Clinton Lovell and Tatiana in The White House Hotel

Tatiana at the Gates of the Buckingham Palace

The White House
Executive Chef
Part Three

by Tatiana Pahlen

        The new room was big enough to keep an enormous lid of my luggage wide open. Immediately, I extracted a nightgown out of this coffin and jumped onto the queen size bed. The pillows turned out to be tougher than basketballs crammed with air: resistant and springy, ready for shooting hoops. 'No wonder why Englishmen have stiff necks! Next time I'll check in with my own pillows.' I uttered. This idea brought me comfort. Looking around, I spotted a luxurious piece of furniture, a rocking chair. Time showed 5 PM. 'Shall I rock a bit now?' a dashing thought had spun in my head. The phone rang.
      "How is your new room?" I recognized the voice of the concierge.
      "Fabulous!"
      "Shall I bring cigars?"
      "Now?"
      "Right on!"
      "No!"
      "I just finished my shift. He sounded amiable. "Have you seen the Madam Tousseau's Museum?"
      "No!"
      They just placed a new wax head of Bill Clinton."
      "Really?"
      "Would you like me to take you there?"
      "No thanks. I just want to sleep. Alone!" I added, getting nervous.
      "Come on! Get dressed and come down."
      "How do you know I'm undressed?"
      "Don't be silly," he chuckled," look at the left side of your Telly."
      "Yes."
      "See a little hole?"
      "Yes."
      "There is a camera. I see your ridiculous nightie that you have donned backwards."
      My cheeks caught fire. I had possessed my nightgown since my prom night when I had jumped into the pool to cool down my body heat after a couple of drinks. It had shrunk into a body wear, and besides that, I loved its velvety touch.
      "Why are you watching me?"
      "We have cameras everywhere. This is a White House after all. Security certainly is a main issue."
      "To watch naked people?"
      "Would you like to join?"
      "God! No!"
      "We have a video room." He continued ignoring my rebuff. "On your floor. We call it, "Oval."
      "Oval Room? On my floor?" I cried. "Can you move me somewhere else on the other floor above or below?"
      "Here we go again! Can't do it!"
      "Then goodbye."
      I hung up the phone and covered the camera eye with the first object I had picked from the chair, my bra. 'Very well,' I said, 'Let's give them something to stare at!' Good thing it was not a see-through. I imagined all sorts of tortures I could only think of to get even with my travel agent. I stopped short with the guillotine. The furor blew off my sleep. I felt hungry. Not particularly being a fan of the English cuisine, I was ready to wolf down, effortlessly, generic food. I put on a pair of slacks and a sweater and went down.
      On the way I passed the Oval Room. The door was open which gave me a shameless chance to peek at what was transpiring inside. The place was swarmed with young and old men and women sitting on top of each other and gazing at the screens. I noticed that all the rooms were televised. 'I shall return,' I pleaded with the new stream of people who had tried to suck me in. 'I will!' I displayed courage of a General MacArthur.
      Exploring the main floor, I walked into a restaurant with a familiar scheming sign "The White House." My expectations were not high when I took a seat. To my surprise the menu was offering the most desirable dishes, to which I had given no credit, taking it more like a joke. A pathetic attempt to lure tourists! Who would believe in a dump like my lodge, you could order things like oysters or soft-shell crabs in mignonettes sauce, lobster bisque or rack of lamb? I ordered it anyway. Beating the odds, my dinner turned out to be as tasty as if I would have dined at La Cote Basque or Le Cirque!
      Still not believing it and blaming my monstrous appetite, I asked the waiter if the English food was always that good? He assured me that the cuisine was French. I learned that the Chef Executive was well-known chef in London; his second restaurant was based at the Regency Hotel.
      "Can I meet him?"
      "What for?"
      "I must see this master of this fine cuisine."
      "He is busy. Come tomorrow at lunchtime."
      "What's his name anyway?"
      "Clinton!"
      "What?"
      "Clinton!"
      "Are you pulling my leg? In the White House the Executive Chef is Clinton?"
      "Yes, ma'am! Clinton Lovell."
      "Mama mia! Does Monica know about him?"
      "Ms. Lewinsky? She is with him right now. He is teaching her to cook."
      Evidently, I wasn't angry with my travel agent after all. In fact, I had praised her. 'Here goes my night again,' I stated. 'What the heck!'
      I fished out a handy notebook and began to pen my tale.