Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

I WOKE UP CRAMPED AND ACHY FROM SPENDING the night on the small bed in my third-floor office. The mattress was comfortable enough, but I suffered from the dual distractions of not being in my own apartment and anxiety as I replayed the prior day’s events.

Throwing on spare clothes I kept in my office for emergencies such as this, I made it downstairs to the kitchen while it was still dark. I usually loved the morning’s solitary quiet-moving about at my own pace, transforming this cool stainless steel room into a warm, bustling nest of activity. I always felt as though I held the power to wake up the world.

Today, however, that simple pleasure eluded me. Despair weighed me down because again, one of our White House “family” had died-and again, under horrific circumstances.

I pulled biscuits out of the freezer, set them on the counter, and fired up one of the ovens. Sean hadn’t struck me as despondent or suicidal. And yet the Secret Service had mentioned a note. That made no sense.

So acute was my concentration on Sean, and on preparing breakfast for what would be a long, grueling day for the First Family, that I didn’t notice one of the butlers come in until he was almost next to me.

My head jerked up. “Red!”

His pale eyes widened in alarm. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step back.

Red had been here forever, and though the man was spry, he’d crossed the line to elderly at least a decade ago. Along the way he’d lost the hair color that had given him his nickname. I hadn’t meant to shake him. Waving off his apology, I pointed up, toward the residence. “How is she?”

“Bad times here,” he said, with a sad shake of his head. “And no one is stopping long enough to grieve.”

My puzzled expression encouraged him to explain.

“The president returned last night. He’ll be taking breakfast early with his wife,” he said. “Then he will depart for a meeting in New York.”

I hoped that didn’t mean the First Lady would be left alone at a time like this. “Is Mrs. Campbell going with him?”

Lines bracketing Red’s eyes deepened. “The First Lady will remain in the residence to host the Mother’s Luncheon this afternoon.”

“What?”

“The luncheon will proceed as scheduled.”

This couldn’t be right. “But, after the news. After what happened to Sean…”

He stopped me with a sigh. “Yes,” he said, “the family has much to deal with today. And on top of everything else, Gene Sculka’s family is holding his wake tonight.”

Dear God, I’d almost forgotten about that. I was about to ask if the president and First Lady were planning to attend, but Red anticipated my question.

“The president will not return to the White House until Saturday. The First Lady has called the Sculka family to pay respects.”

I made a mental note to make an appearance myself this evening. But right now only one thing was on my mind. “I thought they would cancel the luncheon.”

Red sighed. “Mrs. Campbell doesn’t want to disappoint all the women and kids who have flown from all over the country-at their own expense-to be here today.”

“But surely people would understand-”

“You know our First Lady.”

I did. Selfless to a fault, she was notoriously stubborn but always looking out for the greater good. I admired her-and I hoped to achieve that serenity someday myself. “Well, then, I suppose I’d better move a bit faster here.”

Cyan arrived moments later, followed by Bucky, Rafe, Agda, and a few more SBA chefs we’d hired for the day. I was glad I hadn’t canceled the extra staff. Even if today’s luncheon had been scrapped, we had a great deal of work ahead of us. The holiday season officially began Sunday afternoon-two days from now-when the president and First Lady would attend a presentation at the Kennedy Center. Extra hands in the kitchen were never a waste.

While managing breakfast and cleaning up, we got to work on the afternoon’s event. Buffets were so much less stressful than plated dinners-for us, and for the waitstaff. We’d prepared as much as possible ahead of time, but there was still a lot to be done before the guests arrived.

More than two hundred moms and tots were expected, and we’d been careful to include plenty of kid-friendly fare in our offerings. One of the president’s favorite sandwiches, peanut butter and banana, was on the menu today. We would offer a choice: served on plain white or on cinnamon bread. In fact, the staff had taken bets on which would be more popular with the kids.

Rafe expertly sliced away the crusts from a peanut-butter-on-white sandwich. “Kids will go for plain, every time.”

“Cinnamon tastes better,” Cyan said, sing-song.

Rafe raised his own voice up an octave, continuing the sing-song cadence. “Won’t matter if they refuse to try it.”

Shaking her head so her ponytail wagged, Cyan slathered peanut butter on yet another slice of cinnamon bread. “They’ll try these.”

I was happy to hear their chitchat. Although normalcy was not to be expected-not so soon after the two unexpected deaths-any little bit of happiness was worth grabbing.

Just as we started in on our next project, Special Agent Gavin strode into the kitchen. He stopped short a half breath before running into one of our SBA chefs who carried a massive bowl of salad on his shoulder.

“Watch where you’re going,” Gavin said, flattening himself against the wall just in time.

The assistant turned fully, in order to see the man who’d almost tossed our salad. “Sorry,” he mumbled, then set off again for the refrigerator. Gavin’s presence here just as time was getting tricky was enormously unwelcome. There was nothing this man could say or do to help today’s event, and the sooner he got out of my kitchen the happier we would all be.

As he righted himself, he tugged at his suit coat and adjusted his tie. Before he could seek me out, I’d positioned myself in front of him. “What can I do for you?” My words were polite, my demeanor dismissive.

“You’re scheduled for emergency response training.”

So why was he in my kitchen now? I’d set the staff up myself; we were already on the hook for Gavin’s classes. “We haven’t forgotten,” I said. “We’ll be there. As scheduled.”

“You’re scheduled right now.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Not them,” he said, pointing. “You.”

“No,” I said, straining to process this. “Not possible.”

He spoke solemnly. “It is my personal responsibility to see that department heads are fully trained. You missed your class last night.”

“Do you have any idea what went on here last night?”

Gavin gave me one of those looks meant to make people wither. I didn’t. “Ms. Paras,” he said. “When someone’s faced with a life-or-death situation, do you think it’s more important that they’ve learned how to react swiftly, decisively, and accurately, thereby saving lives? Or do you believe it’s more important that they’ve mastered the preparation of white roux?”

My eyebrows shot up.

Half of his mouth curled. “I am not so ignorant in matters of haute cuisine as you might imagine.”

I didn’t care if he was the next Paul Bocuse; I wasn’t about to let him drag me away from the kitchen right before a major event. I tried again. “The reason I missed-”

He interrupted. “I know you believe your work here is important, but I’m sure you agree that the safety of the White House trumps all other concerns.”

“I’m not saying-”