Wedding Girl

by Stacey Ballis

  “Perfect.” Smack.

  “How about a little bit of lemon zest just to perk it up?”

  “Ooooh, that sounds delicious.” Smack. She takes the now enormous and thin chicken breast and puts it on the stack with the rest. “Breakfast?”

  I check my watch; it is ten thirty. “Maybe just some toast. I’m meeting the girls for lunch in two hours.”

  “Of course. Can I offer you a slice of this amazing caramelized white chocolate apricot brioche made by my favorite granddaughter?”

  “You may indeed.”

  When you slice the rich, buttery bread topped with crunchy bits of pearl sugar, you get a swirl of white chocolate, which now also has hints of caramel flavor from having been roasted, and chunks of apricot. It is a good one. Herman loved it and immediately said we would have it in the rotation all summer and to order more apricots.

  Bubbles hands me two thick pieces of my bread, lightly toasted and lavished with butter. It is delicious, if I do say so myself.

  “So, where are you girls headed today?” Bubbles pours us both tea from the battered and chipped china pot that had been her mother’s.

  “Kiki’s Bistro.”

  “Ooh la la! I do love their liver and onions.”

  Gack. “I know you do, Bubbles, but that is seriously gross.”

  “For a fancy chef person, you certainly do have pedestrian tastes. Liver is delicious, and good for you.”

  “I’m a muscle-only girl. If the meat had a larger purpose, I’m out.” Seriously, that whole “rooter to tooter” thing just squicks me out.

  Bubbles sighs dramatically. “Poor girl. The wonders you are missing.”

  I’m perfectly fine with my inability to choke down offal. I don’t mind an off-cut like oxtail or even a crispy duck tongue garnishing a salad, but the whole innards thing? Ugh. “Well, I just prefer that my sweetbreads are literally sweet breads. Can’t fault a girl for that.”

  “I suppose. Do you still have time to help Kiev with me before you go?”

  I check my watch. “Yep. Let’s do it.”

  It takes us barely twenty minutes to have eight fat Kievs all lined up. Bubbles drizzles some melted butter over the tops and then puts them in the fridge, ready to bake later.

  We wash up, and I give her a kiss on top of her head before going back upstairs to make myself presentable for lunch. She is shrinking at a rapid rate. She wasn’t a tall woman to begin with, but I never used to look down at her. This tugs at my gut a bit.

  When I get to my room, I see that I have another email.

  Wedding Girl—

  My assistant mentioned that you were from Chicago. I believe you may, in fact, be a genius, and I apologize if my original email was dismissive of your services. This idea is terrific and I’ve already booked the suite. Thank you for the suggestion. We may not have much in common, but luckily we are all Northsiders, so the Cubbies trump everything. I’m wondering if you had any ideas of a place to go after? My best guess is that the group will want to head somewhere post-game, and the idea of ending up at the Cubby Bear with drunken sorority girls makes my skin crawl. And if possible I’d like to avoid the kind of bar where people will start ordering rounds of shots and suggesting ending the night at VIP’s Gentleman’s Club. I can have transportation organized, so that isn’t an issue.

  Really appreciate your help.

  Best Man

  I notice that he has sent this not in reply to my original note but as a new question, which means he is paying full freight on it, despite it technically being a follow-up. For some reason this seriously endears him to me. I do like making ten dollars before I digest my breakfast.

  Best Man—

  Hmmm. Afterparty is a little bit trickier. What if you planned something out of the box instead of just going to a bar? Something active. My best recommendation would be WhirlyBall. The Chicago location also offers lasertag for those who aren’t on the WhirlyBall court, they have food and drink packages, so you can make sure that those who are continuing to party are also continuing to eat so that they don’t get overly hammered. Again, play into the guys being guys thing, competitive spirit, keep their minds off the fact that there are no G-strings to pop dollar bills into, and just distract them with clean fun. WhirlyBall is open till midnight, so it makes for a plenty late enough night. If that doesn’t appeal, my second guess would be to reserve some lanes at the Diversey Rock ’n’ Bowl, pre-order pizzas and buckets of beer. Whichever you pick, when you are done, just to completely avoid the issue, have your transportation take you from there to Five Faces Ice Cream Shop for a late night sundae. By the time they have all sobered up a little with sweets, after a night of being a kid again, hopefully naked ladies will be the last thing on their minds, and they’ll be ready to go home.

