Home of the Braised by Julie Hyzy Page A

he asked.
    I didn’t wait for him to invite me to sit. I simply took the chair across from him. “Maybe. At this point, however . . .”
    He waved his reading glasses in the air, wearily brushing away my words. “I know. You can’t tell me. I trust that when you’re able to, you will bring me up to speed?”
    He phrased it as a question, but his gaze was sharp, his mouth downturned like a marionette’s.
    I gave a quick nod. “That’s about the size of it.” Focusing on my reason for seeking him out, I switched subjects. “You wanted to talk about the kitchen’s reporting structure?”
    Folding his arms across the desk, he leaned forward. “I won’t beat around the bush. We need to discuss whether Bucky or Virgil is to be considered the acting executive chef in your absence.”
    “Fine. Let’s get this done once and for all.”
    “Not so fast,” he said with an indignant sniff. “You may prefer to leap into decisions, but I take a more measured approach. One step at a time, please.”
    Bristling at his chastisement, I swallowed my impatience and said, “Go on.”
    He resettled himself. “For the record, there’s no doubt in my mind where your preferences lie on this issue.”
    “What about your preferences?” I asked.
    One side of his face crinkled up. He pursed his lips. “Let’s clear the air, shall we?”
    I leaned forward, mimicking his posture, perching my elbows on my end of his desk. “I didn’t realize anything needed to be cleared between us, Peter,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, you and I have never held back. By all means, continue.”
    He brought his head lower, speaking barely above a whisper. “If you don’t already know, I’m certain you at least suspect that I, too, cannot abide Virgil. If it were up to me, he would have been dismissed when Doug left. Perhaps sooner.”
    I didn’t react, even though I longed to release a giant breath of relief. Sargeant and I were on the same page for once.
    “The problem,” he went on, “is that Virgil has an incredibly high public profile. One that rivals even yours. The difference is that his reputation is built on cooking talent, whereas you are better known for . . .”
    He let the thought hang, but I sat up straighter, my back stiffening in reaction to the obvious conclusion. From the very start, since slightly before I’d taken over as executive chef, my face had regularly appeared in news reports. Unfortunately for me, and for the residents of the White House, the focus of these articles tended to deal more with murders than marsala.
    Sargeant went on, either oblivious to my sharp attention, or simply choosing not to acknowledge it. “This morning’s press conference aside, I believe your goal as executive chef is to continue to produce high-quality events and to maintain the relationship you have with the boy.”
    “Josh,” I said.
    “My role,” he continued with a quick nod, “is to oversee the running of this household in such a way as to make the First Family’s life here as effortless and trouble-free as possible.”
    “Again, we are in agreement.”
    “I am aware that Virgil handles the family’s meals, allowing you to focus on the state events.” He held up both index fingers, parallel—like vertical railroad tracks, preventing me from interrupting. “I do, however, have a very clear view of how disruptive Virgil can be to the day-to-day running of the kitchen. I intend to discuss his future with Mrs. Hyden. If she’s agreeable to recommending he seek other employment, then we will proceed accordingly. I must get an answer from you first, however: Are you willing to take on the family meals again, if Virgil’s dismissal is the ultimate outcome?”
    I hadn’t expected Sargeant to offer such a tied-up-with-a-bow solution. “Absolutely,” I said, not even trying to hide the excitement in my voice. “My team has always enjoyed preparing the family’s meals. We miss it.”
    Sargeant gave a quick