My Dinner With Bill And Hill

I drove through the gates of East Executive Drive - that narrow strip of asphalt that separates the East Wing of the White House from the Treasury Department - marveling at the idea that I was actually driving my own car down this rarified piece of roadway.

Normally, only pedestrians taking the shortcut between Pennsylvania Avenue and 15th Street are allowed down East Executive as they pass by tourists lining up for the daily White House tour. My car had been "swept" by Secret Service agents at the Pennsylvania Ave. blockade - with its movable barricade, capable of stopping a dump truck at full speed - where a specially trained "sniffer" dog wanders about your trunk sniffing for explosives.

(Pennsylvania Avenue has been closed to vehicular traffic since the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, due to fears that some other domestic terrorists may attempt to park a rental truck full of explosives in front of the White House. The president himself told me that the street was closed after an assessment showed that while the Main House and East Wing would survive such an attack, the West Wing - built by FDR - is only a temporary structure and would probably be completely leveled, Oval Office and all.)

Given the all-clear by a particularly efficient German shepherd (would you expect anything else), I proceeded down the drive. At the East Gate, my wife and I were asked for our names, to check against the guest list. As the Secret Service agent perused his clipboard, I remembered that I had left my computer bag in the trunk. Totally ignoring the idea that my car would be in a lockdown meant to keep out the most determined terrorist, let along a petty thief, I made a critical error. Taking the valet key out of the ignition, I got out of the car, put the key in the trunk lock and snapped it closed.

"Clear to go in, Mr. Roberts," the agent said, "Welcome to the White House." I turned the key in the ignition, and with the noise of what seemed like a cannon shot, the car alarm went off. Beep! Beep! Beep! - the horn was blaring at a hundred decibels. Here I am, a hundred feet from the East Portico, where kings and queens, ambassadors and movie stars, and military personnel in dress uniforms are arriving in splendiferous elegance for what was only the second white-tie (hyper-formal) State Dinner of the Clinton administration, and Im in a complete panic, frantically pushing every button I can find, in a feeble attempt to shut up my damn car! Beep! beep! beep! "Welcome to the White House - idiot."

What an entrance.

This was not the first State Dinner I had attended, though it was the first where my bearing as a klutz was duly noted. The previous one had been in New Zealand, in a boomy, drafty former Air Force base hangar that had been transformed into an aeronautical museum. There was little interaction between the guests, and the dinner itself (hosted by former Prime Minister Jenny Shipley) lasted about an hour and a hlf.

With that in mind, I strode through the East Portico (the ceremonial entrance to the White House) and was promptly enveloped by two centuries of history, protocol and tradition. This is a place that knows how to do it right. From the ever-so polite White House social staff in ball gowns and tails to the spit-shined military officer who escorted my wife into the East Room on his arm, everything was as perfect and genteel as could be. It's odd for a member of the media to feel welcome in the White House. It was all a bit disorienting.

The cocktail reception in the East Room was akin to standing in the lobby of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion on Oscar night. "Ladies and Gentlemen," the announcer intones, "Meg Ryan and Dennis Quaid," "Diane Keaton," "Placido Domingo," "Whoopi Goldberg," "Oscar De la Renta," - good thing the first lady, or just Hillary as she's known on the campaign trail, was wearing a De la Renta velvet ball gown. Then, "John Roberts" - whoops, how did he get in here? - and the list went on. Fund-raisers, pols, ambassadors, excellencies, doctors, engineers (the head of NASA, Dan Goldin), secretaries of various departments and White House staff.

The last time I was in this room, I was being glared at by the president after asking at a press conference if he would be willing to surrender his law license to avoid possible disbarment proceedings against him in the Arkansas State Supreme Court. What a difference a week makes. Well, if Id been uninvited, I rationalized, I would at least save a hundred bucks on the tux. Yes, I own a regular tuxedo, but how many times do I get called for a white-tie event? So I picked a rental.

Time for the receiving line. Handshake with the president. Well, he didn't hit me - so far, so good. On to King Juan Carlos: "Pleased to meet you, your Majesty." Hillary -first time Id met her face to face. Smile of recognition, "Hello, nice to finally meet you." OK, we're almost out. Queen Sophia. Search the memory banks. Queen your Majesty? Exellency? Highness? "A pleasure, your highness." Damn! Majesty - should have been Majesty. First the horn, now this.

With white tie, white gloves are a prerequisite. And there was plenty of confusion as to what role they would play. Some people, such as Senator Bob Graham, wore them. Others, namely the president, didn't. I had made the bold decision to carry mine in my left hand. God knows why, but I figured I would pass the white glove requirement, not look goofy wearing them and theyd be readily accessible if I had to - in the spirit of Alexander Hamilton - challenge someone to a duel. But I digress.

Imagine my fascination when I discovered that I was seated at the president's table. I made this discovery only when Mr. Clinton sat down in front of me. Many people have differing opinions of the man, but the one aspect of William Jefferson Clinton that most people seem to agree on ithat he is the best politician ever. Period. Knowing that if I got him onto politics I would be saved from having to engage in any conversation myself, I popped the question, "So sir, what do you make of the results in Michigan?" Home run. I got to keep my mouth mostly shut for the night, and in the process, got a graduate level seminar on the history and analysis of the presidential primary season.

Now of course, these sessions are completely off the record, but let's just say that President Clinton doesn't agree with the assessment that George W. Bush lacks the smarts to be president, thinks John McCain could win the nomination and likes Gore's chances in the general election. Now there's a surprise.

There was more cutlery on the table than I'd ever seen. Three glasses for wine. Hitting the memory bank again, I went for a thready piece of information I'd stored somewhere: Work from the outside in.

The meal was a far sight better than the commissary in the White House Press Room. We have machines there with three kinds of Hot Pockets. The White House started off with pheasant and morel consomme with dumplings of foie gras and confit. Nathan's Chili Cheese dog? How about lobster and Maine shrimp with saffron risotto and chorizo. Country sausage biscuits - the twin pack? Try grilled rack of lamb with blood orange and rosemary sauce, braised winter vegetables with parsnip puree. For dessert, I normally choose between yogurt and a Snickers bar. Last night, they served a Topiary Valencia. Whats a Topiary Valencia? Think of a potted fruit tree where the pot is made from white chocolate and the fruit from sorbet. The pot (actually a planter box) even had the seals of the president and the king of Spain embossed on the side. Like I said earlier, they think of everything.

After dinner, back to the East Room for one of the White House's famous "unplugged" sessions; this time with Placido Domingo. He'd been invited several times before, but had been unable to make it. I'd heard him, of course, but never in person. Even though I have a respectable sound system at home, nothing is like the raw instrument when it's 15 feet in front of you. I've had my eardrums moved by plenty of PA systems in the '60s, '70s and '80s, but when Domingo hit one particular note full force, those little membranes were warbling at the same frequency as the famous tenor's vocal chords. You could actually feel the pressure. Incredible. No surprise that he won his ninth Grammy Award last night.

There was coffee and liqueur in the Blue Room after the event, and plenty of political chatter in the Cross Halls. But the hour was well past midnight and my days of staying up to see the sun are over. Plus, I'm in training for the president's upcoming trip to India. No one said this was going to be dull.