Buffalo West Wing (16 page)

He grinned. “I didn’t really. As I was walking here, I saw them in the window of the drugstore down the street and thought they would set just the right tone.”

I didn’t know precisely what tone he was hoping to set, but decided it was better not to ask.

“I saw you pull up,” Reggie continued. “You have a car? Where do you live?”

“Not too far.” I gestured vaguely. “What about you?”

“I have an apartment nearby,” he said. “I walk to work.”

“That’s pretty impressive.” And it was. Here in the heart of D.C., apartments weren’t cheap. I was well-paid, but a chef of Reggie’s caliber could make considerably more, especially if he taught classes or ran seminars for would-be chefs and foodie aficionados.

“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing across the expansive lobby. “Our table awaits.”

My heels clicked on the high-gloss marble floor as we made our way to the elevators. The hotel’s namesake restaurant was on the top floor and we shared the short ride up with another couple who stood so close together and smiled so often at each other that it was clearly not their first date.

We disembarked together, but let the other couple approach the maître d’ first. Eschewing small talk, I used the brief wait to check out the surroundings. The entire outside wall of the restaurant was made up of floor-to-ceiling windows with gorgeous views of the Capitol, Washington Monument, and the National Mall.

The maître d’ consulted his notes, smiled at Reggie, and escorted us to a table in the center of the dining room. “I requested a window view,” Reggie said.

The maître d’ glanced around. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “There was no mention of that on your reservation. I just seated the couple before you at the last available window table.”

“But I made a request specifically,” Reggie said. “Did you catch my name?”

“Your name? I ... it ...”

“Stewart,” Reggie said. “My name is Reggie Stewart.”

Confusion twisted the maître d’s features. “I’m sorry, sir ...”

Clearly miffed, Reggie took a deep breath. “If my name doesn’t mean anything to you, then maybe my date’s does.”

Instinctively I grabbed Reggie’s forearm to prevent him from making a scene. He misinterpreted my gesture and placed his hand over mine, clasping so that I couldn’t pull away without making a scene of my own. “This is Olivia Paras, the executive chef at the White House,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “I can’t believe you can’t find a window seat for her.”

Was it my imagination or did half the diners suddenly reach for their cell phones? I imagined a sudden rush to take my picture and tweet the headline:
White House diva executive chef demands special privileges at posh D.C. restaurant
.

“Please, Reggie,” I said, trying to discreetly tug my hand back. “This is fine. I don’t care to sit by the windows anyway. The food will taste just as good here.” I smiled at the suddenly panicked maître d’. “This is great. Thank you. We’ll be fine.”

Reggie, still holding tight said, “But I made a special request. This is a special night.”

The maître d’s eyes lit up. “Oh, a
special
night?” As though suddenly divested of an enormous weight, he said, “We do have a preferred table upstairs that we hold for very special patrons.”

If either of them said the word
special
one more time, I was liable to grab a nearby dish and crack them over the head. Reggie first. “Really,” I said, finally tugging my hand free and stepping away from the two of them. “This is fine. I like this table.”

But Reggie had already begun to follow the maître d’ toward a small, unobtrusive staircase I hadn’t noticed earlier.

I hesitated before following. Had fifty people not begun to take notice of our antics in the center of this posh dining room, I might have used the opportunity to tell Reggie exactly where he could put his “special” table. To do so now, however, would be to bring more attention to an already uncomfortable situation. I reluctantly followed, reaching into my coat pocket to finger my valet claim check, and counting the minutes until I was back behind the wheel of my car.

If I had harbored any hope of checking out chef Jacob Flannery’s cuisine without being noticed, those expectations were most certainly dashed. Working hard to make nice, now that he knew we were “important” guests, the maître d’ nearly fell over himself in an effort to ensure we felt welcome. With great flourish, he sat us at a lone table in a tiny carved-out plateau just above the restaurant’s main level.

