The moment John Henkin’s bride-to-be called to schedule a conference, I knew that I would never see a bride the same way. Her immediate tone was one of aggravation, as if I had already ruined her big day at the alter. A need to rush was my immediate response to her demands. Running around, trying to get things done would be hard enough, but the premature pressure of a bride never contributes to the perfect wedding banquet.
Not in my entire career had I experienced such dread before this interview. For an entire week, my stomach churned every time I was forced to look at my agenda. My mind reeled with the prospect of serving such a stuck-up debutant.
On the sleepless night before meeting this revolting woman, I considered who I was: a twenty year old who had at one time had no future. Now I was on the path to being a highly reccomended professional caterer
When I had been forced to work as an assistant, I had never lasted long in another chef’s kitchen. I always seemed to know that there was a better way to do something, whether it be how to prepare the food or how to present it. Because of this know-it-all attitude I had not exactly been popular with other chefs, yet I still had made my own way into the world of catering.
On the day of the appointment, three cakes fell the moment my mitted hand touched their pans and a stack of Pyrex fell from its shelf, shattering on the floor. According to my main assistant, Elaine, both of these events told of a terrible event to come. (“You’ve never had this much bad luck, Mickey!”) Elaine must have truly been a psychic. The moment Andrea, the bride-to-be, entered my “office”, I was able to tell that she was to be one of the hardest clients to cater for.
Andrea was truly a piece of work. Her voice may have hinted at her snobbish three-car garage, crystal chandelier upbringing, but her style and mannerisms brought the entire situation into focus. Flips of the hand frequented every conversation, all of which she dictated with an air of superiority. Any time it was possible, Andrea threw in outrageous adjectives to describe the most mundane things. When at a lack for adjectives to describe something or when something was common, she would refer to the item as “classic.”
“It’s a classic, darling. I just have to have it at my reception!”
However, with such a vast vocabulary Andrea only used this crutch sparingly. “Bohemian” was one of her more vivid descriptions. This reference to free spirit which she uttered so often seemed ironic compared to the uptight woman who was speaking before me.
Andrea’s umber hair was tied in a neat and practiced bun, and her clothes reminded me of a nun taking a day off from the convent; only a hint of color and the theory of a figure was present in her choice of attire. If Andrea’s clothing had reflected her wish for a “bohemian” wedding, she might not have been all that bad looking of a gal. However, the fact remains that the dowdy blouse and matronly skirt did not compliment the twenty-five year old’s figure.
Elaine, busy with filing, seated herself directly behind our new client as the interview began. Every time Andrea would utter the statement, “It’s a classic, darling,” Elaine would either give a fairly quick roll of the eyes or a shot of the bird behind our client’s back. The urge to smile at these taboo acts was only kept at bay by my sense of proprietry, which would slip dramatically as the weeks’ events wore on.
“I hate to mention this, but you are my last resort. Not to make you feel inferior to other caterers, but you are the last one I requested an interview with. All of the others seemed to have other events going on the day of my wedding,” she said, looking slightly perplexed.
“I would move the wedding so that it would be easier to cater to, but the date is just so perfect; my fiance and I have been seeing one another for almost six months! And everything has to be just so.”
Though the ‘other caterers’ had politely told her that they could not help her due to previous appointments, I knew what they had truly thought: this woman was too much trouble and too high maintianence. However, I needed the money and the boost to my reputation this ob could bring desperately and I did not mind a challenge. In response to Andrea’s confession, Elaine gave a brief, quiet laugh; classic shadenfruede.
“Well, I don’t have anything else booked that day. I guess I COULD take you on…” I said, flashing the pearly whites in an attempt to make my statement humorous. Andrea did not seem to appreciate my humor though and did not even give the slightest hint of a smile.
Once the unpleasant woman left our presence, Elaine could no longer hold in the swell of bashing comments (she had to have been one of the most opinionated and outspoken minds of her generation).
“How could such an atrocious woman land a man?” Elaine wondered aloud. Her tone was one of contemplation, though I knew that she was baiting me for a response. Since Elaine would not rest until I propheted some response, I gave her the response she so desperately craved, even if it was a work of fiction.
