Every Girl Should Be Married
(1948)
I may not meet the right man today. Or even this week. Or even this year. But believe me, when I see him, I’ll know it.
—Betsy Drake as Anabel Sims
Nine months ago . . .
“You look gorgeous, Sunshine. A vision of loveliness.” My dad seems horribly uncomfortable in his tuxedo. He’s tugging a bit at the bow tie, which is
crooked, but at least is black and real, as opposed to what he showed up with this morning: a purple clip-on covered in multihued Grateful Dead bears.
His cummerbund is upside down, and he’s wearing scuffed black Dr. Martens, which are making his pants look short. But today I’m so happy I don’t even
correct him on using the wrong name.
“Look what we made, Robert, just look.” My mother glides across the room in what can only be described as a fringed lavender muumuu, her waist-length
graying curls twisted up in an elaborate braided bun, like a black-and-white Greek Easter bread attached to the back of her head. She tucks her short,
round form into the long expanse of my dad’s embrace, and he pulls her close and rests his head atop hers, both of them looking at me with a
combination of deep love and concern.
“I know, Diane, I know. We did good.” She beams up at him, and he kisses her deeply. With tongue. Gack.
“Hey, parents, could we please keep the making out to a minimum, at least until after dinner?” Don’t get me wrong; it’s fantastic that after over forty
years together my folks are still hot for each other. I just really don’t need to see it in shiny Technicolor.
They pull apart with a sickeningly slurpy squelch and look over at me.
“Poor Sunshine, she’s still embarrassed of us,” my dad teases.
“Bobby, you know she prefers Sophie; today of all days, give her a break,” says Bubbles from her perch across the room in a comfortable chair. Thank
god for the voice of reason.
“Of course, Mom, you’re right; have to respect the bride’s wishes.” My dad walks over and kisses my grandmother on her soft, powdery cheek.
“Good boy.” Bubbles pats the hand he has placed on her shoulder.
I was born Sunshine Sophie Summer Karma Bernstein. The Sophie was in honor of my dad’s dad, Solomon, Bubbles’s husband, who died only a month before I
was born. I was Sunshine until I got to kindergarten, but when the whole class burst out in cruel laughter when the teacher called my name, I quickly
replied, “My name is Sophie,” and so I have been to everyone in my life except my dad ever since. My mom, as a clinical psychologist, is very much
committed to honoring people’s choices, so she made the switch immediately and with great purpose, correcting family friends and colleagues swiftly and
firmly if they slipped. On my thirtieth birthday I gave myself a gift and had my name legally changed to Sophie Rosalind Bernstein. Bubbles’s middle
name is Rosalind, and Rosalind Russell is our favorite actress, so it seemed like a good choice. I still haven’t gotten up the nerve to tell my
parents. Bubbles says there’s no need to cause trouble where there is none, so it is our secret. I once asked her if she minded being called Bubbles,
and she laughed.
“You named me, and I wouldn’t want to be called anything else.”
When I was just learning to talk, at the precocious age of ten months, my parents kept trying to get me to call her Bubbe—Yiddish for “grandmother”—but
I kept saying Bubbles, and it stuck. I’ve often felt bad about dumping such a frivolous name on someone so elegant and sophisticated, but she swears
she loves it.
“You are a vision, Sophie, truly,” she says, and I turn back to the full-length mirror that has been set up in our little lounge. And I have to admit,
I look like Katharine Hepburn. Well, actually I look like I ate Katharine Hepburn, if you want to know the truth, but I look as glamorous and
radiant as a girl could corseted within an inch of her life and stuffed into her custom size-twenty Vera Wang gown. Because you know what’s fun,
designers? That when us bigger girls go wedding-dress shopping, already a horror show of “sample” sizes we have to be shoehorned into to get a “sense”
of how a dress “might” look, we discover your sizing is scaled for Lilliputians and completely unrelated to every other size chart on the planet. I’m a
solid size sixteen almost everywhere, an eighteen in some of the more luxury brands, and a glorious, if rare, size fourteen in some lower-end brands.
