Potus, 2/14 lunch part III

“Soup is being served,” announced the headwaiter as five white-jacketed waiters walked in carrying serving trays.  Potus was served first, as was appropriate and the First Lady next.

Everyone slurped his or her soup in appreciation.  The sourdough bread the chowder was served in was crispy hard on the outside.  The tops of the bread had been sliced to form a soup bowl cover.  Potus began to rip and tear at the bowl top.

The First Lady leaned over and admonished him, “Potus, dear, don’t tear into your food like that.”

“Yes, dear, sorry for that.”  He scraped at the bread sides futilely with his oversized spoon.  He waved a white jacketed waiter over.  “Waiter, I’d like a knife please.  Not a butter knife like this one; a steak knife with sharp edges.”

“It will be my pleasure Sir,” said the waiter who whispered some urgent orders to another.

“What’s wrong dear,” asked the First Lady.

“It’s just this damn crust is so hard I can’t eat the bread.  That’s the best part.”

SoD spoke up.  “Sir, you can try what I’ve done; eat more of the soup first to expose the soft white underbelly and then you can scrape it thus,” and he showed how.

Potus said, “Yes, I see, I just like to have a little bit of bread to dip into my soup as well, so that I can eat it... Never mind.  Waiter!”

The waiter came over quickly.

“Scratch the knife request; I would like a side of the sourdough bread.  No soup inside, just the bread.”

“Certainly, of course, Sir,” the waiter acquiesced and whispered urgent commands to another waiter waiting by the wall.

“What is the deal with all the words these waiter use,” complained Potus.

AoUN answered in between mouthfuls of chowder.  “At the highest levels of wait staff training, the server is taught to use no less than 4 words per sentence.  So for example, they would be taught not to say, ‘You’re welcome’ but instead would say, ‘You are very welcome.’”

The First Lady spoke up.  “I did not know that,” she said and nodded graciously.

Potus muttered something unintelligible.

“What was that, dear?” she asked.

Potus waved her off and fought with his bread using the spoon.

“Well, I’d like to hear from the Secretary of Treasury and Labour how things are going so far in the White House,” the First Lady asked to the two across the table from her.

The Secretary of Transportation spoke up first since he had just finished slurping a spoonful of chowder.  “Things are progressing nicely.  We’ve made progress on some key infrastructure projects with the new funding that...”

Potus looked up angrily.  “I said no politics at the table,” he growled and started ripping at his sourdough bowl again.

SoT blushed slightly and murmured an apology.

The First Lady tried to smooth thing over.  “That’s fine, SoT, I was just asking in general how you were getting on, getting settled in and so on.”

SoT nodded and said, “Nicely, thank you, very nicely.”

Secretary of Labour was now done with her soup and said lightly, “I just love the way you’ve decorated all the drapes and curtains around the House.  All the furniture and fixtures are just lovely.”

The First Lady beamed.  “Why thank you!  I chose all the schemes myself.  It took quite a while to go over all the patterns and tell them where to put each fabric type and paint colour.  We spent nearly a whole day on it.”

SoL looked impressed.  “One whole day!  Why that does sound like a lot of work to redecorate a whole House of this size.”

The First Lady nodded meaningfully.

Potus ripped at his sourdough bowl in such frustration that he splashed his chowder across the table violently.  He covered the Chief of Staff in white broth and dangling clams.  Everyone, including the waiters came over to assist.

“It’s OK, I’m OK,” the Chief of Staff kept repeating, waving off help from the others.  Two waiters helped him out of his chair and two more came over to clean up the mess, including the long white trail from the President’s chair toward the unfortunate staff member’s seat.

The First Lady turned to Potus and chided him harshly in stage whispers.  Potus looked sheepishly and kept making whining noises, pointing at the remnants of his soup and bread bowl on his plate.

A waiter hurriedly entered from a recessed, hidden door and brought a steak knife to place gently in the correct position next to Potus’ plate.  Potus waved him off.

Another waiter appeared from another end of the dining room from a similarly hidden door, carrying a loaf of sourdough bread on a tray.  He placed it on the bread plate to the President’s left.  The President waved him off as well and started ripping chunks of sourdough, crumbs scattering over the white cloth.

“Bread?” he offered the First Lady guiltily.

She declined with a headshake.

He turned to the Vice President to his right.  “Bread?”

He declined with a headshake.

He huffed and tore more pieces, mopping up chowder from the remnants and puddles on his plate.

The waiters had efficiently cleaned up the table by this point and they retreated to the kitchen.  The headwaiter announced, “Sandwiches are being made available now,” clearly following the more-than-four-words-per-sentence quota.