“Maybe John Henkins is one of those multimillionaire computer programmers. You know the ones I mean: so heavy he has to have a cane to get around and wears horn-rimmed glasses from the ‘80’s,” I suggested, believing momentarily that I had possibly topped her spinning of lies.
“Possibly. Perhaps he got too close inspecting a crocodile’s teeth and she was the only girl to look twice at his missing nose in a polite way,” Elaine mused.
I often wondered why Elaine worked in a kitchen for hours daily when she had the mind of a novelist, but I could not imagine her anywhere other than pacing my linoleum, keeping track of numerous pastries and uncountable appetizers. At the age of sixty-seven, she had the vigor of a twenty year-old girl, twice the spunk, and the heart of a Romanian gypsy: wild and free-spirited.
As the wedding grew closer, a monumental amount of specifications were called in by Andrea. At first the wedding was to be white with tones of gold, but the tones of gold had been changed (after much flip-flopping) to shades of green. And not just any shade of green; mint green. All of these were reasonable changes as far as I could tell. Yet one afternoon, Andrea made things more complicated than any bride could have ever schemed to.
On the evening before the wedding, Andrea entered my office unannounced, interrupting what had been up to that moment a supreme date with my new flame. After having to explain that Andrea was not “another woman” in my life for my new love interest to compete with, the bride literally dragged me into the hall where she proceeded to remove a garment bag from my coat rack.
Her fingers worked nimbly unzipping the bag, as if she had done this many times in the process of trying on or viewing whatever was within. With a flick of the wrist, she produced a stunning wedding gown from the polyester confines of the garment bag. Though simple (or “classic” as she referred to it as) in design, the folds of mint in the skirt were dazzling.
“Have you begun frosting the bridal cake?” she asked in her severely yankee accent.
Indeed I had. Why put off such a simple task that did not need to wait? To be perfectly honest, I was rather proud of the over-all decor: modest but “classic” white with a pattern of mint ivy with white blossoms along the edges and sides. Upon hearing that I had completed the job already, she rather coldly demanded to see the results.
As Andrea entered my vast kitchen, I noticed she still clung to her gown. It was not my place as the humble servant to tell Andrea that a kitchen was a disaster zone for white clothing, though my heart did cry out for the poor dressmaker whose work could possibly be ruined at the hands of this careless woman.
The triple-tier cake, barely finished, stood triumphantly on the island, still surrounded by the debris of various icing tips and frosting sacks. Andrea barely admired my work before holding the wedding dress next to the cake.
“Would you hold this for a moment, darling? I want to stand back and see how those two will look so close together…”
I dutifully held the dress, watching her face for a spark of approval. Rather than recieve credit for hours spent on a single project, I saw a look of disappointment flash in her eyes.
“Is there any way to have the white match that of the dress? I know this seems ridiculous, but everything must be just so for tomorrow’s event.”
I could scarcely believe the words emerging from her mouth. The wedding was only hours away, and here she was: standing in my kitchen complaining about the color of the cake that would only be seen with her precious gown for a moment. Rather than follow my instincts and tell her a flat-out “no,” I asked, “What seems to be the problem? The dress and cake look made for one another.”
“The white is too white. Perhaps more of an antiqued white?” Andrea suggested with a false tone of helpfulness.
“I would love to remedy the problem,” I said evenly,” but I can’t take time out to refrost the entire cake. The schedule for cooking the rest of your course will occupy all of tomorrow.”
Andrea’s eyebrows arched as if she had never been told “no” before in her life.
“I really do not care how it is done, just so long as it IS done. That cake better match this bridal gown by six tomorrow evening. Do the job right. Do not make me tell you twice.”
Certain caterers would call this bridezilla’s bluff and refuse to cater the event at all, leaving the princess high and dry at one of the most meaningful events of a lifetime. However, the same proprietorship that had held my laughter from reaching the surface in response to Elaine’s misbehaviors kept me from not matching Andrea’s flame of hatred.
