Hail to the Chef

CHAPTER 12

MANNY JOGGED ACROSS THE CENTER HALL, his tool belt jangling to the beat of his pace. I called out to him, but he didn’t hear me. Even though it was still before eight in the morning, the White House was bustling with activity. No matter how much time we allowed to get the residence ready for the official opening, it never seemed to be enough.

“Manny,” I said again, this time loud enough to be carried across the hall.

He turned, his eyes narrowing when he realized it was me. I could practically read his mind. No matter what the executive chef was going to ask, he knew it wouldn’t be good.

Without closing the distance between us, he said, “I’m working on the setup,” jerking a thumb to the south. I knew he had a hundred tasks ahead of him, not the least of which was setting up the holiday lights for the massive tree that would be erected outside, but I needed only a couple minutes of his time.

I made my way toward him, wiping my hands on my apron. “I have a quick question.”

His attention was at once caught by something behind me. I turned to see Vince loping toward us. “It’s about time,” Manny said. “Where have you been?”

“Curly’s looking for you,” Vince said, half turning as though he expected the acting chief electrician to materialize behind him.

“Again? That guy has been on my case all morning.” Manny made a face, muttering in such a way that I knew if I hadn’t been present, he would’ve let loose with a string of expletives. “What’s with him anyway? He’s been-”

I was about to interrupt, to ask Manny and Vince about the floating neutrals, when who should turn the corner but the man himself. “Hey, Curly,” Vince said, hurrying away from our minigathering. “I’m heading out now.” He pointed. “Found Manny for you.”

Curly harrumphed. “What the hell are you doing still inside? I thought we were supposed to have the power up and running out there an hour ago.”

Manny opened his mouth, but I interrupted. “I stopped him to ask a question.”

“Go,” he said to Manny, who took off like a shot. When Curly turned to stare at me with furious contempt, I nearly took a step back. He practically snarled. “What do you want?”

“It’s about Gene.”

“He’s dead.”

I bit the insides of my cheeks. “I have a question about how he died.”

Curly’s jaw worked. I jumped in before he could dismiss me.

“Listen,” I said. “I just want to ask if you’ve considered the possibility that Gene was killed by a floating neutral?”

For the first time in my life, I could tell I caught Curly by surprise. He was dumbfounded. “What?”

“I said, I was wondering-”

“I heard that. How the hell do you know about floating neutrals?” His flabbergasted expression was replaced by the surly look I was used to. “Why are you pushing your nose into my business? Don’t you have a kitchen to run?”

Though not entirely surprised by his reaction, I was still taken aback by his vehemence. I forced myself to hold my ground. “Have you considered the possibility?”

“I don’t know what you’ve been reading, or think you know, missy, but floating neutrals don’t just pop up out of thin air.”

“But the storm-”

He snorted. “What, you think you’re some sort of expert on our system now? Here, tell you what.” With a flourish, he unfastened his tool belt. Removing it from his waist, he held it out to me. “Juncture number sixty-four is out. And we have a low-voltage issue at K-thirty-five. You take care of those while I go bake cookies, how’s that sound?”

I fixed him with my most pointed, angry glare. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Gene’s dead,” he said again. “Nothing you can do can change that.”

“But I thought if we found out why-”

“Tell you what, missy,” he said as he replaced his tool belt around his waist. “You get yourself a journeyman electrician’s card-then I’ll talk to you. But for now, I’ve got a White House to keep hot.” He started down the same path Manny and Vince had taken. Two steps away, he turned and spoke to me over his shoulder, not breaking stride. “Don’t bug me with this crap again.”

RAFE TOOK UP A POSITION NEXT TO ME AT THE kitchen’s center counter. “What did those chicken breasts ever do to you?”

I looked up, realizing I’d taken out my aggression by pounding the meat so thin, the breasts could’ve been served as high-protein pancakes. “Geez,” I said, embarrassed, “I didn’t realize.”

“It’s your first holiday season in the executive chef position,” he said. “You’re bound to be a little stressed.”

If he only knew. I glanced at the clock. “I think there should be a law against aggravation before nine in the morning.”

Rafe laughed. “Not going to happen. Not around here at least.” He flicked a fleeting look across the kitchen, where Bucky was preparing a new salad dressing of his own concoction, and separately, stirring beef stock we would need later in the day. My second-in-command was murmuring, apparently having an argument with himself.

I took in the rest of the kitchen. Cyan was uncharacteristically silent, and even as Agda rolled dough out, I noticed veins in her arms standing out, and a crease on her forehead.

