Buffalo West Wing (23 page)

“Great,” I said, happy to step away. “More power to you.”

“Oh and by the way,” Virgil said as he chopped carrots almost as fast as one of our assistant chefs, Agda, had, “I have plans to meet Reggie this weekend.” He gave me a pointed look. “I’m sure we’ll have a lot to talk about.”

“Stop.”

He looked up.

I pointed to the carrots. “Stop,” I said.
“Now.”

He stopped chopping.

I held a finger up and spoke in a low voice. But not so quietly that the rest of the kitchen would be unable to hear. I could tell they were listening. The very air vibrated with anticipation.

“Breathe one word about the White House,” I said, advancing on him, “just one word—about the First Family, the staff, the kitchen, or even me—and I’ll make sure your head will roll.” I felt the blood rush to my face. “I promise.”

CHAPTER 19

IN THE LATE MORNING ON TASTE-TESTING DAY, Mrs. Hyden called down to the kitchen and requested a meeting. With me.

We hadn’t seen Virgil all day. The butlers told us that he’d been in ridiculously early to prepare breakfast and that the First Lady’s light lunch was being “handled.” Whatever that meant. I hated being out of the loop. Today’s tasting would take the place of dinner, and Virgil had left us a cryptic note mentioning he would be tied up and would not be back in the kitchen until Saturday at the earliest.

Mrs. Hyden requested my presence upstairs in the residence. I didn’t get up there very often, even though we maintained a garden greenhouse on the third floor. Being January, we didn’t have a lot to harvest up there. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in the East Sitting Hall, where the First Lady waited for me.

I stood in the large archway, waiting to be summoned in to the soft yellow room. Sunlight streamed in through the massive fanlight window behind the sofa where Mrs. Hyden and Valerie sat, consulting with several women, none of whom I recognized. The room was bright and welcoming, with a crystal chandelier, white woodwork, pale carpeting, and potted ferns. From what I could gather, the women were discussing furnishings—what was available to be moved in from the warehouse in Maryland, and what should be moved out. When Valerie saw me standing there, she held up a finger indicating I should wait, and whispered to her boss.

Mrs. Hyden looked up, smiled, and asked the women surrounding her if they could give her just a few minutes. Gathering up their notes and supplies, they quickly departed, leaving Mrs. Hyden and Valerie on the sofa together.

“Have a seat, Ollie,” Valerie said, indicating a yellow-gold wing chair with a leaf motif.

I sat, realizing as I did so that my knees had gone wobbly. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Hyden turned to her assistant and held out her hand. “Do you have the list?” she asked.

Valerie pulled it out and handed it over. “Right here.”

Mrs. Hyden studied the paper for a short moment, but it was clear she was already familiar with its contents. “I’ve been presented with a bill,” she began.

I knew what was coming.

“Have you seen this?” she asked, holding the sheet out in front of me.

“Not the bill,” I said. “But I have seen the list of items that were submitted to create the bill.”

Mrs. Hyden studied me as I spoke. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or just curious. I waited.

“How do you explain these exorbitant prices?” She smiled, but as before, the expression was meant to disarm. “I don’t think my family has ever incurred grocery bills of this magnitude in a year, let alone a week.”

“I understand.” I took a breath. “And I can explain.”

She crossed her hands over her knees, still holding the food bill. “Please.”

“Every executive chef—for as long as I’ve been aware— has had this conversation with the new First Lady. I sent you a note with the list I prepared, but I think it’s best we discuss this in person as well.”

One of her perfect eyebrows arched.

I held my hand out. “If I may?”

She gave me the bill. “This is pretty high,” I admitted. “But there are several elements at work here. The first week of a new administration is always expensive. We’re stocking all the shelf-stable items you requested, and we’re preparing as many favorites as possible to help you and your family feel more at home.”

I was losing her. I could tell by the look in her eyes. She pointed. “But that bill is ridiculous.”

I nodded. “It’s unfortunate that we have to be so careful about the food we bring into the White House. We have to take extreme precaution with every single item. There can be no slip ups. That means we often buy at a premium. The Secret Service does most of our acquisition. I try to keep to a budget—a budget you and I can work on together, going forward—but the reality is that everything that comes into the White House is the best of the best.”

She blinked in the way that people do when they don’t quite agree, but are too polite to call you out directly. “I understand that,” she said, “but that doesn’t explain these extravagances. We provided lists of our preferences, favorites, likes and dislikes. I don’t recall specifying a regular diet of caviar or truffles.” Pointing a long, manicured finger toward the sheet in my hand, she asked, “And is that expensive bottle of wine allocated for cooking?”

Blood pounded in my ears as I did the only thing I could—and said the only thing I could say—given the circumstances. “Virgil Ballantine has free reign over the family meals. These are his purchases.”

She took that news with quiet calm, but I could see that she hadn’t anticipated my answer. “But isn’t he required to clear his purchases through you?”

“No, ma’am. I was told—specifically—that I had no say whatsoever with regard to his preparation of family meals.”

She gave me that skeptical smile again. “But that’s not entirely true, is it? You and your assistant prepared that unusual breakfast even though Virgil was here that day.”

“He wasn’t available because of the long overnight hours with Congresswoman Sechrest and the president,” I said, “but the menu was all Virgil’s.” I couldn’t believe how good it felt to finally tell her that. I wanted to be entirely clear, so I added, “He came up with the menu. We simply followed the directions he left.”

“Hmm,” she said, with a glance to Valerie. Back to me, she asked, “What did you think of that breakfast menu?”

I couldn’t tell her what I really believed. To do so would be unprofessional and reflect badly on me. I searched for the best word I could come up with that would neither be a false compliment nor the full truth. “Ambitious.”

