Julie Hyzy: Hail to the Chef

“Tell me why.”

“The president is safe for now,” he said. “But we have reason to suspect an explosive device may be present in the White House.”

I couldn’t decide whether the loudest gasp came from me or Mrs. Campbell. She recovered immediately, however, and nodded, surprisingly cool. “Thank you.”

I had to know. “Who went to Camp David with him?”

Martin fixed me with a meaningful look. “Everyone you would expect.”

I sighed with relief. That meant Tom had been evacuated, too. At least he was safe. “What happens next?” I asked.

He ignored my question. “I’ll be back when I can.”

The armored door closed behind him with a thunk of frightening finality as the three of us turned inward, forming an uncertain triangle. “Where do you think they found a bomb?” I asked.

Mrs. Campbell paced. The room we occupied was small, with a curtained, fake window on its far wall. Lights behind the plastic panes strove for a sunny-day touch, but their cold, blue fluorescence fooled no one. Designed for safety rather than lavish entertaining, the room was nonetheless comfortable with a kitchenette, a set of bunk beds, chairs, recent magazines on the dining table, and cabinets that I assumed were stocked with shelf-stable foods and water. I took a quick peek behind the far door and found a full bathroom. Good. Just in case we were stuck here for a while.

“This may be just a precaution,” the First Lady finally said. “I’m sure there’s no bomb. Perhaps the Secret Service is running an unusual drill.”

Sean asked, “This is an awful lot for just a precaution, isn’t it?”

Neither Mrs. Campbell nor I answered. He was right. The White House and its inhabitants received threats on an almost daily basis. Precautions were taken as a matter of course, but rarely to this extent.

Something occurred to me. “Wasn’t the president conducting meetings in the West Wing today?”

Mrs. Campbell nodded, the lines between her brows deep with worry. “I was originally scheduled to meet Sean in the dining room outside the Oval Office,” she said. “We planned to lunch with Harrison. He hasn’t seen Sean in such a long time.”

“Did you say lunch?” I asked.

Mrs. Campbell waved away my concerns. “I didn’t put it on the schedule, Ollie, because we planned to grab a bite from the White House Mess. But then the president needed to meet with his advisers about this new terrorist threat, and everything shifted. In fact, that’s why I called you up to the solarium-to inquire about getting lunch.” She smiled, but I could tell it was less for my benefit than for her own. “And here we are.”

So they hadn’t eaten yet. In an effort to inject normalcy into our bizarre circumstances, I started opening cabinets, assessing what ingredients I had at hand to play with. “If they evacuated the president to Camp David,” I said, musing, “then the bomb must be located between the Oval Office and here. Otherwise he’d be in the bunker, too.”

Sean pulled a box of cookies from the cabinet’s very top shelf. “Thank God they found it. And that they got him out. You’re right, Ollie. They wouldn’t want to transfer him across the residence. Can you imagine the risk…?” He let the thought linger. I wished he hadn’t.

“I’m certain this is just a precaution,” Mrs. Campbell said again with unnatural brightness. “Any minute now they’ll give us the-”

A high-pitched siren cut off the rest of her words. Loud even through the bunker’s thick walls, the danger signal rang clear. Jolts of fear speared my gut. Above the door, a Mars light undulated-its beacons of red shooting across the room, like an ON AIR signal gone haywire.

When the siren silenced, the intercom crackled. “Do not leave your assigned room… I repeat… do not leave your room. Do not open your door. Wait for further instructions. This is not a drill.”

Sean dropped the box of cookies. The shock in his face was no doubt a mirror of my own. Mrs. Campbell collapsed into one of the chairs, her head in prayerful hands. “Dear God,” she said, “protect us all.”

“I KNOW THAT THIS ISN’T MUCH,” I SAID, AS I placed a thrown-together lunch on the small table, “but we don’t know how long we’ll be here. We need to keep our spirits up.”

“Do you need any help?” Sean asked me.

I shook my head. We’d been sequestered for more than an hour. In that time, one of the Secret Service agents had stopped by long enough to let us know that the purported bomb had been located and disabled by the bomb squad. Before allowing any of us to resume our duties, however, the entire residence would be swept for additional explosives. The special agent requested our patience for the duration.

While we waited, I scrounged. In addition to the bottled water and PowerBars, I’d found a supply of interesting ingredients and freeze-dried packets. What used to be called C-rations were now more appealingly known as MRE-meals ready to eat. Augmenting these were canned foods and a few necessary staples. I went to work.

Less than fifteen minutes later I’d pulled together canned chicken chunks, added a bit of soy sauce, peanut butter, a splash of oil, and a dash of pepper flakes, then heated it all in the microwave, and served it on a bed of microwave-cooked rice.

I’d then drained a can of carrots and bamboo shoots. With a little maple syrup and more soy sauce, I had a serviceable side dish. Next up, three-bean salad-again from a can. Drained and tossed with Italian dressing, it wasn’t half bad. We were ready to serve.

“This is amazing, Ollie,” Mrs. Campbell said as she and Sean sat at the table to enjoy the meal I’d cobbled together. I was used to using fresh vegetables, herbs, and even flowers as garnish. Here I presented a no-frills meal on utilitarian plates. Still, the chicken smelled good. “I can’t believe how wonderful this all looks. You are a miracle worker.”

I thanked her and began cleaning up.

“Aren’t you planning to join us?” she asked.

Just as I opened my mouth to demur, my stomach rumbled its displeasure at the thought of turning down a meal.

Mrs. Campbell laughed. “That settles it. Sit down, Ollie.”

I took the chair to the First Lady’s left, which set me across from Sean. He smiled at me as he popped a forkful of bean salad into his mouth and said, “This is really good.”

Ravenous, I nonetheless managed restraint as I helped myself to some chicken and carrots. Two bites in, I knew I’d done well. In fact, I wished I would’ve written everything down as I’d put it together. White House chefs were always hounded to create cookbooks. I envisioned my future tome with a chapter titled: “Bounty from the Bunker.”

“I wonder when they’ll let us out,” I said with a glance at the room’s digital readout. The White House assistant usher had called a staff meeting for this afternoon. With Thanksgiving only two days away, and holiday decorations going up the day after that, we were already operating under tight deadlines. Every hour delay squeaked the schedule ever tighter. While we ate, I formulated alternative methods to get everything done on time.

As though reading my mind, Mrs. Campbell said, “How are plans for Thanksgiving dinner progressing?”

“Perfectly,” I said. It was true-mostly. I’d taken over the position of executive chef in the spring, and since then I’d come to learn just how difficult it is to manage meals, staff, and administrative responsibilities at the same time. So far, however, plans for Thanksgiving were right on schedule. And they would continue to be, as long as we got out of our bunker prison soon. “Your guests are in for a treat. And Marcel has another spectacular dessert planned.” Just to keep conversation going, I asked, “Are we still planning for six guests in addition to you and the president?”