All the President’s Menus Read Online Free PDF Page A

toward the small kitchen’s far corner.
    My words were quiet, but urgent. “Marcel,” I said. “Marcel, wake up.”
    As if in reply, our pastry chef’s body jerked. His back arched and he began to convulse. I pulled at his clothing to loosen it further, trying to remember my first-aid training. Marcel coughed, spewing blood.
    Kilian stared at Marcel’s prone form. “What happened? Is he unwell?”
    I bit back the snippy response before it escaped my lips. What kind of question was that? Did he think that Marcel had simply decided to take a nap right now, in the middle of the kitchen floor? Did Kilian not see the man’s obviously broken arm? I directed my attention to Bucky, who had returned from the phone.
    He took up a position next to me on the floor. “They’re on their way.”
    I wasn’t a medical expert, so I had no idea what had happened. Didn’t heart attack victims usually remain conscious? Or was that just the way they were portrayed on TV? Could Marcel have suffered a stroke? He wasn’t that much older than I was. It was unlikely, but possible.
    While monitoring him as best I could given my limited capabilities, I was aware of the visiting chefs murmuring among themselves across the room. They were clearly as confused as I was about what to do next.
    Marcel didn’t require CPR, but his breathing was labored and his face glistened with sweat.
    The moment the doctor and his assistants arrived, I stepped away, giving them as much pertinent information as I could.
    The doctor, a slim, handsome man with prematurely white hair and a calm demeanor, turned to me. “What has he ingested today, do you know?”
    “Marcel tends to taste as he works,” I said, feeling profoundly unhelpful. Our pastry chef’s girth was testament to the appeal of his creations. He was much too careful and too diligent, however, to accidentally nibble an ingredient he shouldn’t. Yet, what if? Despite the fact that everything he produced was edible, the kitchen itself was filled with items not meant for human consumption. “I’ve been downstairs most of the day.” A second later, I remembered, and turned to the visitors. “Did he sample anything?” I gestured the act of putting food in one’s mouth. Even though these men understood English quite well, I couldn’t help the instinctive movement.
    The four men looked at each other, Kilian and Nate shaking their heads, and Tibor shrugging. “We stopped for the noon-hour meal. He ate with us,” Nate said, as though that explained it. Belatedly, I remembered that Marcel had arranged for the Navy Mess to provide lunch for our guests.
    Hector’s eyes went wide. “What are you saying? There was something wrong with our food?”
    “That’s not what I meant,” I began.
    “Wait.” Kilian stepped forward. “He did taste more. We did.” Wiggling a finger between himself, Hector, and Nate, he said, “The raspberry sauce.”
    Nate made a face, then held a hand to his stomach. “Yes, you are right.”
    Hector stared at me. “Your Marcel had us try it when Tibor was downstairs.” His eyes were wild, his tone panicked. “He said there was only sugar and fruit. What was in it?”
    I glanced back at Marcel’s unconscious form, hoping that what he’d coughed up might actually be raspberry sauce rather than blood. “We don’t know what affected Marcel; I’m simply trying to find out what may have gone on here while Bucky and I were downstairs.” Another thought came to me and I turned to one of the doctor’s assistants, a young man tapping information into a tablet. “I don’t know Marcel’s health history. Maybe he’s on medication?”
    The assistant nodded, not breaking his concentration from the tablet’s screen. “Accessing his White House records now.”
    The two Secret Service agents who had accompanied the medical personnel began herding us toward the spiral staircase that would lead us down to the Butler’s Pantry. “Let’s let the professionals handle