Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

“I just checked on them,” he answered, reading my mind. “They’re perfect. Nicely brown. Right on schedule.”

“Thanks.”

Agda was in charge of putting the finishing touches on each course. Every plate was arranged with exquisite precision just before it left our kitchen. At the White House, food did not simply sit on a dish-our meals required presentation. With her speed and accuracy, Agda was a natural to handle that job. Even though today’s dinner would be served in a traditional, family-style manner, the trays and platters required her full attention before they were sent to the table.

Bent over the first tray of hors d’oeuvres, Agda was carefully placing fruits and cheeses in meticulous formation, interspersing crackers and spiced nuts to make for a beautifully appetizing display.

I glanced up when our head butler, Jackson, came in. He’d recently taken over the position, though he’d been on staff for many years. A tall black man with curly salt-and-pepper hair, he smiled often and could always be counted on for White House scoop. Right now, however, he wasn’t smiling.

“The president is not returning to the White House until this evening,” he said.

All activity stopped. “What?” I asked.

Jackson shook his head. “A change in plans.”

Before inquiring as to what great world event prevented the president from attending his family’s Thanksgiving dinner, I needed to know the truly crucial information. “Are we still serving?”

“We are,” Jackson said, still not looking happy. “Sad day for the missus. She was counting on her husband’s support with these guests.” He met my gaze. “You have heard some stories?”

I had, and I remembered Sean Baxter’s warnings. “This isn’t going to be a friendly social dinner after all, is it?”

Jackson shook his head again. “I am concerned. But there is nothing we can do.”

“Except feed them well and keep them happy,” I said, “and hope that they’re all so impressed with dinner that they forget about business.”

The corner of Jackson ’s mouth curled up. “We can try. I will return when the guests arrive.” Looking around the area, he asked, “Have you seen Yi-im?”

One of the newer butlers, a tiny gentleman of an Asian descent I couldn’t deduce, Yi-im never seemed to be available when there was work to be done. It had taken me a while to get the hang of pronouncing his name: Yee-eem. I pointed downward. “He said something about heading to the cafeteria.”

Anger sparked Jackson ’s eyes. “Lazy man.”

“WE ARE READY,” MARCEL SAID, AS HE CAME around the corner, wheeling a cart. The top shelf held a tall pumpkin trifle and a selection of four different varieties of minitartlets: pecan, orange chiffon, lemon cheese, and Boston cream. The cart’s second shelf held Marcel’s famous apple cobbler with oatmeal crumble.

“Do you need me to heat that up when the time comes?” I asked.

His dark face folded into worry lines-he hadn’t even heard my question. “I hope I ’ave made enough.”

I started to assure him that there was enough dessert to satisfy twenty hungry guests when he turned and beckoned someone behind. The missing Yi-im stepped into the kitchen carrying a large silver tray almost as big as he was. Just over forty, the junior butler was slim and so short that in his tuxedo he might have passed for a ring-bearer in a wedding. Except for his bald head, which he kept shaved and shiny enough to reflect lights.

“Just in case they are very hungry, I ’ave created another option,” Marcel said, with a hint of superiority. “Chocolate truffles. Do you think they are a good choice?”

Again, as I was about to answer, Marcel’s attention shifted. He ordered Yi-im to begin sending the desserts to the staging area: the Butler’s Pantry just outside the first-floor Family Dining Room. I recognized in Marcel the same controlled panic I felt right before an important meal. He wasn’t interested in my opinion-he simply wanted to bring me up to speed. And probably show off a little. The chocolate truffles would be a huge hit. Of that, I was certain.

When Yi-im left the area, I told Marcel that Jackson had been looking for the diminutive butler.

Marcel’s hands came up in a gesture of supplication. “But he told me he had been assigned to help out here today.”

I didn’t have time to quibble. “At least we know he isn’t shirking his duties,” I said in a low voice. “And heaven knows we can use all the help we can get.”

Marcel wiped his hands on his apron, looking thoughtful. “Yi-im has worked very hard today. As a butler, he is perhaps in the wrong department, no?”

I followed his logic. Marcel was always on the lookout for pastry assistants. With the number of dazzling and delicious desserts his department produced, he was usually understaffed. At the moment, however, I didn’t have time to discuss personnel with him. “Let’s talk about this next week,” I said. “Monday morning staff meeting?”

“Excellent plan,” he said. “Now I shall go upstairs to be certain my creations arrive safely.”

Thirty seconds after his departure, Jackson returned, making me think about one of those old movies where people chase one another and keep missing their quarry by moments. “Mr. and Mrs. Volkov have arrived, as has Senator Blanchard with Ms. Gerhardt. She has requested a few moments of your time.”

I was surprised. “Bindy wants to talk to me?”

He nodded.

“Sure,” I said. “You can let her come down after dinner.”

“She would prefer to visit with you now.”

Great. Another interruption. “Go ahead, Ollie,” Bucky said. “We’ve got you covered.”

He was right. One of the things Henry had told me before passing the potholders was that in order to succeed, I needed to be able to rely on the efforts of others. “You can’t do everything yourself anymore,” he’d said, chiding me. He knew how much I liked to feel in control. “You have to be able to let go. Let your staff show you how good they are.” With a wink and a smile, he’d added, “That’s how I recognized talent in you.”

“Thanks, Bucky.” I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said to Jackson. “Send her down.”

Bindy Gerhardt had been a staffer in the West Wing during her tenure at the White House, and I liked her well enough. But she and I weren’t the kind of girlfriends who sought one another out. Although she looked like central casting’s answer to the nerdy girl with the heart of gold, she’d always struck me as a power groupie-doing her best only when people in authority were apt to notice. In fact, immediately after she’d accepted the position on Blanchard’s staff, she’d stopped visiting the White House altogether. Probably to stave off any impression of impropriety. This was the nature of Washington, D.C. -rumor and innuendo ruled. We all knew that perception was often more important than reality. Especially where the news media was concerned.

Cyan sidled next to me. “That’s weird,” she said. “I hope she isn’t looking for a special menu at this late date.”

“I don’t remember her having dietary restrictions.” I was pretty good at remembering unusual requests. Plus, Bindy would have known to send her preferences early. I couldn’t imagine why she’d asked to come down here, so I shrugged. I’d find out soon enough. “Maybe she wants to swap recipes.”

Cyan laughed. I washed and dried my hands, taking a long look around my kitchen. It hummed. Without a doubt, this would be the best Thanksgiving dinner any of our guests had ever experienced. I savored the moment-the instance of absolute certainty that we’d achieved greatness. I couldn’t wait for our guests’ reactions.