The first Official Leutenant

The first official stepped up to the podium and looked.
He turned his back on them.
"No, this won't do"
"but sir-"
Johnson was always "but sirr-ing" him. He hated it. He wanted nothing to do with it. He wished that Johnson and his stupid retorts would vanish into absynthe.

"I said this won't do"
"But sir-"
There it was again
"sir, this is the last. there aren't anymore"
"Johnson, remove them. they are not up to par."
What did he care if the prime minister's caterers were not good enough? There were spots on the apples, and the pineapple seemed to be frowning at him.

"Sir, the meal is in an hour! We cannot do this!"
The head chef began to sob
"Ah am sorry, monseur! eet weel nevair happeen agaihn!"

But it would. He knew it would. As first official leutenant he had the gift of foresight, and he didn't like what he saw.
What was it with these damn cooks? Everyone knows you shouldn't serve guava on tuesday!

"Sir, Eduardo has been cooking here since he was twelve. To send him and his team to the street would be ravenously inhospitable."

a globule of spittle perched on the leutenant's bottom lip. He kept it there on purpose for the time being. He had an image to maintain.

"Sir! Ah Hav ah wahf and twelve loubstairs at hohm!"
He knew that wasn't true. The Chef had no wife.
The Chef began to sob once more. Big sloppy tears pouring over his lips onto indoor/outdoor tarmac that covered the whole facility.

The leutenant took a bite of rutabaga. It was soggy. Disgusted with himself, he swallowed it anyways, maintaining his composure.

"Sir... the souffle..."
"I Know about the souffle, Johnson!"
"Sir... Ah cahn save eet... thair ees steel taim!"

He knew how much the souffle meant to the prime minister.
"Very well... but only because you are indespensable. Never ever forget the elephant paste again, do you hear me, chef?"

"Oui, monseur!"

"Well, don't just stand there. Go save the souffle!"

"Oui!"
And the chef scuttled off to save the night.
And the leutenant new that no one would remember him for rescuing the souffle. The name that would be in the papers the next morning would be the chef's. Action was what the people wanted, no one cared about the decision makers.

"Johnson, get me a copy of tomorrow morning's paper"
"But sir-"
"Just do it, Johnson"

And the first official leutenant was left on the floor to his own devices.
He glanced at the soggy rutabaga.
That had better be a damn good souffle, or the whole country would despair by the time johnson got back...