But only in Wangland am I a twenty. Oh, and the upcharge for bigger sizes is also a real treat; nothing like paying a fat tax for your special day.
Thanks for that.
None of it matters today. The dress is a perfect rich off-white, the color of the cream of grass-fed cows; made of the heaviest matte silk; and in a
simple strapless style that’s fitted at the waist and then drapes over a subtle crinoline to just above my ankle. The gauzy organza overdress has wide,
fluttery lapels and long, loose balloon sleeves cuffed at the wrist, which help to mask my not-exactly-Michelle-Obama-esque upper arms, and it buttons
tightly on either side of my waist before extending over the skirt, which moves around me with a languorous swoosh. The dress was inspired by Katharine
Hepburn’s wedding dress in The Philadelphia Story, adjusted appropriately for my ample curves and made a bit more modern, but the feel is the
same. I think Kate would approve, frankly. My thick, dark, often-unruly curls have been tamed into sleek, shiny waves, held back over my left ear with
a jeweled clip, and my makeup is simple, highlighting my fair skin and hiding the spray of freckles across the bridge of my nose. A little silver
shimmer on my eyelids makes my blue-gray eyes sparkle, and there’s just a swipe of pale pink on my lips. The Dior pumps were probably a splurge I
should have done without, considering the total cost of this day, but I couldn’t resist. The opaline silver was just the perfect color, and while I’ll
probably be crippled for the rest of the week, they look fantastic. Heels are the bane of anyone who spends long workdays on her feet in supportive
clogs.
Candace, the event manager here at the Ryan Mansion, comes flying in. “Sophie? Do you have time for a quick walk-through before we open the doors?”
“Of course.”
My mom starts to walk toward us, but Bubbles catches the look on my face.
“Diane, dear, would you get me some more of that sparkling water, please? You go ahead, Sophie; the three of us will wait here for you.” Thank god for
Bubbles. She knows how much work went into planning this day. And she also knows that I don’t want anything to mar it. Like another lecture from my
happily unmarried parents about why a piece of paper doesn’t mean anything, and about how many wells could be dug in Africa for what I’m spending on my
top-shelf open bar, or how many cleft palate surgeries could be performed in South America for a fraction of what the flowers cost.
I follow Candace out of the lounge and down the hall to the elevator.
“You look gorgeous,” she says as we ride down to the main floor. “How do you feel? Nervous at all?”
“Actually, no. I feel great. Never felt better!”
And I do. No jitters, no sweaty palms, no butterflies. This is the day I was destined for. The man I was destined for. Dexter Kelley IV—DK to his
friends, and Dex to me—is literally my every dream come true. After a lifetime of listening to my mother proudly announce her “Ms.” status when
correcting people who referred to her as “Mrs.,” I’m ready to happily check the “Mrs.” box. After endlessly explaining why my last name is different
from both my parents’—Dad’s is Bernard, Mom’s is Goldstein, so I got to be Bernstein, a combination of the two, invented in no small part because of
Carl Bernstein and the fact that my folks met at an anti-Nixon rally in 1973—I’m ecstatic to become simply Sophie Kelley.
And who wouldn’t be? In Dex, I’ve found my perfect partner in all things. We work together at Salé et Sucré, the two-Michelin-starred restaurant from
Alexandre Leroux and Georg Zimmer. I’m the senior pastry sous chef and heir apparent to Georg, and Dexter is the head sommelier. We’ve been working
together for six years and have been a couple for nearly three. We’ve landed an angel investor for a soon-to-be restaurant of our own. Local socialite
Colleen “Cookie” Carlisle has agreed to terms on funding the purchase and build-out of our first place, including finding us a stunning location on
Fulton in a huge warehouse space and hiring the superhot Palmer Square Development team to do the design/build.