She held her hand out and I returned the bill to her. “What about this state dinner next week? How much will that cost?”

“Today’s tasting, the state dinner, and all expenses associated with it are not part of your personal costs,” I said. “Whenever we have an event like that, we code our purchases differently. You can be certain your family will not be charged for any of it.”

“This is all very new to me,” she said, and in her tone I caught what might have been an apology.

“I understand. As I said, every First Lady has this conversation with the executive chef at some point. It’s part of the start-up curve.”

For the first time since she had met me, she smiled warmly. “I suppose we’re all learning together, aren’t we?”

 

Bucky hurried over the moment I returned to the kitchen. “Did she tell you where Virgil is?” he asked.

Cyan came up behind him and I noticed that Gardez and Nourie were paying close attention to our conversation.

“No,” I said slowly. “His whereabouts didn’t come up. We talked about food expenses.”

“Well, guess where our new chef buddy is right now.”

“No idea.” Clearly, I was the only person in the room not in the know.

“Playing golf.” Bucky crossed his arms. “With the president.”

The first thing that popped into my mind also popped out of my mouth. “But it’s January.”

“The president was invited to golf with some bigwig in Florida.”

“And he took Virgil with him?” The room went utterly silent. Bucky nodded solemnly.

My reaction would normally have been, “Are you kidding me?” But they were most definitely not. Digesting the news, I nodded. Finally, I asked, “Why?”

Bucky gave me a look of utter disgust. “Supposedly he’s a real good golfer.”

“I mean, why—”

“I know,” Bucky interrupted. “I don’t understand it either.”

Everyone in the room seemed to be waiting for my reaction. “Okay,” I said. “It is what it is. If they want a family friend on staff—someone who conjures up weird meals but looks good in plaid shorts—so be it.” I looked at all of them, noting their guarded expressions. “We are here at the pleasure of the First Family and we will serve them as we have served all the administrations that have come before. We can’t allow ourselves to be distracted.”

I waited, but no one moved. “That’s it,” I said. “We have food to prepare and time is getting tight.”

 

Before we knew it, the time for the tasting had arrived. Bucky and I took the narrow circular staircase up from the kitchen level to the butler’s pantry on the first floor. Cyan remained downstairs to send our samples up in the dumb-waiter as needed. At the top step, I let go of the handrail and wiped my palms down the sides of my apron.

Behind me, Bucky asked, “Nervous?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“Marcel is making what again?” he asked.

We’d passed him on our way up, but we were all so intent on our jobs this evening that we hadn’t even exchanged a word. “Mixed berry cobbler is his pièce de résistance,” I said, “It features one of his masterful crusts. If they don’t care for that—and I can’t imagine how they won’t—I believe he has a homemade ice cream he plans to offer. But he’s hoping the berry dessert knocks their socks off.”

“Just as you’re hoping this menu will wow them.”

“Yeah.” I swallowed around what felt like a wide cactus in my throat.

Bucky set up on the far end of the west counter. “I’ll work here. That will allow you better access to the dumb-waiter and give you total control over timing.”

“Thanks, Buck.”

He was silent for a moment. “I’m glad Virgil isn’t here today.”

I chuckled. “Me, too. Maybe we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, huh? Even if he is playing golf with the president.”

The butlers had carefully arranged seating in the family dining room. Mrs. Hyden, flanked by her two kids, sat at the middle of the east side of the table. Valerie and another assistant sat near Abigail, and two other assistants sat near Josh, who fidgeted.

The entire west side of the table was chairless, giving the butlers total freedom to easily serve each small plate and allow me a perfect view of reactions to the offerings.

We started with the agnolottis. After careful tweaking, we believed we’d gotten the proportions exactly right. If Mrs. Hyden’s reaction was any indication, we’d been successful. Even the kids liked the crab dish. We served every option we’d prepared one at a time, and finally—like I had a good luck charm over my head—everything went just right.

I took notes as Mrs. Hyden and the group taste-tested. The butlers kept water glasses filled and the kids seemed to enjoy the process as well. Abigail didn’t care for the Nantucket sea scallops, but everyone else loved them so they remained on the menu. I held my breath when it came time to tally results. I was surprised and pleased to discover that the adults unanimously approved everything I had planned.

“I like the spinach,” Josh said. “Can I have another taste?”

The butlers hurried to accommodate him as Marcel brought out dessert. His French accent always got thicker when he was nervous, so I could tell this event was taking as much a toll on him as it was on me. “Wouldn’t you prefer to save some room for ...” he lifted the silver lid of a covered dish to display his mixed berry cobbler.

Josh pulled his spinach closer.

Mrs. Hyden put her arm around her son. “He’s never had much of a sweet tooth.”

Once all the samples were tasted and the menu finalized, I thanked Mrs. Hyden for her time, and then thanked all the guests. “Olivia,” Mrs. Hyden said, stopping me from leaving. “A moment?” She turned from side to side. “Kids, you can head upstairs now if you like.”

“That was really good,” Josh said, squirming out of his chair. “Thanks.”

Abigail smiled shyly. “Thank you,” she said and hurried off with her brother.

I waited. The five ladies around the table grew quiet. They obviously knew what was coming next. I did not. I stood on the west side of the table, feeling like an accused party facing a jury. To break the silence, I asked, “What can I do for you?”

Mrs. Hyden smiled, but didn’t ask me to sit down. “Virgil Ballantine approached me about starting a garden,” she said. “It’s a wonderful idea he came up with—an official White House garden. The media is all over us to be more green and organic. I support those endeavors, of course. Having a garden on the White House grounds will send a meaningful message to the rest of the country. And it could help with our food bills.” At this she laughed, as though all was forgiven. “I wanted to talk with you first because I know that Virgil ultimately reports to you and you have final say on such matters.”