[title type="h5"]Saturday, December 13, 2014 (12/13/14).
My Boy Is Married. Partying At Restaurant August.[/title]
Mary Ann and I have always reminded one another that the weather was ideal on our wedding day: a clear cerulean sky, sunny and cold. A little windy. Now we know it wasn't perfect, after all. Jude and Suzanne's wedding has the blue sky and the sunshine, but with air-conditioned temperatures and a breeze just strong enough to make leaves wave on the trees.
The Windsor Court is a packed house, and getting cars in and out of its garage at times required a half-hour. Part of this was due to the afternoon tea for kids, which went on all day long. Knowing about this, our vehicles launch successfully and a bit early for the trip to the church.
All personnel are in their places at the appointed time. Mary Ann--whose emotional state is elevated beyond that of anyone else here, including the betrothed couple--repeats again and again to me, "I'm going to lose it!" But she does not lose it, and given the likelihood of any mother's losing it when her progeny makes this move, it's astonishing that she remains perfectly calm, even smiling. When her turn comes to give one of the readings, she does so flawlessly.
Father George gives a suitably long and moving homily, noting that the value of the sacrament is not all for the bride and groom, but that we all benefit from the union of two people in love.
The sacrament is given. All the words are gotten out, save for "Hoya Saxa!" the victory cheer among Georgetown Prep men. (Mary Ann's idea; I miss my cue.)
The parents of Ben Bragg bring up the gifts to the altar. Ben was one of the half-dozen boys who grew up to manhood in the same unit of the Boy Scouts with Jude. Ben died in a freak accident a few years ago. But he is with us in the presence of his parents. A nice moment created by Jude.
The music wells up from three young men playing the organ, violin, and trumpet. Its glories reverberate in this grand church as the rings are set on fingers and the procession moves into the sunshine.
The limos are back at the hotel with an hour and a half to spare before the reception. It's across the street at Restaurant August. I hear a rumor that some of the men will meet in the Windsor Court's Polo Lounge for drinks. Some women, too: the salon's afternoon tea is at least as busy as it was yesterday.
I get to talking with the father of the bride. We share some interests: antique radios and cats. (His main cat even looks a lot like mine.) He tells me more about his daughter's career. I had no idea she had been a successful political fundraiser, before she moved into collegiate development.
We cross the street, climb the stairs at Restaurant August, and find ourselves a half-hour late for the beginning of the reception. I could have sworn it was at four-thirty. But nobody misses me. The room is comfortably full. Ten more people would make it crowded. Ten fewer, and it would not achieve critical mass and become a real party. It is a sweet spot in more ways than one.
For the first hour, various appetizers featuring the traditional Creole appetizer trio (oysters, shrimp and crabmeat) circulate. None of the dishes are identifiable, but all are delicious.
The drink window is generous. On a blackboard lettered by Mary Leigh, the Moscow Mule is declared the official groom's drink. Jude likes to have that in the distinctive copper cup, but August has none of those. The French 75 serves as the bride's tipple of choice. The latter gets its name from a World War I cannon. I hope nothing ever comes up over the years to make this ironic.
The Joe Simon jazz band, four musicians strong, plays all evening. Joe Simon himself is retired now, but it doesn't seem to matter. During the past decade or so, he often had several jobs going on at the same time--many of them Sunday brunches. For once, the music isn't too loud. The repertoire is excellent for dancing. That activity is encouraged by Jude's godparents--Oliver and Carolyn Kluna. They grew up in a small town in Texas, where dance halls in tents are ubiquitous every weekend. If you live there and can't dance, you're truly an outcast.
Jude gave me permission to sing one song--but only one, of my choice. The band knows it: "My Romance," from the incomparable catalog of Richard Rodgers and Larry Hart. I change a few words:
Your romance doesn't need a castle rising in Spain
Nor a dance, to a constantly surprising refrain
Wide awake, you can make your most fantastic dream come true
Your romance doesn't need a thing but two!"
While I am crooning, my sister Lynn takes a photo with her phone. It looks like an art-directed shot for a magazine ad. Jude and Suzanne are dancing, as though they are in a time machine set to the 1930s, complete with a band with a singer in a tuxedo behind them.
