“I hope that you don’t mind, but we’ve already ordered,” informed Hartwell. “Please have a look, and do so yourself.”
“With pleasure,” Vince replied, opening the menu. It had a rendering of the QE2’s predecessor on its cover — the long-retired, dual-funneled ocean liner, Queen Elizabeth.
The menu itself offered Vince a wide selection to choose from. It started off with appetizers that included a seafood salad, sliced fruit platter, a cheese souffle, and tossed pasta salad. He decided to skip this course and begin his meal with Italian bean soup. The entrees ranged from green and white fettuccine in saffron-mushroom sauce, to braised veal chops, grilled pail lard of beef, and Maryland crab cakes; Southern fried chicken, too, complete with corn popovers, broiled tomatoes, onion rings, and fried potatoes. Also available was Oriental stir-fry and short-grain brown rice, the QE2 Spa selection for the calorie-conscious diner.
Vince was unable to resist ordering the fried chicken. He picked iced tea to drink, and chocolate mousse with caramelized bananas for dessert.
“Selecting lunch has definitely been the biggest decision of my day,” Vince said. “What an incredible selection.”
“We try our best to satisfy patrons who come to us from every corner of the globe,” said Executive Chef Langer, between sips of his consomme.
“And that they do only too well,” Hartwell concurred as he finished his gumbo.
The ship’s doctor patted his bulging stomach and added, “Though my last cholesterol count showed that I should have ordered the stir-fry, here I went for the fried chicken instead. You’d think as a physician I’d know better.”
“Like I was telling you, Doc, it’s all a matter of self control,” said Hartwell before downing a last spoonful of soup and wiping his beard with his napkin.
Vince’s soup arrived seconds later, and by the time their entrees were served, Vince had caught up with them. Everyday small talk prevailed as they dug into their lunches. While devouring his perfectly cooked fried chicken breast, Vince learned from Langer that the QE2 served over 500 pounds of chicken a day while at sea. Added to this was an average daily consumption of 3,200 eggs, 230 gallons of milk, 200 bottles of vintage champagne, and most interesting, 116 pounds of lobster and 6.6 pounds of premium caviar.
The executive chef was in the midst of describing how important it was to properly account for these stores, when a steward arrived at their table with a document for the doctor. Benedict pushed away his empty plate and hastily skimmed this sheet of paper before dismissing the courier.
“Is that the report, Doc?” Hartwell asked hopefully.
“Aye,” replied Benedict after readjusting the fit of his wire-rim glasses, then handing the document to Bernhard Langer.
“Well?” persisted the curious security officer.
Langer held back his reply until reading the report thoroughly. “I told you this would be the result,” he said, the barest of German accents flavoring his tone. “My kitchens are the cleanest on all the seas!”
With this haughty outburst, he handed the document to Hartwell. By this time, Vince had pretty well figured out what this exchange was all about. Yet it wasn’t until the Scotsman completed his examination of the document and voiced his own opinion, that Vince’s suspicions were confirmed.
“Then that’s it,” said Hartwell, an air of finality to his words. “If the New York public health authorities can find our food storage and preparation areas completely free from contamination, then we can be one-hundred-percent certain that the bacteria originated someplace other than in our Kitchens.”
“I presume that you’re referring to that case of salmonella poisoning that sickened members of your Spa staff,” remarked Vince.
“Make that a suspected case, Special Agent,” interjected the ship’s physician. “We still have no evidence that salmonella was the culprit.”
When Vince finally got the opportunity to read the report himself, he skimmed its contents but most of this numeric data meant little to him.
He lowered the document and addressed Hartwell.
“I’m certain that Dr. Patton, the President’s physician, is going to want to see a copy of this.”
“Isn’t my kitchen good enough for the President of the United States?” the executive chef said.
“That’s not what I was implying,” Vince replied.
“Whenever the President is traveling, his physician is personally responsible for insuring the safety of all food and drink. This is especially relevant when a kitchen that will be serving our President is being investigated for a possible case of food poisoning.”
“But that report proves that my kitchen is safe!” protested Langer.
“Come see for yourself, Special Agent Kellogg. Even my floors are so spotless that you could eat a meal right off of them.”
“Easy now, Bernhard,” Hartwell interceded. “If I can be so bold as to speak for the special agent here, he’s not doubting the truth of your words. This is nothing but a routine security matter. Now that we have official documentation of the state of our kitchens, it’s only logical that the President’s physician should know that he has nothing to fear from your meals.”
“Except indigestion from overeating,” interjected Andrew Benedict.
This comment caused a wave of shared laughter to envelop the table, and with the tension now broken, Dr. Benedict rose to excuse himself.
“I’m afraid that I have an open clinic to attend to,” said Benedict as he reached into his wallet, pulled out a business card and handed it to Vince. “Don’t hesitate to call. And please, come down to Six Deck and visit our Hospital. As you’ll soon enough see, we’re fully equipped to handle not only emergencies, but a wide spectrum of preventative medicine as well.”
Vince pocketed the card and replied, “I’d most enjoy seeing your facility, Doctor.” Longer also rose, handing Vince a card of his own.
“It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Special Agent Kellogg. Dr. Benedict’s Hospital is not the only facility onboard ship that eagerly awaits your presence. The Queen’s Kitchen is always open to you. Just call me first, and I’d be honored to personally show you why our food preparation areas are second to none.”
“If that excellent meal I just consumed is any example of the quality of chow served aboard this vessel, I can understand the reason for your pride,” Vince offered.
Benedict and Langer exited the Grill together. This left Vince alone at the table with the ship’s security officer.
While Neil cleared the table, Melanie refilled their coffee cups. A thoughtful moment of silence followed, which Hartwell finally broke.
“I’m afraid that our esteemed executive chef is a bit on the emotional side.”
“I’ve never met a good cook who wasn’t,” observed Vince as he sipped his coffee.
“You know we’d be lying to you if we said that there was never a recorded case of food poisoning aboard the g 2,” Hartwell remarked carefully. “After all, as Chef Langer was explaining, the volume of food we serve is absolutely astronomical. But when combined with the millions of passengers we’ve fed over the years, I’d say that the chances of getting sick in such a manner are statistically nonexistent.”
“Then how do you explain the nature of the illness that struck down select members of the ship’s Gym staff recently?” asked Vince.
Hartwell hesitated a moment before answering. “I still say that it originated from food that was prepared elsewhere.”