Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

From the corner, Bucky guffawed. “I like this girl already.”

NOT TEN MINUTES LATER, ONE OF THE SECRET Service guys appeared in the kitchen. “Time for the meeting, Ollie,” he said.

My hands and attention deep in the floured batter that would become soft biscuits, I looked up. “What meeting?”

“The Emergency Response Team. The ERT guys. They have that department-head meeting going in the East Room.”

Bucky and Cyan grumbled. Marcel was out of the room at the moment, and Agda clearly didn’t understand.

“Now?” I asked.

He tapped his watch. “Hurry up. The sooner we get in there, the sooner you’ll get back.”

“But-”

“I know, I know. I’ve heard it from everybody so far. Too much to do. No time. Today’s bomb scare threw everyone off and believe me, we’re hearing about it.” Pointing upstairs he added, “It’s mandatory.”

I washed my hands and dried them hastily on my apron as he talked. For the second time that day, I grabbed my notebook and pen and put Bucky in charge of the kitchen. “Get as much done as you can,” I said. “I’m sure I won’t be long.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said.

Cyan rolled her eyes. Agda smiled and waved her knife.

Measuring about eighty by thirty-seven feet, the East Room is the largest room in the White House, and is generally used for social events, such as when singer Karina Pasian performed here, in celebration of Black Music Month during the George W. Bush administration, or in the 1980s for President Ronald Reagan’s seventieth birthday bash. Although the room is also used for more down-to-business purposes, such as bill-signing ceremonies and award presentations, I liked to think of it as the party room. The White House’s first architect, James Hoban, probably had a similar idea in mind, because he had dubbed it the “Public Audience Chamber.”

Today, in addition to the stunning eagle-leg grand piano that sat beneath a protective dust cloth in the southern corner and the collection of chairs brought in for the staff, the room was lined on two walls by folding tables. Whatever they held was also covered by white cloth, but I didn’t imagine their role was to keep away dust. The lumpiness beneath the white fabric led me to believe that whatever was under there was to be kept from the staff’s prying eyes.

I took a folding chair toward the back, finding myself seated near Gene again. “How’s it going?” I asked, not really expecting much of a reply.

“I can’t find Manny or Vince,” he said.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information. Manny and Vince were journeymen electricians who did a lot of the maintenance work around the grounds. “They’re… missing?”

“Damned if I know,” he said, leaning close enough for me to smell his stale coffee breath. “Curly told them to get the Map Room hot again, but now he’s gone for the day and I can’t find either of the two young guys.”

Vince might be considered youthful. Manny, not so much. Of course, from Gene’s point of view, twenty- and thirtysomethings probably did seem like youngsters.

“Curly’s gone? With everything we have to do?”

Gene shook his big head. “His wife’s in the hospital. They called him out there. What could I do?” he asked rhetorically. “I need to make sure they take care of things. With the Map Room out of juice, I start worrying about the Blue Room and the Red Room. Even though they’re on the floor above, they’re close, you know.”

I knew where the Blue and Red rooms were, but I also knew Gene was just working off stress by explaining it to me. The Christmas tree, due here in just a few days, would be set up in the Blue Room for White House guests to see and admire. The Red Room would host the gingerbread house. Lack of electricity in either location was not an option.

Just then, three men dressed in black marched into the room. All had enormous rifles, solemn expressions, and baseball caps pulled low. Behind them four other men followed. These guys were dressed in camouflage gear. When the procession came to halt before our gathering of department heads, the men pivoted and came to attention. I didn’t know whether I should stand, salute, or what.

“Welcome to the first round of educational seminars scheduled for White House personnel.” I leaned to see around the people in front of me. A tall, fortyish man stood in front of us on a raised dais. Watching us, he ran both hands through his sandy hair before he leaned forward to grip the sides of a lectern. With a voice like his, he didn’t really need the microphone, but that didn’t stop him from using it. “I am Special Agent-in-Charge Leonard Gavin. I am in command of this endeavor.” He worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth, and tugged his head sideways the way men do when their collars are too tight. “In the course of White House business, you will refer to me as Special Agent Gavin.”

Now I really felt like saluting.

Still booming, he continued. “You will be given name tags and asked to sign in so we know you were here. I will attempt to learn all your names. We have a lot to accomplish, so we will begin by passing out a study guide. Nickerson?”

One of the camouflage men stepped forward to begin distributing booklets.

Gene muttered under his breath, “We’re never going to get out of here.”

“Don’t say that.” I took one of the handouts and passed the rest to Gene, whispering, “I’ve got two big events-”

Special Agent Gavin pointed to me, his voice loud and irritated. “Is there a question?”

Startled, I shook my head. “No.”

As though I wouldn’t be able to hear him, he came around the lectern, his voice still about fifty decibels higher than it needed to be. “What is your name?”

“Ollie,” I said. “Ollie Paras.”

“What is your position?”

I stood. “I am the White House executive chef.” Wow, I got to say that twice in an hour. But would he view me as “too tiny” like Amazon Agda had?

“Come up here,” he said.

I started to protest, then thought better of it and decided to comply. Wasn’t this great? I’d inadvertently become today’s troublemaker for talking in class. Just like in school. Years of not knowing when to keep my mouth shut taught me it was better to go along with the teacher’s orders and take my lumps right away, than to suffer built-up wrath later. I scooted sideways from my chair and made my way forward. Going with the flow might help things move along faster here, too.

I skipped up the steps to the dais, presenting myself as willing and cooperative. Or at least I hoped that’s how I came across.

“Now, Ms. Chef, look out there,” Gavin said, pointing to the audience. Department heads and assistants stared back at me from the safety of their folding chairs.

I followed Gavin’s direction. “Okay.”

Way back, next to where I’d been sitting, Gene squirmed. A half beat later he sat up and twisted, as though someone had called his name. Apparently someone had. Manny stood in the room’s doorway, beckoning to Gene, who needed no further encouragement. Hefting his bulk, he was up and out the door within seconds. I was glad for Gene that Manny had found him. At least one of us was getting something accomplished.

I chanced a look at Special Agent Gavin, who stood next to me-imposingly-looking as unperturbed as I was discomfited by the heavy silence in the room. I opened my mouth to ask a question, but he silenced me with a look and pointed out to the audience again.

Was there something I was supposed to notice? Something amiss? I shifted from one foot to the other, thinking about my crew downstairs. About Bucky running things. About Agda’s professed ability to follow recipe directions in English. That made me squirm.