I have never seen Mary Ann happier. She and I even dance. Not once, but again and again. (Another improvement over our own wedding reception.) If I ever am reassured that she feels good about the marriage of her boy, I am tonight.
The food appears to be more limited than it is. We have cochon de lait and shrimp and grits, grilled chicken and andouille. Crabcakes. The local people are impressed. The out-of-towners are amazed by the local flavors. There is never a shortage of something to eat or drink. August's sommelier Erin Wilhite keeps opening bottles of Pinot Noir and Spanish whites.
Mary Leigh sculpted the cakes, of course. The bride's cake is another of ML's striking towers, white on the outside and darker within. But the groom's cake is even better. It's a pier with an anchor hanging from the top, with rope wrapped around the post. The rope is made by hand entirely from fondant. It shows no flaws anywhere. (Jude loves sailing, hence the theme.) Even Chef Andrea is impressed.
A videographer and a photographer take in the visuals. Stephen Cannatella is yet another member of that golden group of Jude's Boy Scout friends. The other is a guy who goes by the name Doogie, who works with Jude on his movies in Los Angeles. (I bring them up mainly because as I write I don't have their photos yet. When I do, they will appear in the archives of this department. I have be asked for these by dozens of readers.)
I give the first toast. I keep it short, taking my tone from Father George's homily, that the marriage of these two people is already bringing happiness to everyone here and everyone the couple will ever know. Then Alex Lanaux stands up, champagne glass in hand, and says how proud he is to be Jude's best man. "Jude is my best friend, my first friend to get married, and the first person to ask me to be his best man," he says. And then he begins to ramble, as all best men should, bringing up anything at all might add yet more joy to the moment. Of course, Alex too was with Jude in the magical Scout troop.
An hour later, the band stopped playing, and everyone left at about the same time, hearts full of gladness and stomachs full of John Besh's food. The core contingent of celebrants crosses the street back to the Windsor Court. Everyone gathers in our room, where they try to decide whther to go to Pat O'Brien's bar, the Café Du Monde, or just the Polo Lounge downstairs. Those of the parental generation just laugh at all such plans, and begin thinking about hitting the sack. The twenty-somethings head out to who knows where, looking like a bunch of Hollywood stars and starlets.
[title type="h5"]Sunday, December 14, 2014.
Brunch By Palate. To Paris![/title]
Mary Ann's brother Lee has a nice Uptown house with a lot of room, including a setup that seems to have been made specifically to accommodate caterers. (Lee is an architect.) Palate Catering is here with an impressive and inspired spread for a Sunday brunch, compliments of Lee and his wine Valerie to Jude and Suzanne and the family. All of Mary Ann's siblings are there, which is an ecstatic condition for her. And all the cousins of our children are well engaged in the event, too.
Mary Ann amplifies a statement she made a week ago, after Jude showed up by surprise at her birthday party. Today she says, "This is the best week of my life!" Amen!
The brunch comes to a screeching halt at around one, when Jude and Suzanne have to catch a plane to Paris via Atlanta. And the seven members of MA's sister Christine's family has to get down to the cruise terminal to head out on a week at sea. Jude and Mary Ann have everything figured out in terms of luggage and cars. I am told that I am not needed for anything, and sent home in Mary Leigh's car.
I route my quiet trip through Slidell instead of the dreary, standard Causeway, and then to the arrow-straight, little-traveled LA 36 to Abita Springs. Going that way triggers a reverie about an adventure Jude and I had when he was around eight years old.
He and I spent the previous night with the other Scouts aboard the USS Alabama, a gigantic World War II ship parked in Mobile. Until the wee hours of the morning, we ran around in the maze of passageways through the ship and the adjacent submarine. He could not get his fill of it. Neither could I. This was the sort of thing I would have gone nuts over when I was his age. I never got to do anything like that. But I made up for it that night.
The next morning, we met up with the Marys, who planned to spend a few days in a timeshare on the beaches nearby. Jude joined them, and I went home. All the way home, I ruminated on the adventure, and how lucky we both were to live lives so rich. I was almost giddy with that emotion then. And I felt it again today. I love my son and his great life, which had brought so much to my own.
The best part is that he feels the same way about me, even as he enters his new, hopeful, glowing existence with Suzanne.
