Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

Deciding it would be best to keep Bindy out of the kitchen proper-and hence out of the staff’s way-I came into the Center Hall just as she made it to the bottom of the stairs. “Ollie!” she said when she saw me.

I almost didn’t recognize her. Bindy had lost at least twenty pounds, and although I knew it was impossible, it seemed she’d grown taller, too. “Wow!” I couldn’t stop my reaction. “You’re… so…” I almost said, “slick,” but caught myself before the word escaped. “So… chic. I mean… not that you weren’t before, I just…” I’d fallen so far into the open-mouth-insert-foot trap that I couldn’t escape without a massive recovery effort. “What I mean to say is that you look wonderful. The new job must be going great.”

Sunny smile. “It is. And believe me, everyone has the same reaction. Quite the change, isn’t it?”

Understatement, I thought.

She spun on a navy blue heel. Her dress was navy, too, a perfect contrast to her pearly skin. “What do you think?”

“You look fabulous.” She did. Although she hadn’t been exactly overweight before, the new, slimmer look suited her. The last time she’d been here, she preferred easy-comfort clothes and ballet flats. Back then she’d had loose, curly hair that she wore to her shoulders. No makeup. Now her hair was cropped short and slicked back, framing her carefully made-up face and exposing a pair of pert diamond earrings. The nose was still wide, the chin still weak, but she’d evidently been schooled in how to play up her better features because her eyes drew my attention first. Bindy would never be considered beautiful, but the change in her appearance certainly made her more attractive.

She tapped one of the earrings. “Fake,” she said, “but aren’t they great?”

At the moment, I would have much preferred to be discussing turkey dressing with Bucky than fake baubles with Bindy. “So, you’re here in Mrs. Blanchard’s place today?” I asked. I knew my voice held just enough curiosity to prompt her to get to the point.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “There are some personal business items Senator Blanchard needs to discuss with the First Lady.” Bindy wrinkled her nose, giving a little giggle. “Mrs. Blanchard didn’t want to be in the way. I’ve done a lot of research for the senator…” She waved both her hands at me. “That sounds so stilted. I do a lot for Treyton and his wife, and they both thought it would be smarter, strategically, for me to be here today when the partnership is discussed.”

So Sean’s fears had been warranted. Again, I was thankful he was due to arrive soon. “I thought this was supposed to be a Thanksgiving celebration.”

“That, too. There’s never any downtime in D.C., is there?” She licked her lips. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk with you about. I wanted to ask you about the gingerbread men.”

“The ones Marcel is creating?”

“No, the ones being sent in from across the country.” She giggled again. I’d forgotten that she had the tendency to do that when nervous. “Treyton knows that you’re choosing the best ones from the thousands you’ve received to display in the Red Room next to the gingerbread house. Is that right?”

“It’s not just me; Marcel has the final-”

“Yes, but you’re in on it, right?”

“Sure.”

“Treyton’s kids are submitting gingerbread men they’ve been working on. It would mean a lot to them to have their work displayed in the Red Room during the holiday opening ceremonies.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Where all the cameras will be?”

“Well, yes…” She punctuated her words with another little laugh. “You know those pictures will be seen everywhere as soon as the celebration is complete…”

She let the thought hang and I finally understood why she was uncomfortable talking with me. Treyton Blanchard wanted his kids’ handiwork plastered all over every newspaper, White House-related Web site, and on TV. Rumor had it that the man was considering a run for the presidency. Getting his kids’ artwork prominently displayed must feel a little like squatter’s rights. A thought occurred to me. “Aren’t his kids kind of young for this?” Blanchard had three little ones, and the oldest was eight or nine.

With a bouncy little so-so motion of her head, Bindy said, “They’ve had help with the project. The gingerbread men are really beautiful, Ollie. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if they weren’t worthy of presentation.”

Sure, she wouldn’t. Treyton Blanchard probably thought his kids’ scribbles with a blue crayon were genius. And I knew that if the powerful senator asked Bindy to do something, she’d do it.

I shuddered inwardly at the thought of what these homemade gingerbread ornaments looked like until Bindy said, “If the kids had actually done all this on their own, they’d be snapped up as protégés.” She laughed. “The family chef did some of the work. He’s amazing.” The spirit with which she added that last remark made me wonder if she and Blanchard’s chef were the new hot item in D.C. I knew the guy. But I couldn’t see them together.

“And the kids think they did it all themselves?”

She bit her lip, nodding.

“I’ll look into it.” I held up my hands, staving off further pressure. “But there’s no guarantee the photographers will snap the right angle to get these in print, you know.”

Tiny shrug. “I realize that. But I just wanted to ask you to do your best. The kids will be so thrilled. They’ve been invited to the ceremony, too. Their mom’s bringing them. Can you imagine how excited they’ll be to see their artwork in the Red Room of the White House?”

Realizing I wasn’t going to get back into the kitchen until I gave her something to take back to Blanchard, I said, “I’ll talk with Marcel and the decorating staff. That’s the best I can do.”

When Bindy smiled, relaxed now, I was taken aback again by the change in her. She’d morphed from ordinary to fabulous in just a few short months. And she seemed to have acquired a new confidence, too. “Thanks,” she said. “It’ll mean a lot to us.”

She turned and headed for the stairs before I could ask whether “us” meant her and the kids, or her and Treyton Blanchard.

I STEPPED OUT OF THE KITCHEN FOR THE dozenth time in the last hour. As Jackson passed me in the Center Hall, I grabbed his arm. “Any updates?”

Headshake. “No word. Nothing.”

Five minutes before one o’clock and Sean Baxter hadn’t arrived yet. We should have begun staging already.

“When do you think we’ll be able to serve?” Visions of wilted lettuce, dried-out turkey, and soggy rolls raced through my mind.

“The First Lady suggested we wait until half past one. If Mr. Baxter still has not arrived, then we will begin without him.”

A half-hour delay. Not great, but it could be worse. “Okay,” I said, heading back in to deliver the news to my group. “Let me know if anything changes.”

Over the next twenty minutes, I divided my time between overseeing progress in the kitchen and the Butler’s Pantry upstairs. We staged our offerings in the pantry, waiting impatiently for the signal to serve our guests in the next room. The Family Dining Room occupies a space on the north side of the White House, with the pantry directly west. The State Dining Room-where most of our larger seated dining events are held-is a large area immediately adjacent to both rooms. In fact, we often used the Family Dining Room for staging when serving in the State Dining Room. The three-room setup is perfect whether we’re serving a hundred guests, or fewer than a dozen.

I maintained a position in the empty State Dining Room, close enough to the gathering to listen and watch without being seen. Although I had every excuse to be there-to gauge how the hors d’oeuvres were going and to determine if I needed to make any last-minute changes to dinner-the real reason I parked myself at the door was pure nosiness. I knew Mrs. Campbell was a strong-minded and resilient woman, but I didn’t know many of our guests. If they were planning on ambushing her, as Sean expected they might, I wanted to help him with information-gathering. I caught Jackson ’s eye. He stood nearby, facing the cross hall. I could tell he and I were on the same page.