All the President’s Menus Read Free Page B

man hailed from and where they’d studied. There was almost zero in terms of personal information.
    “Not much to go on,” Bucky had said.
    I pointed at each photo in turn. “Kilian, Tibor, Hector, and Nate,” I said. “I need to memorize their faces so I don’t mix them up. You know how hard it is to keep people straight when you meet them all at once.”
    “Not a very pleasant-looking bunch,” he said.
    I laughed. “My passport photo isn’t much better.”
    “All men, too.”
    “According to the notes, Kilian and Tibor are the top two chefs in their country,” I said, “but neither was invited to the Club des Chefs des Chefs this year. Or the year before.”
    “Sounds to me like Saardisca is upset that they haven’t been invited to the grown-ups’ table,” Bucky said.
    “They feel snubbed; not that I blame them. This venture may be their ticket in, assuming things go well.”
    Bucky stepped back and folded his arms across his chest. “No pressure on us. No way,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Seems like a lot to ask of a kitchen that’s operating short-staffed.”
    I pulled in a breath. I knew Bucky was right, that there was enormous pressure on us to make this work. And yet, I was thrilled. We had a project. An important one. I couldn’t wait to meet these men.
    “We’re serving as kitchen ambassadors,” I said. “Our job isn’t to craft policy. Our job is to make the chefs feel welcome. And to keep everything on an even keel while they’re here. We can do that.”
    “If you say so, chief.”
    “Diplomacy has to start somewhere.”
    The men arrived in the kitchen a short while later, accompanied by two Secret Service agents. After we made introductions and quietly assessed one another, I showed them around the main kitchen. They took everything in slowly, occasionally asking a question, and making unintelligible noises that could have been appreciation or disdain.
    While the Saardiscans were in the White House, they’d be allowed unrestricted access to the main kitchen, pastry kitchen, two pantries, the refrigeration area, and some storage. They would also be allowed in the Center Hall and ground floor as needed, but if they were to travel elsewhere in the building, they would require an escort.
    Marcel had taken our visitors for a quick lunch before providing a tour of the pastry kitchen. Bucky and I planned to join them in a few minutes, as soon as we finished plating lunch for the First Lady and her staff. The president’s meal had been sent to the West Wing twenty minutes earlier.
    One of the Saardiscans returned to the kitchen. He came around the corner with his hands balled, elbows up, as though looking for a fistfight. Moving quickly, he strode in, not making eye contact with either Bucky or me.
    It took me a moment to remember which one he was. “Tibor,” I called to the man. Muscular and strong-shouldered, he was systematically opening and shutting every stainless steel cabinet in the room. The brisk clanking spoke to his vexation. “What are you looking for?”
    He spun, scowling. Tall and solid, he was at least fifteen years my senior. His face was lined and red, like a fresh cut of flank steak. He had thick, black hair, which he wore brushed back and that quivered with gel.
    “Nate told me to bring him a new apron.” Tibor flung his hands in the air. “How do I find anything in this place? Every cabinet looks the same.”
    Bucky glanced at me. His lips twisted and he looked away. Neither he nor I could mistake Tibor’s contemptuous tone, but Bucky knew better than to snap back, thereby risking an international incident. He held his tongue and waited for me to respond.
    “We keep our extra linens in that cabinet.” I pointed. Tibor would have found them eventually but I saved him about six cabinets’ worth of banging. “Did something happen to the one he was wearing?”
    Tibor huffed, as though I’d asked a foolish question.
    Bucky made a similar noise that was