Waiting on the prez

After dinner, after the dignitaries had left, a guy in a blue suit came back to the kitchen -- a Texan named George.

By Cullen Thomas

Dec. 5, 2001 | We were in the spacious dining room at the top of the Waldorf Towers, the U.S. ambassador to the U.N.'s residence, looking down at the place settings on the table. Good-looking china made especially for the State Department: richly blue-ringed plates and glassware eblazoned with an eagle.

I stood off to the side in my tuxedo, a mercenary waiter. One of the U.S. Mission's protocol people had called me the night before. "Please, I hope you can do it. I'm so sorry for such short notice, but it's a real emergency; I'm not supposed to say, but it's for our head of state."

We'd be filling in for the trusted White House stewards who couldn't make it up to New York. I would have to get out of the other job I had booked for Saturday night.

Bush would be on the far side of the table, smack in the middle. Musharraf across from him. I went around the table reading the cards done in calligraphy -- the written names radiating in proxy the power of the men yet to arrive.

General Haq, Pakistan's secretary of state, His Excellency General Pervez Musharraf, Secretary of State Colin Powell, Ambassador Negroponte ...

Generals, honorable officials and potentates on both sides, each matched like a neat game of cards by the other country's counterpart.

Two color guard Marines walked in and were sent toward the entrance. Suit-wearing Secret Service men with wires in their ears came and went.

"You guys should wear these on your lapels," said one of them handing each of us a small clip with an R for Residence on it.

"Who do you usually serve first?" I asked another waiter.

"We should start with the presidents, right?"

"We should definitely serve the two presidents first, but then the ambassador will be the last to get his dinner."

"Well isn't that what the host does?" asked the White House aide in the blue dress. "The ambassador may be your first priority usually, but he's not the highest rank here tonight, not even second for that matter. The secretary of state is a higher rank, you have to serve him before ..."

I picked up one of the menus. The front had an embossed seal of a golden eagle holding an arrow and looking toward the olive branch, circled by a ring of golden stars. It clasped a banner inscribed "E Pluribus Unum" in its mouth.

Mixed Green Salad
Goat Cheese and Herb Vinaigrette

Fillet of beef with rosemary au jus

Whipped Idaho Potatoes

Georgia Sweet Potato Tartlet

Georgia and Idaho: an all-American meal. Someone said that Bush had asked for good old American steak. According to Muslim custom the Pakistanis would have to have Halal beef.

"That means it's blessed, right?" I asked Norman, the Residence cook.

"Yeah, they blessed it."

"Who did?"

"Them."

"The Pakistanis coming tonight?"

He shot me a look. "Who I bought it from."

"Oh, you bought it from a Pakistani butcher shop?"

"Yeah."

"Are we going to be able to get ice from downstairs? I mean, we can't just bring it up from down there, can we? They could do anything to it," wondered one of the other waiters aloud.

On my way into the lobby I'd been told to unzip my bag and leave it on the floor so a wild-looking longhaired German Shepherd could sniff it for bombs. The beautiful dog threw his muzzle around in it for a few moments; I was sure he was going to leave drool all over my tuxedo.

Secret Service agents were everywhere -- tight, polished guys with short hair and serious faces. Outside, black sedans lined Park Avenue.

Suited agents studied us as we waited for the elevators to the towers.

I wondered if they thought I had explosives. My green bag had no markings on it and looked a bit worn. I was making myself nervous.

When we got to the top, the Waldorf's security man had us take all the metal objects out of our pockets, present picture I.D., then stand in the hall with our arms wide while he ran a metal detector over our bodies.

"Lift up your pant legs one at a time."

Our bags were laid on the floor with a few feet between each one while another dog, this one small and trim with a neat little vest on, sniffed through them again.

"Thanks for doing that," one of the Secret Service agents said to the hotel guard.

"No problem, I've been out of practice."

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