  Wedding Girl

  Wedding Girl—

  Again, cannot thank you enough, I think I will go for the WhirlyBall option, and had no idea that there was still a late night ice cream joint in Chicago, ever since Zephyr closed I’ve been bereft.

  Best Man

  Oh. My heart. Zephyr was a magic place for me. Bubbles first took me there on one of our sleepover nights, when she decided we needed French fries and ice cream for dinner. It was a wonderful art deco place, with deep booths upholstered in cobalt blue and sparkly silver vinyl. The sundaes were enormous, and everything was made in-house, from the ice cream to the hot fudge and caramel sauces to the real whipped cream, served unsweetened in a heavy glop with serious substance instead of sprayed from a can and so full of air it melted away into nothing with your first spoonful. Zephyr was a traditional hangout for me and Ruth in high school, especially because we both had serious crushes on their particularly gorgeous waitstaff: for Ruth, a blond stunner named Josie; for me, an actor/waiter named Patrick. Neither of them ever called despite our leaving our numbers written on the checks, with tips a little ostentatious for teenagers.

  Best Man—

  Sigh, Zephyr was one of our favorite hangouts in high school. My friend Mikey could take down one of their 64 oz shakes in under 15 minutes. I still dream of their Yellow Brick Road sundae. The parking lot was the scene of one of my most embarrassing car-related debacles.

  Wedding Girl

  I send this and then wonder why I did. Seems terribly unprofessional of me, but his tone threw me a bit. Oh well. Too late now. I pull on my one pair of “going out” jeans, thanking god as I always do for NYDJ and their magical stretchy denim that allows me to go out in public looking like a civilized human and not ten pounds of sausage stuffed in a five-pound casing. An oversized ultrathin sweater, two reluctant swipes of mascara just so Ruth doesn’t give me shit, and some clear lip gloss. I shake out my hair to see if I can get away with wearing it down, and determine immediately that I cannot, and it goes back up into a somewhat less messy bun. A pair of small diamond hoop earrings and my granddad’s ancient Rolex with the worn brown leather strap that Bubbles gave me as my culinary school graduation gift. I try to put on a cuff bracelet, but at my new, exciting “the hell with it all” weight, it is tight and uncomfortable, so I swap it out for a simple leather strap that has adjustable snaps. I’m perfectly acceptable in my current state and actually looking forward to a nice lunch. I’m just about to head downstairs when my computer pings.

  WG—

  I was a War of the Worlds guy myself. And how on earth did someone drink that whole milkshake and not throw up???? We used to order one for a table of 6!

  I’m afraid you can’t just leave a car-related debacle reference out there and not clarify the specifics.

  Best Man

  I check my watch. I have a few minutes. It seems strange to be sharing a story like this with someone who emailed me for advice, but I opened the door, and he seems to want to know. And maybe he will recommend me to other guys for advice, which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Plus every reply he
has sent has cost him money, on top of the two initial full-price emails.

  Best Man (can’t shorten that to BM, it sounds scatological)—

  The week after I got my driver’s license my dad got paid for a legal case with a 1985 Cadillac Sedan de Ville. Don’t ask. At any rate, the thing was massive, which was great because I could fit like eleven friends into it. A bunch of us piled in and headed for Zephyr. Their parking lot across the street was perpendicular parking, not diagonal, and there was a spot available next to a Chevy Nova. In pulling into the space with the damned land yacht, I somehow managed to swing the thing around so that my driver’s side mirror was behind the side mirror of the Nova, and the rear bumpers were practically touching. So I couldn’t even try to pull straight back, because I would have taken off one or both side mirrors, and if I tried to turn it out at all, I would have taken off the bumper on the Nova for sure. We had to go inside and get all of the busboys and waiters to come out and physically PICK UP the Nova and move it over so that neither car got damaged.

  I should probably admit to the fact that in that week alone, I had locked the keys in the car at the DMV after getting my license, AND sideswiped a car changing lanes on Ridge Road. Luckily my driving and parking skills are much improved.