I wriggled in my chair, more anxious than ever to get out of there. Leaving at this point was not an option unless I wanted to endure a media storm about my erratic behavior. For the most part I was able to shop, dine, and pretty much act like a normal person in public places without notice. Even with everything I’d been involved in at the White House, my face was not that well known—which was just the way I liked it. But the moment Reggie had proclaimed my status to everyone within hearing distance, all bets were off and my best manners were on.

I stared out the window next to me and sighed, wishing I was home in my flannel pajamas reading a book or watching TV. Anywhere but here.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Reggie asked, misinterpreting me yet again.

The moment we were left to ourselves at this lonely table, I tried to take control. “Reggie,” I said, “I would really have preferred we sit at the first place he put us.”

He grinned, completely ignoring me. “I wanted nothing but the best for you tonight.”

I tried again, a little less gently this time. “The best would have been to
not
make a scene.” Leaning forward and gesturing with my hands, I lowered my voice even though there was no one within range to hear me. “I don’t like people knowing I work at the White House. There’s too much that can go wrong.”

He grasped my right hand. “I’ll protect you.”

I yanked my hand away. “That’s not what I mean. I have to protect my image.”

He sat back, decidedly amused. “I get you now.” Nodding sagely, he continued. “I can be a diva because I’m a famous chef. You can’t be a diva because it’s the White House that’s famous. Not you.”

Not exactly how I’d put it, but whatever worked. “Something like that,” I said.

“I gotcha.” He leaned his head forward, looked both ways, spy-like, and whispered, “I’ll be more careful.”

“Thanks,” I said, not meaning it at all. Fortunately for me, the waiter appeared just then to take our drink orders. I told him I would be fine with water, which disappointed Reggie to no end.

“Wouldn’t you like to do a pairing?” he asked with wide, hopeful eyes. “I’ve heard marvelous things about this restaurant’s sommelier.”

The sooner dinner was done, the happier I’d be. “I’m driving, sorry.”

Reggie ordered a bottle of red. I didn’t know exactly what vintage he’d chosen because he simply pointed at the wine list and smiled when the waiter said, “Very good, sir.”

After the customary uncorking, smelling, and tasting, Reggie pronounced his choice perfect and the waiter filled his glass. He poised the bottle over my empty one and I demurred once again. “No, thank you.”

“You mean you’re going to make me finish this great bottle all by myself?”

I smiled with my hand still over my glass. “I will never make you do anything.”

We finally placed our dinner orders and conversation resumed a more normal path. I listened as Reggie recited story after story—every one sharing the same theme: Poor Reggie had been wronged again and again. He never got credit for being the fantastically amazing guy he was.

He started to repeat himself. “Did I tell you about the guest who returned his meal to the kitchen five times before accepting it?”

“Yes, you did,” I said. Because I couldn’t take another minute of his constant self-praise, I asked, “So what was wrong with the food, anyway?”

“Nothing was wrong with the food.” Reggie gave his wineglass an indignant swirl. “In fact, the fifth time he sent the plate back, all I did was stick it in the microwave and zap it until it was ridiculously hot and hard as a brick. I topped it with a couple of carrot shreds and an extra sprig of parsley and, voila! The customer suddenly found it perfect.”

“Lucky for you.”

“No luck,” he said. “Talent. I know people. This guy was just going for the power play. Trying to prove to his tablemates that he knew food better than I did.” Reggie drained his glass and then refilled it. “I showed him.”

The waiter reappeared with our food and I picked up my knife and fork just as soon as my plate touched the table, intending to dig right in and hoping to encourage Reggie to do the same. He watched me for a moment. “Don’t you want to examine the dish before we taste it?” Frowning, he lifted one edge of his plate and tilted it from side to side. “What do you think of his color palette?”

“Gorgeous,” I said. “Stunning.” I sliced off a sizeable serving of scallop and popped it into my mouth, immediately making a “Yum” face so that he would understand why I couldn’t wait to gobble the food all up.

“Don’t you think your plate is far too yellow?” He pointed. “Look at the china pattern. Don’t you think the chef should consider color presentation when he’s creating his meals?”

I swallowed and gestured toward Reggie’s plate with my fork. “Yours looks fabulous, too. Better enjoy it while it’s hot.”

