Buffalo West Wing (18 page)

He just kept walking.

 

Paul called to us from the doorway almost immediately after I returned to the kitchen, “Good morning, everyone. I’d like to introduce you to our new chef.” He smiled at me. “Ollie, I believe you’ve already met Virgil Ballantine.”

I stepped forward, hand extended. “It’s a pleasure to get a chance to actually speak with you,” I said. “We didn’t even have the chance to say hello during the media event.”

“No, we didn’t,” Virgil said. His handshake was firm, his age probably a shade younger than I had originally pegged him when he’d nodded hello at Fizz. I put him in his late thirties.

He raised dark eyebrows and smiled, exposing deep dimples. “I’m so glad to finally get this chance to experience the real White House kitchen,” he said. “So far I’ve only worked upstairs in the residence. This,” he pointed downward, “is where the magic happens. I’m honored to be here.”

Give him points for making a good first impression. “We are very happy to have you join us,” I said, momentarily confused. I had been under the impression that this Virgil Ballantine would be working almost exclusively upstairs, and only here with us as required. Then I remembered. “Especially with our upcoming state dinner next week.”

Virgil’s head tilted. He turned to Paul. “Did I miss a memo?”

“Some staff members are new here,” Paul began. I knew he was talking about Mrs. Hyden’s social secretary, Valerie. “We’re all still trying to work out the most efficient way to get information out to all key personnel. I’m sure it was just an oversight.”

Recovering from this bit of news, Virgil said, “Well, that just means we get to work that much faster, doesn’t it? Who are we entertaining?”

I told him. “And,” I added, “I understand you have a great deal of experience with these sorts of events.”

Virgil’s eyebrows came together. Someone really ought to tell him they needed trimming. “Who would have told you that?”

Might as well get everything out in the open. “I had a chance to talk with one of your friends recently.” Too bad I hadn’t had a chance to bring Cyan completely up to date on last night’s fiasco. Pointing to her, I said, “Cyan and I had dinner at the Buckwalk a few nights ago.”

“Ah,” Virgil said, understanding now, his expression less than pleased. “Reggie.”

“He was very excited to meet Ollie,” Cyan said. She looked ready to tell him that Reggie and I had gone out on a date, but after reading the warning look on my face, she must have thought better of it. “He seemed very nice.”

“How was the food?” Virgil asked, artfully steering the subject away from discussion of his friend. I recognized the tactic; I used it myself all the time. “That’s why you went there, right?”

“Pretty excellent,” Cyan said.

Paul stepped back, and clapped his hands together. “It seems you are all set here. I won’t keep you from your work.”

Virgil turned to him expectantly. When Paul turned to leave, Virgil stopped him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but don’t you have more to share with the staff?”

Taken aback, Paul sent me a quizzical glance. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Ollie has had a copy of your curriculum vitae since we found out you were joining the team. Knowing her, she’s gone over it closely and I’m sure you’re going to be very happy here.” Paul, as always, was extremely polite and attuned to those around him. I could tell he was sensing the same thing I was: Virgil was still unsatisfied. Obviously unsure of what that was, Paul said, “I know I join the entire staff in welcoming you to the White House.”

We waited through a long, awkward silence.

Virgil nodded. “Thank you. Of course. Thank you very much.” He coughed. “I find myself in an uncomfortable situation here.” Smiling, though his eyes were anything but cheery, Virgil turned to all of us. “I am very pleased to take over here, and I’m very, very delighted to discover that you are all so experienced in all White House protocols. That’s exactly where I’m lacking, but of course most eager to learn.”

A sickening feeling began to crawl up my insides.

He continued, “I feel so strange here.” With a laugh meant to cover his nervousness he opened his hands. “I expected my appointment as head chef to be mentioned during the introduction. I find myself in the uncomfortable—”

It was at that moment I felt my heart drop to the floor. I swore I could hear it go
splat.

“Wait a minute,” Paul interrupted. “This is not my understanding. Ollie is the executive chef here. That hasn’t changed.”

“But ...” Virgil’s eyes widened in alarm, “when I was hired, I was told that I would be in charge of all the family’s meals.”

“Yes,” Paul said. “Their
personal
meals. The running of the main kitchen remains in Ollie’s capable hands.”

Like magic my heart leapt back to its proper place. It might have even swelled a little.

“But,” Virgil said, turning to me. “No disrespect intended, I was promised total control of the kitchen.”

“Of the residence kitchen,” Paul said firmly. “I have a copy of your employment agreement and there is no mention whatsoever of you taking over the executive chef position.”

“But when ...” Virgil stopped himself.

“Perhaps we had better discuss this in my office,” Paul said wearily, leading a flabbergasted Virgil out. At the doorway, Paul turned and gave me a smile that I think was meant to give me confidence. But my insides had turned to Jell-O.

The moment they were out of earshot, Bucky and Cyan were at my side. “What was that all about?” Bucky asked.

The two of them peppered me with questions I had no answers for. “I don’t know,” I said. “It seems there’s more bad news or more trouble every time I turn around.” I couldn’t explain why, at that moment, the old joke, “Well, then ... quit turning around!” came to mind.

“Can Paul really prevent Virgil from taking over your job if the First Lady insists?” Bucky asked, echoing my very thoughts.

“I don’t think so. Whatever the First Lady wants, she’s going to get. I don’t know what to do here.”

“Don’t panic,” Cyan said. “That’s what you always tell me when things go wrong.”

“I’m not,” I said, then amended, “Okay, that’s a lie.”

Cyan’s eyes were purple today, but the concern in them was clear. “Maybe you should take today off. We can handle things here.”

I barked a laugh, which came out so rudely that I quickly apologized. “I know you mean well, but that’s the last thing I should do. With a state dinner scheduled for next week, I can’t possibly leave today.”

