Buffalo West Wing (13 page)

“Always thinking about work, aren’t you?”

I took another spoonful of soup. “With appetizers like this, how can I think about anything else?”

At that moment, our waiter returned. “My compliments to the chef,” I said.

He gave us that peculiar once-over again, thanked me, and asked if we were ready to order. I chose the filet medallion trio entrée with horseradish, blue cheese, and mushroom crusts because I wanted to see how the chef here handled them and look for ways we might be able to borrow to improve our version at the White House. Cyan ordered pork loin with figs.

“How would you like your medallions?” the waiter asked.

“Medium-rare.”

“Very good,” he said. He looked ready to say something more, but evidently changed his mind, grabbed our empty bowls, and left.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

Cyan wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Maybe he has the hots for you.”

“He’s got to be at least seventy.”

She smiled. “Think about what a catch you’d be. He could brag to all his friends at his AARP meetings.”

I laughed. “You do realize that AARP starts at age fifty, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah? That’s still pretty young these days.” She raised an eyebrow. “That reminds me. How old was that agent who taught us about explosives ... that guy who liked you so much? Gav?”

I nearly spit out my wine. “Where did that come from?”

She affected an innocent look. “I’m just trying to be helpful. You need to start noticing men noticing you.”

“Gav did not ‘notice’ me,” I said, bringing my napkin to my mouth. “And he’s probably just over forty.”

She didn’t have a chance to say anything else because at that moment our waiter returned. Instead of bringing our entrées—which would have been much too quick—he was accompanied by a tall, wide-set gentleman wearing typical kitchen gear.

“Ladies,” our waiter began, “I couldn’t help but overhear some of your conversation.” He smiled. “It is our honor to have you, Ms. Paras,” he nodded to me, “and one of your assistants as our guests tonight. May I present our head chef, Reggie Stewart.”

Chef Reggie beamed and stepped forward. “Ah, Ms. Paras, Ms. Paras,” he said, “I’m honored to have you visit my restaurant.” Reggie’s face widened when he smiled. Carrying about forty pounds more than his tall frame was built for, he was nonetheless a good-looking man. In his mid- to late-thirties, he had a full head of black hair, covered by a hairnet. One renegade curl escaped to twist over the center of his forehead, giving him a jaunty look.

As our waiter unobtrusively removed himself from our little group, I attempted to stand to greet the head chef properly.

“No, no,” Reggie said, his face twisting into concern, “please stay seated.” He offered his hand and we shook. I introduced Cyan.

“Yes, yes,” he said, and I wondered if he always repeated his first word. “This is such a happy event. Don told me what you ordered—excellent choices, both—and I will be very eager to talk with you after dinner to find out what you thought of your meals.”

I couldn’t blame him. We always wanted to know how our creations were received and we rarely got as much feedback as we hoped for. I wished, however, that Reggie had waited to be introduced until after we’d finished eating. Now I felt a responsibility to analyze everything for Reggie’s benefit and that would most certainly change the spirit of tonight’s excursion. “Of course,” I said politely.

“That’s wonderful,” he said with genuine warmth. “What’s it like, Ms. Paras?” he asked. “I mean, how difficult is it to cook for arguably the most powerful man on the planet? Is he a picky eater? Well, I guess you wouldn’t know for sure yet. It’s only been a few days. Not even a week yet.”

Reggie talked so fast I could barely keep up. I never, under any circumstances, shared information about the eating preferences of the president or those of his family. No one on staff at the White House ever shared any information unless approved for release. But I didn’t really believe Reggie here was looking for a scoop. He just seemed excited.

“It’s great,” I said blandly. “I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I’m sure you can’t wait to get to work every day.”

I caught Cyan’s grin across the table. “That’s true. I do love my work.”

“Of course you do,” he said. Don sidled up and told him there was a question in the kitchen, and he apologized before running off. “I will be back,” he said. “After dinner.”

Cyan was still grinning. “I think he likes you.”

“He likes my job,” I said, wishing we still had more of the mushroom appetizer so I could offer it to Cyan and shut her up. “People are always fascinated. It’s like working for royalty.”

“Mm-hm.”

Our food arrived and I was impressed, especially by the horseradish crust on one of the medallions and by the broccoli side dish. The truffle oil and Asiago cheese combined for a wonderful flavor. Cyan tried some, too. “Ooh. Very good,” she said.

“We’ll have to remember to tell Reggie how much we liked this.”

“Should we take notes so we don’t forget?” Cyan forked another bite of her pork loin, and smiled.

As promised, the moment dinner was done, Reggie returned. Instead of standing this time, however, he pulled a chair up and joined us. This put his bulky frame smack in the center of a walkway between tables. “How was everything?” he asked.

Cyan and I effused our delight and Reggie beamed. “Really?” he asked, after we’d described how impressed we were with some of his choices. “You really enjoyed it?”

He directed almost his entire conversation to me and chatted a great deal about preparations and kitchen protocols. Again he asked if we’d
honestly
enjoyed dinner. “Yes,” I said for the third time. “Very, very much.”

“You have no idea what this means to me.”

I was beginning to get an idea. He had been sitting with us for more than fifteen minutes and while the crowd had died down, I imagined his assistant chefs would prefer to have their boss back in the kitchen rather than sitting out here chatting with the guests. The waiters, still busy bringing coffee and drinks to patrons, were bumping into one another because one of their routes was blocked.

“As much as I love talking shop,” I said, wiping my mouth with my napkin and placing it on the table, “we really must be going. Do you think we can ask Don for our check?”

“Tonight is on the house,” Reggie boomed. “This is my pleasure.”