I have to say, as much as I love my Dexter . . . our general contractor, Liam, is insanely gorgeous. I don’t know how his wife, Anneke, ever lets him
out of her sight. Of course, since she’s the lead architect, I guess she doesn’t really have to, but when those babies drop, she’s not going to have
much of a choice; I would imagine twins are going to trump just about everything. Our project manager, Jag, promises that it’ll be smooth sailing, and
both Cookie and Dexter have total confidence, so I’m following along. After all, it’s Cookie’s money, and some of Dexter’s. The agreement is that I
will cover the wedding and he will cover the restaurant, and that seems more than fair as we begin our lives together. My dad, ever the lawyer, thought
we should both equally fund two separate accounts to pay for things so that it was all even, but I didn’t even broach the idea with Dex. To be honest,
I don’t really want him to know what I’m spending on this event. Despite keeping the guest list down to under a hundred and calling in major at-cost
favor pricing from chef pals and vendors who work with the restaurant, the event was still coming in at nearly seventy grand, which has pretty much
emptied my savings and maxed out all my credit cards, including three brand-new ones. Gone are the gifts from my family: five grand from Mom and Dad
and two from Bubbles. Not to mention the bat mitzvah bonds I cashed in. But a girl only gets one shot at her dream wedding, and besides, Dexter’s trust
fund will come entirely under his own control in a few weeks, which is why he said we should both stay in our apartments and wait before looking for a
new place for the two of us, and postpone planning our honeymoon.
“When the trust turns over, we’ll be able to find the perfect house, and when we officially quit, we can take a few weeks off to travel before jumping
into the restaurant full bore. Everything will be so much easier then. Do you really want to go through the hassle of combining households in one of
our places now and then having to repack and reorganize in a few months?”
I’m sure that when his trust kicks in, my newly minted hubby will have no problem helping me pay off this minor debt I’ve accrued. After all, while it
isn’t billions, it certainly has enough zeroes that we should be able to do everything we want house- and honeymoon-wise, with plenty of cushion for
the future, and I know he’ll see the value of starting our life together debt-free. Especially with the lifelong memories of this glorious day.
Candace and I step off the wood-paneled elevator and into the wide entry room of the mansion. This place is my win-the-lottery dream house: twelve
thousand square feet of late-1800s graystone on elegant Astor Street. And we are using all of it. The first-floor dining room will have the ceremony;
the adjoining living room will house our cocktail hour. Then everyone will go up to the second level for the sit-down five-course dinner and dancing in
the massive formal ballroom, with the anterooms set up for cozy conversation, and a smoking room for the cigar crowd. At midnight everyone will be
shuttled back to the first floor to the library for a breakfast/late-night-snack-food buffet, and then out through the foyer, where silver gift bags
will be magically waiting. Then Dexter and I will head up to the third-floor suite for our wedding night before meeting our out-of-town guests and
closest friends and family tomorrow at Manny’s for a brunch generously hosted by Bubbles.
As Candace walks me through all the spaces, I’m blown away. The flowers—arranged by Cornelia McNamara, who does all the special events at the
restaurant—feature Cornelia’s signature effortlessly elegant style, all in shades of white and cream with plenty of greenery, and displayed in crystal
vases and silver bowls on every surface. The ceremony chairs are swagged in sheer tulle, and the gossamer chuppah is wound with ivy and fairy lights,
the canopy gathered in perfect folds to create a small tent. Georg and Alexandre both got Internet-ordained so that they can jointly do the ceremony
for us, Georg covering the Jewish parts and Alexandre taking care of the secular stuff.
The round dining tables, small six-tops to keep conversation flowing, are set with white linen cloths with deep-magenta linen napkins, centerpieces
that are a riot of magentas and oranges, candles in silver candlesticks, bone china, and Riedel crystal glasses lined up for the exquisite wine
pairings Dexter has planned for every course. The stage is set up for the jazz orchestra, and there, in the center of the dance floor, is the cake.
Three square tiers of hazelnut cake filled with caramel mousse and sliced poached pears, sealed with vanilla buttercream scented with pear eau-de-vie.
