Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

Marcel gave a very French shrug. “What can I say? He tells me he is sick; I have to believe him. We do not want germs on our precious creations.”

“That’s true.”

Faber led the three of us up, using the stairs closest to the usher’s office. I felt the nervous jitters myself and I, too, started to rehearse my lines for when the First Lady would ask about menu preparations.

On our way up, we met Curly coming down. Looking a lot like an angry bulldog, he seemed not to even notice us until we passed him. But then he grabbed my arm and looked directly into my face. “You seen Manny?” he asked.

“No,” I said wiggling my arm to dislodge his hand. But he held fast.

Faber cleared his throat. “We are on our way to the official opening-”

“I know where the hell you’re headed,” he said, his voice a growl that matched the bulldog visage to perfection. The long, pinched scar throbbed red. “But since you’re always chasing after Manny and Vince, I figured you’d know where they are. It’s the last minute before everything goes hot and they ain’t anywhere.”

Although he let go of my arm, he stood right in front of me, blocking my passage.

“So I’ll ask you again,” Curly said. “Where are they?”

Faber stood two steps higher than I did. “Ms. Paras,” he said, meekly. “It’s almost time.”

“I don’t know what your problem is, Curly,” I said. “But I have a commitment and I believe in doing my job. Maybe it’s time you started doing yours.”

His face whitened even as his scar burned crimson. I stepped around him, shaken by the altercation. With Gene around all these years, I’d never had to deal with Curly directly before-at least, not so often. I sincerely hoped Paul would not see fit to promote him from “acting” to “permanent” chief electrician.

When we finally got upstairs, I was blown away by the number of people. Sure, we’d been given a list and a head-count, but it’s one thing to expect a specific number of guests, and another to see them up close. On paper, and during planning, it’s abstract. Here, it was very real. Warm, close, sweaty real. Hundreds of milling folks. Mostly Capitol Hill types, media moguls, and their families.

The holiday opening was, indeed, one of the more family-friendly events the White House threw each year and I was pleased to see so many little ones in attendance.

Camera crews behaved themselves, maintaining the decorum prescribed to them by social secretary, Marguerite Schumacher. She was on hand, of course, overseeing every minute detail. This was her moment, as well as Kendra’s. The two had worked side-by-side with the First Lady to create the rich, warm, welcoming festival that was the official beginning of the White House holiday season.

Faber led us through a cordoned-off walkway where Marcel, Bucky, and I were directed to stand. He waited with us, one hand low, keeping us behind the ropes, until one of the other ushers nodded. Continuing along the cordoned-off path, we smiled at the reporters, who lobbed questions at us as we passed.

All three of us nodded, looking as happy and content as possible. We knew that we were not to answer any questions directly. The only time we were to speak to the reporters was in the Red Room, and only when we were addressed by the First Lady.

Marcel stood to the right of the gingerbread house. I stood to its left, with Bucky next to me. Had Yi-im been here, he would have taken my position, and Bucky and I would have stood a bit farther away. Photo-op-wise, however, it looked better to have the house flanked by two chefs. Symmetry and all that.

The crowd was currently enraptured by the show in the Blue Room behind us, while we waited, practically standing at attention. I twisted to peer into the next room, to watch the delight wash over the faces of the kids and the adults when the marvelous White House tree was lit.

I stifled a sigh. Marcel shifted his weight and adjusted his neckline.

We waited.

In the next room, the First Lady was answering questions. I could just make out her words, high and clear over the crowd sounds. The tree hadn’t yet been lit, and she was explaining the logic behind this year’s theme, and how she, Marguerite, and Kendra had worked together for nearly half a year, planning the celebration. Mrs. Campbell was effusive with praise for her social secretary and florist.

I let my gaze wander toward the First Lady.

In the doorway that connected the Red Room to the Blue Room, I spied a familiar face. Little Treyton Blanchard, the senator’s oldest son, peeked around the corner. He smiled when he saw me, and gave a quick wave. I waved back. His mother, with her back to us, didn’t notice.

Bindy was right, after all. I guess the temptation of seeing her children’s creations up close and personal when the world got its first look was too much for Mrs. Blanchard to pass up.

Little Trey broke away from his mother and made his way over, all smiles. He pointed. “Those are ours,” he said, with more than a little pride.

“They sure are,” I said in a soft voice as I bent down to talk with him. “I bet you’re glad now that you made them.”

He gave me a face that looked out of place in someone so young. Cynical and amused. “We didn’t really make those,” he said, inching closer. “But we helped a little bit. I helped the most.”

“I had a feeling you did.”

Mrs. Blanchard had turned around to look for her son. When she saw him talking with me, she came over, carrying the youngest Blanchard on her hip, the middle one toddling behind. “I’m so sorry,” she said in a stage whisper. “I hope he hasn’t been bothering you.”

Her eyes raked the gingerbread house and her gaze settled on the three gingerbread men just above it.

“Not at all,” I said.

The murmurs in the other room grew, perhaps in response to one of the First Lady’s comments. Maryann Blanchard shot a nervous glance back to the Blue Room. “My husband didn’t want us to come today,” she said, with a guilty smile, “but I couldn’t bear to miss this opportunity.” She shifted little Leah in her arms and spoke to the children. “Do you see?” she asked them. “Look!”

Pointing with her free hand, she indicated the three gingerbread men. “You made those, and now the president of the United States is using them to decorate his house for Christmas.” The woman positively glowed. “Isn’t that great?”

John, the middle child, stepped back to see better. “Can’t we take them home to our house?”

Maryann Blanchard shook her head. “We made these as gifts. It’s like giving your country a Christmas present.”

John looked unimpressed. Leah sucked her thumb and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. Only the oldest, Trey, had anything to say. “I wish I would’ve worked harder on it.”

She patted him on the head. “You did a wonderful job.”

From the sounds of things, the tree in the Blue Room was about to be lit. “Come on,” Maryann Blanchard said to her brood, “we don’t want to miss this.”

I smiled after them. The three kids were nowhere near as impressed with the White House as their mother was, but I supposed someday they could tell their own kids about being featured. Of course, if their father had any say in the matter, after the next election, they’d be living here themselves.

I would have loved to watch the tree-lighting ceremony, but it was my duty to stay put, to be ready for my turn to talk to the country about the small part I played in bringing the holidays to the president’s home.

The next room quieted, and someone lowered the room’s lights. A hush settled over the onlookers and even the reporters assigned to this room craned their necks to see.