Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

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.”