  WG

  I hit Send before even thinking about the fact that I am one hair shy of flirting with some random guy whose name I don’t know who paid me for advice on the Internet. Whatever. Considering my current state of affairs, this is about as close to meeting a new guy as is likely to be possible.

  “You know if you don’t stop that, you will be a bald Snatch!” I hear Bubbles as I come down the stairs, and find her trying to get the dog to stop licking his leg. He occasionally gets anxiety and chews off the fur on his feet and legs in patches. I give her a kiss and tell her I should be home by two thirty or three, and ask if she needs me to pick up anything.

  “Can you just pop into the bakery and grab some yummies for dessert?”

  Good lord. “Bubbles, I’m a pastry chef. Just tell me what you want for dessert and I’ll do it!”

  “I don’t want you to make a fuss.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Any requests?”

  She gets a wicked gleam in her eye. “Well, you know how your father loves chocolate pudding.”

  I laugh. “And I wonder where he gets that?” Chocolate pudding is Bubbles’s favorite dessert as well. “Chocolate pudding it is.”

  Ruth is waiting alone, staring at her iPhone, when I get to Kiki’s. I was delighted that she wanted to come here; it is wonderful classic French bistro food, and very old-school. Which means that it is blissfully separate from the Chicago fine-dining “scene,” so no one will know who I am. I suppose it is somewhat lucky that I can’t currently afford to go to any of my old favorite haunts.

  I move in to give her a hug, but she holds up her finger at me to indicate that whatever she is typing furiously needs to take precedence. I wait, tapping my foot and feigning irritation and impatience until she finishes.

  “Sorry, darls, you’d think the financial world would survive without me for two hours.”

  “Well, you are teddibly teddibly impawtant.” I fake a bad snooty British accent.

  “True,” she says so seriously that it gives me pause, and then we both crack up.

  “Stop! No hilarity without me!” Jean says, flying into the foyer in a swirl of scarves, her long hair streaming behind her. She envelops us both in one big hug.

  “Good lord woman, is Stevie Nicks your stylist? Who dressed you?” Ruth says, looking Jean up and down. “For someone who designs clothes for a living, you look like an escapee from Coachella.”

  Jean blushes a bit. “I design costumes, not clothes, and Hanna likes it.”

  We follow the impeccably French hostess to our table and order a bottle of sparkling water.

  “Holy crap, you sealed the deal,” Ruth says with a snort. “I would recognize this particular glow from a mile away!”

  Jean blushes harder. “It’s been a very nice few days.”

  “Have you been out of bed at all?” Ruth asks.

  “Well, I’m here,” she says with a grin.

  “Oy,” I say. “Should I start planning the wedding cake?”

  “I am not one of those cliché les-beans, I would have you know; I don’t believe in shacking up ten minutes into a new relationship.”

  “True enough. She made me wait till our sixth date.” Ruth smirks wickedly.

  “And look where that got me!”

  “Alright, ladies, behave. I want to hear Jean’s magical love story.”

  “It was less magical and more organic,” Jean says. “The lead got a wicked case of midnight food poisoning, so we got called in at the crack of dawn to get Hanna geared up for her understudy role; she was nervous, excited, freaking out, and asked if I would be there for the show. She said if she knew I was out there in the dark, it would calm her. I promised I would and said we could go out to celebrate after. And she leaned over and kissed me and asked if we could stay in and celebrate instead!”

  “Svengali. How old is this child?” Ruth asks.

  “She is twenty-nine.”

  “Well, not as bad as it could be, I suppose. Have you actually had any conversation yet, or is it all just grunting?”

  “Seriously, Ruth, be nice. I think it’s great,” I say, since Jean, unlike Ruth, is a relationship girl, and I know it’s been a long time since she has had anyone in her life or her bed.

  “We talk about everything. She’s very lovely, smart. And what’s more? She said she was worried that I was losing weight and asked if everything was okay. Apparently she likes me curvy.” Jean smiles ear to ear.

  “So we get to actually eat lunch?” I ask.

  “Absolutely. I’m starving!” Jean says, and we settle in to look at the menus. Not that we really need to look; we all usually get the same thing.