Cyan opened her mouth to argue, but I cut her off. “Not to mention that I need to be here when Virgil and Paul return.” I had no doubt they would. Probably soon, too. “A show of strength. No matter what the outcome, I need to face it, head on.”

They murmured agreement, but I could tell their hearts weren’t in it. Cyan gripped my arm. “The job isn’t everything. Remember that. You have to look out for yourself. Decide what’s right for you.”

Even Gardez and Nourie looked away. I was getting pretty tired of having so many dramatic moments play out in front of an audience.

Trying to find a bright side—of which there really was none—I reasoned that if Chef Ballantine did indeed snag the top job, these two Secret Service babysitters might be assigned elsewhere. The problem was, maybe I would be assigned elsewhere, too.

I pulled away. All this sympathy was making me feel trapped. “The right move for me is to throw myself into making this reception a success,” I said, jamming my index finger onto the countertop for emphasis. “That’s it. I am still the executive chef here, even if it’s just for the next five minutes. It’s my responsibility to make sure we create the best state dinner ever.”

CHAPTER 16

AN HOUR PASSED, MINUTE BY AGONIZING minute. I glanced at the clock—again—wondering what was taking Paul so long to get things squared away with Virgil. Had the issue been cut-and-dried, they would have been back in five minutes. This was taking a long time. Much too long for it to be good news.

The Chesapeake crab agnolottis I hoped to serve the First Lady at Friday’s tasting, and ultimately at the state dinner, were giving me fits. I blamed my lack of concentration for the pasta’s overstickiness. Although I’d kneaded the mound of dough for the full fifteen minutes before rolling it out, it just didn’t feel right.

The dough was supposed to be smooth, golden, and elastic. Even stretchy. But it sat there like a pale, rebellious lump, daring me to make it succeed.

“You sure you measured right?” Cyan asked.

“I thought I did.” Sighing, I looked at the pile on the countertop. “Maybe I forgot the last cup of flour,” I said.

“That might be it.”

“Quit looking at me with such pain on your face,” I said.

“I’m sorry.” She gave a surreptitious glance toward the clock. “What’s taking so long?”

“I wish I knew.” Then the light dawned. “He’s probably preparing lunch. That’s got to be it. I mean, we can’t let the president and his wife go hungry while staffing issues are sorted out, can we?”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Cyan said, and went off to prepare the basil oil, which we would drizzle over these agnolottis, if I ever got that far with this mess. Rather than start from scratch, I added flour to my recalcitrant mixture, and within minutes it started to behave.

Having consoled myself with the belief that Virgil was busy upstairs with foodstuffs and that his talk with Paul was undoubtedly settled, I finally started to lose myself in my work. We had prepared the crab filling ahead of time, so once the agnolotti dough was in shape, I set to the laborious, but normally fun, process of assembling them. If these came out the way I expected them to, the First Lady would be thrilled to serve them to our state dinner guests.

So absorbed was I in my task that I actually forgot to keep tabs on the clock, and indeed let my mind wander. I wondered what Mrs. Hyden’s reaction to the tasting would be. I remembered the first one I had conducted on my own, just a few short years ago for Mrs. Campbell. Peter Sargeant had been new on the job, but that hadn’t prevented him from commandeering much of the event. Bucky, who had come up with a fabulous Brussels sprouts recipe, had been crushed when our sensitivity director had removed it from the list with derogatory statements about the little green sprouts.

We had since served Bucky’s delightful dish at other events—to much success and many compliments—and my first order of business after taking over as executive chef was to keep Peter Sargeant from participating in any tastings going forward.

I smiled. There hadn’t been a lot of changes here in the kitchen since Henry, the former executive chef, left, but I was pleased with our progress, and proud of all the wonderful food we’d prepared for the First Family and their guests over the years. With few exceptions, every dinner had been a major success.

“What are you thinking about?” Cyan asked, breaking into my reverie. “Last night’s date?”

“Yeah, right.” I rolled my eyes.

“You didn’t get a chance to tell me about it,” she said. “I can’t believe it was as bad as you’re making it sound.”

I kept my voice down. “I don’t think I can even describe how terrible it was, Cyan. The man is so stuck on himself I’m surprised we didn’t need to pull up extra chairs to accommodate his ego.”

She giggled. “Maybe he was just trying to impress you.”

I dampened my fingers again before running them along the edge of a filled pasta square and placing another square atop it. “Oh, he impressed me, all right.” I pressed the edges together. “And he’s good friends with our executive chef wannabe.”

“I was going to ask you about that.”

“Trouble,” I said. “That’s all we seem to run into lately.”

Cyan’s gaze jerked up, over my head. “Well, here it comes again,” she said.

I turned, expecting a gloating visit from Sargeant. I was surprised, instead, to see Virgil Ballantine, alone. “Can I speak with you for a moment, Ollie?” he asked. His face was a solemn mask. Those bushy eyebrows were pulled together tightly, obscuring his eyes.

“Sure.” I wiped my hands and Cyan said she’d take over for me. I started to gesture toward the refrigerated area, but he shook his head.

“Would you mind if we went out here?” He tilted his head toward the hall. “This will just take a couple minutes.”

My stomach threatened to expel whatever I’d eaten so far today, and my face felt hot and tight. But I said, “Sure,” again, and followed him out.

Just as we stepped into the hall, Valerie Peacock hurried over. She had been speaking with another staffer at the east end, but stopped when she saw me. With a clipboard pressed to the chest of her tweed jacket, she ran on her toes, as though to keep the heels of her black sling-backs from clacking against the floor. “Great,” she said, “I’m so glad to catch you both. I have some updates on the state dinner.”