“How come you’re so chipper?” I asked Rafe.

He shrugged. “Stress manifests itself differently in each of us.”

I thought about Bindy’s tendency to giggle. “Too true.” The phone rang. I was closest, so I wiped my hands with one of the antiseptic towels we kept just for that purpose, and answered it.

Jackson informed me that the First Lady would be out all day, meeting with relatives to make arrangements for Sean’s funeral. His parents lived nearby in Virginia, and Mrs. Campbell was not expected to return to the residence until after dinner.

“The president is returning this evening as well,” he said.

“For dinner?”

“No. He’ll be joining Mrs. Campbell at his sister’s home first, and the president and his wife are expected back here after eight o’clock.”

“Thanks,” I said, and hung up. Not having to prepare lunch and dinner today made things easier on us, but I couldn’t imagine how hard the day would be for the First Couple. It was a wonder that Mrs. Campbell had made it through yesterday at all, but having to prepare for the funeral of someone so close and so young had to be devastating.

I announced the change in plan to the rest of the kitchen staff, and I watched tension seep out of them-by the change in their stances, the position of their shoulders, their very breathing. “We still have a lot to get done,” I added, unnecessarily. “Let’s hope that…”

Before I could finish my wish that the rest of the day proceed uneventfully, Marcel stormed in, with Yi-im trotting faithfully behind him. Without greeting any of us, Marcel began ranting. “I ’ave no method to make use of these… these… childish efforts.” He held out a tray displaying some of the gingerbread men that had been turned in yesterday. “These do not complement the gingerbread house I am slaving over. The house that is my crowning achievement this year. No. These are… le pire.”

I stepped closer to look.

“Do you see?” he asked. “How can I use such a terrible mess as these? No one will look at the exquisite structure. No. Their eyes will all be drawn to this mishmash.”

Although Marcel and I generally worked independently of each other, we had a friendly, symbiotic relationship. He needed to vent and I was happy to oblige him. But maybe there were options he hadn’t considered. “Have you spoken with Kendra?” I asked.

“She is the one who presented these to me! She wants me to fix them. I have no time for such nonsense.”

While I had to agree that the workmanship on the eight-inch cookies left a great deal to be desired, I thought they were kind of cute. “The idea is to showcase the country’s kids,” I said quietly.

“Are we raising a nation of imbeciles?” he asked, his big eyes bulging. “Look at this.” He pointed to one of the corner pieces. The cookie man was missing one eye and half of one foot. The squiggled icing that decorated the cutout’s perimeter had been squeezed off the edge repeatedly, but it was the smudgy unevenness of it all that made it look like it was put together by a bored kindergartner. Marcel practically sputtered as he spoke. “This was made by a boy of seven. By the time I was his age, I was creating three-layer cakes with handmade candies. Each one I produced was perfect.”

I didn’t doubt that. “Kendra is in charge of the overall design,” I said soothingly. “And you know what a perfectionist she is. I’m sure she’s hoping to use most of the submitted cookies.” I took another pointed look. “Did you ever consider that these are the best she received?”

The horror on Marcel’s face would have been laughable if I didn’t know how much pressure we were under to get the residence together and ready for presentation in the next two days.

“I cannot work with this,” he said. He dropped the tray in the center of the countertop and backed away from it, with an unconcealed look of contempt. “I will not use these. You may crumble them up and feed them to the dog.”

Marcel left the kitchen. I blew out a breath as I stared after him. Although he occasionally had his prima donna moments, he didn’t usually draw such a hard line. Bucky, Cyan, and Agda shared a glance of wariness before returning to their tasks. I locked eyes with Rafe, and it was as if we both shared the unspoken sentiment about stress manifesting itself differently in each of us.

“Ho, ho, ho!”

I turned at the exclamation to see chief usher Paul Vasquez come in, carrying a diplomatic parcel and wearing a wide grin.

“You’re back,” I said, stating the obvious.

“And the tree is beautiful,” he said. “This year we have a magnificent Fraser fir. Breathtaking. I can’t wait until we get it set up.” His jovial expression dropped. “That’s the good news. Unfortunately we’ve had our share of bad, haven’t we?” He made eye contact with each of us in turn. Paul had a way of making every staff member feel important. “I’ve been in contact with the White House over the days I was gone,” he said, “so I am aware of what has transpired. We will discuss everything at the next staff meeting. In the meantime,” he handed me the diplomatic pouch, “this came for you.”