Again he tilted his plate from side to side. As the juices from his medium-rare Morgenthal Signature steak rolled back and forth, I sensed he was making a decision. “This hasn’t been properly charred,” he finally said. Glancing around, he tried summoning our waiter. Of course, being the only table on our level made that a little tricky.

“You’re sending it back?” I asked between mouthfuls.

“Of course,” he said clearly distressed. “Can’t you see that this is all wrong? I can’t accept this. Not in good conscience.”

Please, please, please just eat,
I silently begged. The sooner he finished, the sooner this painful evening would be over.

He stood, grabbing the linen napkin from his lap and waving it in the air in an attempt to catch our waiter’s attention. I kept my eyes averted, pretending to be somewhere else. Reggie sat solidly and proclaimed, “He’s on his way now. About time, too.”

Much to my disappointment, Reggie did return his meal for proper charring. As the plate was whisked away, amid much apologizing, I placed my utensils back on the table.

“Go ahead and eat before it gets cold,” Reggie said with the first real look of concern he’d displayed all evening. “No sense in waiting.”

Torn between politeness and not wanting to waste food, I started in again. Without a meal to occupy his attention, Reggie started talking again. “What can you tell me about that hostage situation at the hospital?” he asked.

With my mouth full of scallop, I couldn’t do much more than shake my head. I raised my napkin to my mouth until I was finished with that bite. “Not much more than what you’ve seen on TV or read about,” I said. “The men who arranged the siege have been incarcerated—all but one of them. If it weren’t for Sandy Sechrest’s intervention, I’m sure things could have gone much differently.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I bet you know more than you’re telling. Come on, you can’t tell me that you don’t hear secrets in the White House.”

I smiled, and forked another bite from my plate. “They wouldn’t be secret anymore if I told you, would they?”

He leaned forward with a strange glint in his eye. “What would you say if I were to tell you that I know a White House secret? A big one.”

My fork hovered between the plate and my mouth. “I’d think you were bluffing.”

He laughed and leaned back. “I like you. You’re so funny.”

I glanced back in the direction the waiter had gone. Where was Reggie’s dinner?

“But I do have inside information,” he said, his tone practically begging me to ask what it was.

Instead, I sliced off another large piece of scallop and popped it in. Couldn’t talk with my mouth full. Whatever he had to tell me about the White House was not worth the effort.

“This information,” he continued, not letting the subject die, “is part of the reason why I wanted to ask you to dinner tonight. I thought you ought to know, and I thought it would be best if you heard it from me.”

He wasn’t going to stop until I expressed interest. “Well then, please,” I said without any enthusiasm whatsoever, “don’t keep me in suspense another minute.”

With a self-satisfied smile, he leaned back, glanced from side to side, and then leaned forward again. At that moment, the waiter returned with a heavily charred, giant steak, which he placed before Reggie. “Our compliments, sir,” the waiter said. “For your inconvenience, we have provided a more generous cut and prepared it according to your preferences.”

Reggie stared down at the sizzling plate with obvious satisfaction. “That’s more like it.”

Looking relieved, our waiter asked if there was anything else we needed and left.

“Ah,” Reggie said, slicing a big chunk of steak. “Perfection.” He winked at me. “See, this is how they understand who’s boss.”

I wanted to ask how his reasoning jibed with his earlier diatribe about the unpleasant patron who had sent food back to the kitchen. Tempted as I was to ask what made
this
situation different, I figured I probably already knew the answer: Reggie—whether in the role of chef or diner—couldn’t ever possibly be wrong.

Shoving food into his cheek, he grinned. Despite the fact that he wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, this was not a pretty sight. “I’m telling you, it’s a good thing you’re sitting down for this tidbit,” he said, clearly pleased with himself. “You ready?”

I placed my utensils on my plate, signaling I was finished eating. “Believe me, I’m ready.”

Reggie had dark eyes, and in the split second before he opened his mouth, I caught a flash of cruelty in them. Whatever he was about to say gave him pleasure, and I could tell he expected I wasn’t going to like it.