“It shall be done, as requested,” I said simply, ushering Andrea through the front door into the empty hall. As the door closed, I swore I heard a triumphant sigh followed by a, “Thank God.” Only now did I start to crack under the abuse of the thankless bride.
Needless to say, I spent a sleepless night refrosting the entire triple-tier cake. If you have ever frosted an entire wedding cake alone, you know just how long it takes and how fatiguing icing a cake can be. Imagine doing this twice in a single day, once in the afternoon and once in the dead of night. If I had not needed the money, I might have just refused to do the job altogether now that I was being forced to do a job well done over.
A fellow caterer once attempted to describe the prep work for a wedding and failed miserably. However, he did offer this description to contemplate: preparing for a wedding is like being in a car crash where the car rolls over down a steep hill. You have no seat belt and you just roll with it, hitting a fire hydrant at the base of the hill. And the entire time you enjoy it.
The description did not fit today’s busy schedule. For the first time in their lives, all of my meager servers arrived on time for the event and no mishaps in the kitchen set back the cramped schedule. For such a horrid request of demands and requirements, everything ran smoothly. No trays were spilt nor did a single plate shatter upon the floor; the usual cursing of pots and pans did not occur either, though the humidity in the kitchen was unbearable. Yet no one enjoyed the time spent getting everything ‘just so’. I think every person on duty was alert to our situation: the choice between life under the control of a love starved woman or death at her hands.
Andrea’s maid of honor gave a lovely, heart warming speech. Unfortunately it was either inaccurate or spoke of sides a “simple” caterer would not be able to see in an up-class woman.
As the final words were leaving the disillusioned girl’s lips, my mind raced for the perfect thing to say to regain my dignity from Andrea. Perhaps it was sleep depravation, but I felt like refrosting a cake with only hours left on the clock was a thankless job that deserved some level of satisfaction. As the applause died, I made my way to the front of the room.
Turning on her heel, Andrea met my stride with the slowing force of a hateful stare. I had made my way behind the podium before I even realized the grudging bride had made a polite attempt to introduce her ‘mysteriously artistic’ caterer.
“Alla nostra sposa presuntuosa che gira delle bugie e suo marito favoloso nuovo che ha ancora di emergere dall’armadio a muro,” I said to the waiting crowd.
“How charming,” Andrea crooned to the crowd, all of whom ignorantly applauded my toast to a stuck up bride and her feminine new husband.
When I returned to the far side of the room, retreating behind the buffet, Elaine elbowed me sharply in the ribs. I looked down at the woman who had become an honorary mother and saw that below her perky black satin bow was the broadest, proudest smile in the world.
“Good for you, Mickey. That is definetly the way to handle a brat like her! However, I am surprised of what you think of the groom; he looked straight enough to me. I can’t help but feel slightly bad for Andrea. She’ll be wearing that gown the entire honeymoon while her new husband is in the closet.”
I smiled back at her, “Well, at least the icing matched.”
#Published in a Social Review Journal#
- Henkins-Johnson Wedding a Work of Art
...
Among the highlights of the roaring evening is the famous caterer’s speech. Whether it was built into the program secretively as a pearl of decadence or as a spontaneous gesture of Italian hospitality, it certainly made the event feel like an Old World Wedding. When the bride asked the true translation of the toast, the caterer [Michael Mussolini] refrained from elaborating.
“If I were to translate my words, they would lose all of the meaning. My wishes for the bride’s marriage might not become reality,” Mussolini said.
Other notable speaches of well wishes for the evening include…
On top of Mussolini’s speaking skills were his cooking skills and eye for decor. The fabolous triple tier cake was a work of beauty. Vines climbed along the edges like the binding parts of a marriage, able to keep the marriage pulled together.
The numerous courses were ample and comprised mostly of savory dishes. With the wide selection available, every guest was satisfied with the culinary creations produced from Mussolini’s kitchen. Every detail seemed to be taken into account for the presentation of the meal as well as the taste.
If anyone is interested, the newly-wed wife would be glad to give you the caterer’s contact info.
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