped around his thin waist. And of course his Dodgers cap and a pair of black Converse sneakers.

I set down my stuff in a clean corner. “Hey, what's with that?” I asked, surprised, nodding to his footgear.

“I've put in twenty miles since I got here,” Wes said. “I stuck your sneaks in my bag. I'm just waiting for you to beg for them.”

“It's looking good,” I said, checking out the action. “What's going on?” I was happy to see the level of activity, which was a controlled burst of industrious hard work, rather than a frenzied explosion. I can walk into a kitchen and know in an instant when all hell is breaking loose.

“We're happening,” Wes said, smiling at me. “We're ready.”

“The waffles?” I asked.

“Batter's up.”

I love this guy despite the puns. But, of course, I still had to punch him.

It had been controversial to attempt to cook fresh waffles and omelets for a sit-down party of two thousand diners. We'd come up with a neat little plan. Wes designed these clever little placecards with a detachable sheet on which one could mark their own selection. Tiny golden pens, with an inscription to commemorate the pope's historic visit, were provided at each place. These would disappear quickly. I only worried that they would remain on the tables long enough to do their job.

In a few hours, each guest will mark the exact custom omelet or waffle combination he or she desires and our waiters will bring the orders back to the kitchen. Station captains were organizing the whole operation, so that each table of ten would be served their main courses at the same time.

It was ambitious to do it this way, to custom cook two
thousand individual dishes at the very last minute, but we only get one chance in life, and frankly, Wes and I are crazy. Each of our chefs had an assistant and they'd rehearsed their moves. Half of our chefs would be working Belgian wafflemakers capable of producing ten waffles each, which gave us the capacity to produce 250 fresh waffles every three minutes. The remaining twenty-five chefs were each working an array of omelet pans and should be cranking out an equal number of custom egg dishes at the same rate. We planned to serve these entrees to our guests, still hot, within a window of just twelve minutes. You may recall the gentleman who twirled plates on Ed Sullivan.

Wes and I would normally bet on such an ambitious plan, but we were both feeling a little too superstitious this time. Let's just say that we asked Xavier to pray for us.

“Walk with me,” I suggested to Wes, as I was anxious to see how the main Mayfield auditorium had been transformed.

“Here's our problem,” Wes said, as he fell into step alongside me. “We can cook the damn dishes, we can plate them and dress them…”

“Uh-huh.” This was the technical part where you tried and tried to whittle down the time it took to cook food and then add the necessary sauces and garnishes and accoutrements that would make the presentation a knockout.

“But then we're faced with this damned hustle from the kitchen back to the theater,” Wes said.

“It's a haul,” I said, noting that we'd been walking a full minute and hadn't yet reached the main entrance.

“And a half,” Wes concurred. Then he added, with a twinkle, “I offered a prize to the waiter who could make it the fastest.”

“Yesterday?” Wes likes to motivate our crew.

“Yep. They had to carry four bowls of soup on a tray…”

“Soup!” I said, laughing. “Did you clock them?”

“Of course. Would you believe Adam Voron made it in
thirty-five seconds, with most of the soup still in the bowls?”

“Did you consider Roller Blades?” I asked, and then we were at the double doors to the auditorium. A guard with a walkie-talkie approached and checked out my badge. All the staff had been issued laminated picture I.D.s that we wore from chains, like dogtags.

After we were cleared, Wes opened one of the heavy doors and said, “After you.”

Inside was a wonderland of white and gold, accented in red. I stood still, amazed.

The small ramp that normally takes you down to the floor of the auditorium was covered in frosted Plexiglas sheeting, which extended across the tops of the fifteen hundred seats found in the orchestra section. I took a step on the slightly pebbled surface and was reassured to feel it was bolted tight to the scaffolding underneath. This astonishing temporary floor was suspended over thousands of twinkle lights, creating a fairylike underglow, which illuminated the enormous space from below.

And the tables! Two hundred ten-top rounds had been dressed in pure white, their cloths reaching the floor. Overlaying each were squares of gold netting. Each table was circled by ten metal garden chairs, which had been slipcovered in flimsy white gauze with the pope's seal embroidered in gold. And draped from the back of each chair was a garland of fresh flowers.

Hundreds of votive candles would flicker in clear glass globes, which had been set on a circular mirror centerpiece on each table. The effect was breathtaking.

“My God, Wes,” I said, stunned. “I want to get married here.”

“Well,” Wes said, sensibly, “we do have the pope hanging around somewhere. It could be done.”

Then, all of a sudden, the eight million twinkle lights underfoot were instantly extinguished. The auditorium went completely dark.

“What the…?” Both Wes and I spoke out as one.

Alone in the cavernous theater, where no light save the faintest dull glow of emergency exit signs could now just barely be seen, brought quite a rush of fear. Not being able to see Wesley, who might have been only a foot away, didn't help.

Blindly, I reached into my purse and searched. I always feel around inside this old leather bag while driving, so I was familiar with the shape of my compact and the feel of my pen. In an instant I found what I was looking for and another instant later the match sprang to life.

“Sensible girl,” Wes said, and moved quickly to the nearest table. He brought a couple of the votives in their holders, which I lit rapidly. Just one match and we had light. There must be something of the scout in all of us.

“What happened?” I asked, alarmed.

“Circuit?” Wes said, puzzled.

The radio on Wesley's belt spit out a loud burst of static as we moved toward the door and then a voice mumbled a loud squawk of words. As I reached for the handle on the auditorium door, all of a sudden, the lights came back on.

“Yes,” Wes was saying back into the radio. He turned to me and looked worried. “The power was out in the kitchen, too. I'd better get back there.”

“Me, too,” I said. Out in the foyer, the grand chandeliers were glowing, but there was no sign of the security guard who had been on duty when we arrived.

Wes and I raced back to the underground kitchens, grabbing the safety railing on the landing, taking steps on the fly. True, we didn't have four bowls of soup on a tray, but I believe we bested Adam Voron's fastest time by ten seconds.

As we rounded the last corner before the kitchens, I huffed a bit, my calves aching, and whimpered, “Wes, I need my tennis shoes.”

No signs of security outside the kitchen. I was beginning to get concerned.

Inside, there had obviously been a problem. The smell of faintly burned food is not one we're accustomed to, but
that unmistakably bitter odor filled the large space, while the drone of high-powered ventilators whirred from the shafts overhead.