  After escargots swimming in garlic butter, steak with the crispiest, thinnest fries imaginable, and simple salads of butter lettuce in a peppery Dijon vinaigrette, we share a cheese course, followed by a trio of desserts: lemon tart for me, blueberry bread pudding for Jean, and a poached pear for Ruth. Jean eats like she hasn’t had a decent meal in ages, which I suppose she hasn’t.

  I fill them in on Amelia’s wedding cake and the responses, Ruth tells us about the partner at her bank who is about one side-of-the-mouth sexual comment away from a lawsuit, and Jean waxes poetic about Hanna and the first flush of a new relationship. It’s sweet. Ruth never really talks about her romantic life. Jean once told me that Ruth is something of a loner lesbian, preferring uncomplicated hookups to actual dating. She says that one of these days Ruth is going to fall, and fall hard, and it will be all nesting and house buying and hers-and-hers engagement rings, but she doubts it will happen before Ruth makes full partner.

  “So, I can’t stand little Miss Glitter Face over here; she’s too lost in love. What’s going on for you? Any more news from Herman Jr.?” Ruth asks.

  “Nope, it’s been quiet. Keeping my head down, doing the work.”

  Ruth shrugs and snags the bill. “This one is mine, ladies,” she says in a tone that indicates we shouldn’t pretend to argue with her. Ever since she accidentally slipped a couple of years ago and told us what she makes, Jean and I have never pushed back when she reaches for a check. We always offer, we always expect to cover our share, and Ruth is good about not picking up every tab, but when she does, we just thank her and move on.

  “Can I bring Hanna to girls’ night next week?” Jean says as we are walking to the door.

  “No,” Ruth says. “This one is for you and me to meet Amelia. If you are all wrapped up in your girlfriend, you don’t focus. You can bring her to the one after that.”

  “Fine. I’ll talk to you all later.” Jean heads up the block to her battered Volvo station
wagon.

  “You good? Really?” Ruth asks me, looking deep into my eyes.

  “I’m as good as I can be for now.”

  “I’ll take it. Call me tomorrow?”

  “Done.”

  She kisses my forehead in a rare moment of physical affection and then jumps into her UberBlack car to head back to work.

  When I get home there is a note from Bubbles that my parents had to cancel. One of Dad’s clients got arrested late in the day, and there is some family that the Department of Children and Family Services found in total crisis. Consequently, Bubbles decided to head out to an afternoon movie followed by dinner, and hopes I have a lovely evening.

  Feeling half relieved and half disappointed, I change my clothes and go to the kitchen to make the chocolate pudding anyway. It will be delicious tomorrow and will keep me feeling somewhat productive. When I get it into a bowl and into the fridge, I call Snatch over.

  “Who wants to go for a walk?” It’s hard to believe that I’m hungry again after my enormous lunch, but I am. And there is a great little hot dog stand nearby.

  I snap on Snatch’s collar, and we get a good half hour in before I feel that I’ve earned my dinner. I know just what I want. A junk food mini-binge. We stop at the hot dog stand, and I order two jumbo char dogs. Once they are wrapped up for me, we head over to the little convenience shop around the corner, where I buy a huge bag of crunchy Cheetos and a pound of mini Swedish Fish. I’m a sucker for anything gummi, and if I’m going to keep my face out of the pudding, I’m going to need some treats.

  Back at the house, I grab some paper towels and a ginger ale from the fridge, take my sacks of indulgences upstairs to my lair, with Snatch on my heels, huffing up the stairs, and get set up on my bed. I bring over my laptop, open my email, and there it is, Best Man’s reply. I scroll through it with one hand while I stuff hot dog into my face with the other.

  WG—

  Wow. That is pretty impressive on all fronts. If it makes you feel better, I had my first fender bender while driving on my learner’s permit. And the car I ran into was a police cruiser. Not kidding. I was also in a big pile up on the Edens in high school, but that one wasn’t my fault, I was like car number 11 out of 15 on a snowy day. Scary, but at least no one was really hurt. I too am a much better driver than I was back in the day. So other than great advice for wedding people and much improved driving skills, what else do you do well?