“Well, thank you,” I said flabbergasted. “You really don’t have to—”

“It is my great delight to have you both as my guests.”

Cyan and I stood, shook hands with Reggie, and thanked him again. As soon as he departed, she and I left a tip, then walked to the front of the restaurant. We were surprised to find Reggie waiting. He asked if we were returning to the White House now or going home. “Home,” I said.

“You probably keep much earlier hours than I do,” he said, continuing the conversation a lot longer than I’d expected.

“Yes, I imagine that’s true. You’re generally here late, aren’t you?”

“Very.”

Cyan had donned her coat and now leaned forward to grab my arm. “Hey, I really need to get going. See you bright and early tomorrow, Ollie. Nice meeting you, Reggie.” And before I could answer, she was gone.

“She must be an able assistant.”

“Yes,” I said, “and a good friend.”

Reggie didn’t seem to be ready to head back to the kitchen, so I pulled my own jacket on, and thanked him yet again for a wonderful dinner.

He cleared his throat. “I would be happy to cook for you again some time.”

“Oh, I don’t really eat out all that often,” I said. “I just wanted to see what you were doing here. I’ve heard such rave reviews.” I was quick to add, “And they’re all very well deserved.”

“Perhaps you and I could check out another local chef one of these days. I hear that Jacob Flannery at the Morgenthal Hotel is supposed to be magnificent.”

“I’ve heard that, too.”

“When is your next day off?”

Taken aback, I couldn’t think fast enough to do anything but answer honestly. “Ah ... Monday.”

“I hope you don’t consider me presumptuous, but I would very much like to take you to dinner there.”

Speechless, and intent on declining, I was so concerned about hurting his feelings that I began by thanking him for his lovely offer.

“Wonderful,” he said, taking my meaning entirely wrong. “May I pick you up at your home?”

“No,” I answered quickly. Bad enough I’d just agreed to a date when I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t about to share personal information—like where I lived. How did I get myself into these things? Being polite was a curse sometimes. Right now he looked so excited that I couldn’t bear the thought of declining. Not after I’d already—accidentally—accepted. “I’ll meet you,” I said.

He seemed even more excited than he had when he first arrived at our table. “This is wonderful. I’m going out with the finest female chef in the nation. This is certainly my lucky day.”

When I left the restaurant, I was surprised to find Cyan shivering outside, waiting for me. “Took you long enough. So, when are you two going out?”

CHAPTER 12

SUNDAY MORNING, I TURNED ON THE TELEVISION to catch the early news before I headed in to work. There’s something quietly weird about watching third-rate political pundits discuss global events at 4:00 in the morning. I kept the volume low and went about preparing for my day, listening as the three men and one woman, seated in soft chairs around a studio coffee table, dispensed advice for our new president.

“Think about the ramifications,” one of the men said. “Negotiating with terrorists this early in President Hyden’s term would have established a dangerous trend.”

A second man said, “We dodged a bullet this time. We got lucky. But what would we be saying right now if one of the hostages had died?”

“But no one did,” the lone woman said, “thanks to Congresswoman Sechrest’s efforts. If she hadn’t—”

“We’re looking at a conspiracy here.” This third man, a young, bearded fellow wearing a striped shirt and an eager expression, leaned forward. “We never found out why there were so many White House staff members at the hospital that day, did we?” he asked. “Don’t you all find that curious?”

The first man waved him back. “One of the White House laundry machines leaked. Fumes from the concentrated cleanser affected several individuals in the area.”

“And you believe that?” the young man asked. “You buy into their misinformation that easily?”

The woman interrupted his tirade. “I think the bigger question is what we have to fear going forward. Those radical Armustans aren’t going away just because their people failed in their attack. They are still insisting on the immediate release of Farbod from that Wisconsin prison. We need to consider that. We need to determine where this army will strike next and we need to be prepared going forward.”

Her face flushed as her voice rose. “One of the men was released on a technicality. A technicality! But is anyone watching him?” She signaled offstage and a black-and-white photo of a man appeared on-screen. Thirtysomething and ordinary looking, the man was white with dark hair and average features. I probably wouldn’t recognize him if I bumped into him on the street. From behind his photo, the woman’s voice warned: “This is Devon Clarr. Everyone in the viewing public needs to memorize his face. Clarr was released—on a technicality—and is walking free. I’m convinced—as Congresswoman Sechrest is convinced—that we have not seen the last of this man. We need to be on alert. Keep your eyes open for suspicious activity. And if you see him—”

The young man interrupted, “Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

I shut the TV off, but the woman’s argument lingered. The idea of this radical faction striking again scared me. Whatever they were planning, all indications suggested it was coming soon. Strike before President Hyden gained traction in the new job. Strike close to home. I believed it was coming, and I had to figure that the men and women in charge of protecting our country from attacks believed so as well. I sighed, knowing there was little I could do.

Taking a look outside my patio doors, I stared at the dark morning sky and wondered if Mrs. Hyden had already decided to let me go, or if she was giving me a chance to prove myself. Mornings always felt full of promise. Hope swelled in my heart. Maybe I
had
been overreacting. Maybe she really just wanted to bring this Virgil Ballantine on board because he’d been a valued member of her staff in the past. Maybe he wouldn’t start work at the White House for another three months. By then I would have had the chance to impress the Hydens. And I knew I could do that.

With a cheerier outlook than I’d had last night, I headed to the White House.

 

For the first time since the inauguration, the kitchen was humming without distraction. My good mood from early this morning spilled over and everything was going exactly as planned. Nourie had delivered very good news: All White House staff members who had been taken hostage at the hospital were now healthy enough to be sent home.