“Me?” I said, surprised. Belatedly, I realized I knew exactly what this was. As I opened the parcel, Cyan edged up. I held my breath.

“More gingerbread men?” she asked.

I nodded. “These must be the ones created by the Blanchard children.” And they were. A letter from Bindy accompanied them. I pulled the three men out, one at a time. They’d been boxed separately, and wrapped in tissue paper surrounded by bubble wrap.

“Somebody isn’t taking chances on these getting damaged,” she said. Then, “Wow. His kids made these?”

We stared at the first cookie I’d removed from its container. “This is amazing.”

Paul whistled. “Kendra must be thrilled. If this is the caliber of submissions she’s receiving-”

“Eet ees not,” Marcel interrupted, coming up behind us. “Sacre bleu.” He held out both hands and I placed the little decorated man into them. “Where did this come from?”

Paul excused himself to return to his office and I took the opportunity to explain Bindy’s request to Marcel.

“This is wonderful. Marveilleux,” he said, placing the cookie back into its box with great reverence. “Let me see the others.”

The three cookies were whimsical and perfect. So perfect that not even Marcel could find fault with them. They were, of course, the right size, browned to perfection, and each of the three men sported a combination of patriotic red, white, and blue icing piped along their edges so perfect it looked fake. I commented on that.

“I don’t care if it is plastic.” Marcel said, beaming. “No one is to eat these. They are for display only.”

The piped edge was the only requirement the White House had made for consistency’s sake. I never would have thought to give them little sugar flags to hold, nor would I have come up with the idea of carving into the cookies themselves for a textured background. These were not cookie-gingerbread men; they were works of art.

“I promised Bindy we’d find a prominent place for these in the Red Room. I’m glad I did,” I said, winking. “I had no idea the kids were so talented.”

Missing my sarcasm, Marcel said, “Children did not make these.” He pronounced the word, “shildren.” He shook his head. “These are the work of a master.”

“Bindy did hint that Treyton Blanchard’s chef might have helped a bit.”

Marcel barked a laugh. “I would say he created these single-handedly. And the project took several days, at least. I will have no problem including these with my own masterpiece.”

I grinned, pleased to have one less thing to deal with, and handed him the three boxes. “All yours.”

Marcel gave a little bow. “I accept with pleasure.”

THE LAST THING I NEEDED WAS TO INCUR THE wrath of Curly again, but when I saw Manny later, still wearing the clanking tool belt, I couldn’t help myself. In a repeat of the morning’s move, I called out to him.

He turned, and this time when he saw me, he shook his head and backed away.

“I just have a question for you,” I said.

“What did you do to get Curly all fired up?” he asked. “The guy’s been on my case all day. Vince’s, too. He said you ticked him off.”

“I asked him about floating neutrals, and he-”

Manny looked just as surprised as Curly had this morning. “What?”

I explained about Stanley ’s mock-up.

“No wonder Curly’s so pissed. He wouldn’t tell us what was going on, just that you keep bullying him about Gene getting electrocuted.”

“I keep picking on him? Since when does asking a question constitute bullying?”

“Hey, I’m just saying. Vince has gotten his head bitten off about five times today, and whenever we ask Curly why he’s so ornery, he just gives us more work to do. He keeps checking on us, too. Like every fifteen minutes, he’s there again. You shouldn’t have started all this. You have no idea what you’re doing. And now he’s worse than usual. But at least now I know what’s behind it.”

“What’s so bad about me asking?”

In even more of a hurry to get away now, Manny shrugged one shoulder and shifted toward the door. “I dunno. Maybe Curly thinks you’re trying to show him up. Maybe he’s worried you’ll cost him the chief electrician position.”

“Don’t be silly.” I could tell Manny was ready to bolt, so I pressed my point, explaining again what Stanley had explained to me. “Is there any way you can check to see if Gene’s accident was due to a floating neutral?”

He shook his head even before I finished making my request. “Let it go.”

“But I don’t believe Gene would’ve made an electrical mistake.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said.

“Just check, please?”

“No way. It’s not a neutral. I guarantee it. And even if I could check on it, I wouldn’t want to mess with this one. Not with Curly around. If it were up to me,” Manny said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’d kick his sorry butt out of here. The guy’s got too much on his mind with the sick wife and all. And now he’s so worried I’m going to make a mistake, or that Vince is, that he’s not letting us do our jobs. That guy should get canned before he does more damage. Seriously.”