It’s covered in a smooth expanse of ivory fondant decorated with what appear to be natural branches of pale green dogwood but are actually gum paste
and chocolate, and with almost-haphazard sheer spheres of silvery blown sugar, as if a child came by with a bottle of bubbles and they landed on the
cake. On the top, in lieu of the traditional bride and groom, is a bottle of Dexter’s favorite Riesling in a bow tie and a small three-tier traditional
wedding cake sporting a veil, both made out of marzipan. It took me the better part of the last three weeks to make this cake. Not to mention the
loaves of banana bread, the cellophane bags of pine nut shortbread cookies, and the little silver boxes of champagne truffles in the gift bags. And the
vanilla buttermilk panna cottas we’re serving with balsamic-macerated berries as the pre-dessert before the cake. And the hand-wrapped caramels and
shards of toffee and dark-chocolate-covered candied ginger slices that will be served with the coffee.
There’s no point to being a pastry chef if you can’t get your own wedding sweets perfect.
“It’s, just, everything,” I whisper.
Candace puts an arm around my waist and squeezes. At least I think she’s squeezing; who can feel anything through this corset? “It’s one of my most
favorite weddings we’ve ever had here. You should be a wedding planner.”
“Not me. I only want to plan one wedding in my life, and this one is it. The rest of the brides are on their own.”
“Well, maybe for a daughter someday?”
“Maybe.” I say this, but I don’t really mean it. The restaurant business, even under the best of circumstances, is a hard row to hoe for parents. Kids
don’t care that the James Beard Award people are in the house and lingering over their luncheon coffee when you are supposed to be watching your
special snowflake play a carrot in the school show. And Saveur magazine doesn’t care that your kids were up at two a.m. projectile pooping in
your bed the night before your big photo shoot. But the health department cares very much if you have been exposed to chicken pox or strep throat or
lice, and wants you not to come within a hundred yards of your own premises. None of this bodes well for being either a fantastic restaurateur or a
perfect mommy, so I’m reasonably certain parenting isn’t in the cards. Dexter seems fine with the idea that there won’t be a Dexter V; after all, he
says, he’s got two older sisters popping out heirs, and a younger brother to carry on the family name, so he’s off the hook in the breeding department.
I have to admit, seeing Anneke all preggers out to there, and the way Liam watches her and smiles and gently touches her belly when he walks by her,
does give the old ovaries a twinge. Hopefully, if the new place gets up and running well, and we have some success, maybe in a couple of years we can
revisit, see if maybe just one child might be a possibility. I would really love to see Bubbles become a great-grandbubbles, and unlike Dex, I have no
siblings to rely on for that.
“Well, if everything looks good to you, I’d say we could open the doors and get ready to welcome your guests,” Candace says.
“Can I check in on the kitchen?” I ask.
She looks me up and down. “Yes, but hold on a second.” She disappears down the hallway and returns with a large men’s trench coat. “Lost-and-found
treasure,” she says as I eye the garment. “Put this on; I’m not sending you into that kitchen with this dress exposed. And promise you’ll stand in the
doorway. I’ll bring everyone to you.” I laugh and slide the coat over myself, grateful that it buttons, albeit tightly, over my hips.
We walk over to a swinging door, and she holds it open while I stand just inside. “Bride in the house!” she calls out, and immediately three people
come walking over.
“Hello, Chef, congrats to you,” says my friend Erick, who has taken a night off from both of his restaurants to man the kitchen.
“You congratulate the groom, silly, and wish the bride luck.” I accept his kiss on my cheek.
“You don’t need luck; you’re a rock star,” says Gino, who is serving as Erick’s sous chef today and running the line.
“We’re gonna ruin these people,” says Megan, who is doing all the appetizers and covering the midnight buffet.
The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d’oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with
fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickled onions,
and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole
wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels
sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight
spinach flan, followed by your choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next
is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with
dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales
served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla
Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the “breakfast” buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out
containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the “snack food” buffet. There will
also be tiny four-ounce milk bot
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