Page 51 of Fathers of the Bride
“Kelly? But she’s an infant.”
“I don’t know how it happened, but she’s twenty-four. I know it’s a big ask—the wedding is December eighteenth. In our backyard. A hundred and seventy-five guests. Well, maybe two hundred. Ish.”
“Oh my, that’s soon. Well—as it happens, you’ve caught me just in time. I’m leaving the business at the end of the year. Myhusbandjust sold a bestseller.”
“Wait. You got married and didn’t invite me to the wedding?”
“We invited you. You didn’t send an RSVPora gift.”
“Did you get married two years ago?”
“Roughly, yes.”
“That was right after Andy and I split. I was barely functional. Checking off the ‘I will not attend’ box and mailing the invitation back was too much effort.”
“I might just forgive you if you spend a small fortune on your daughter’s wedding.”
“That’s exactly my intention.” And, since he was a very good caterer and I wanted him, badly, I decided I should make amends. Even though I had absolutely no interest, I said, “Tell me about your husband’s book.”
I turned onto San Vicente Boulevard and listened to Dermont with one ear. Well, half an ear.
“The book is calledThe Girl’s Girlfriend’s Girl. Don’t worry, the title has nothing to do with the actual story. It’s just that they’ll publish almost anything with ‘girl’ in the title and hubby wasn’t taking any chances.”
“And it’s already a bestseller, congratulations.”
“Itwillbe a bestseller when it comes out.”
“Oh, well, confidence is good.”
“Oh no, the publisher has forced the book chains to buy enough copies to put it on the list. It’s a fait accompli.”
“Well, wonderful.”
“So, your daughter’s wedding. Tell me what you want.”
“Because of space considerations, it will be buffet style. We’ll need meat, fish, vegetarian, vegan and gluten-free options. I’d like a sushi station. Possibly a pasta station. All top notch, of course. There will be passed appetizers, four, I think. We’ll need wait staff and an open bar. I don’t need to do rentals through you, and I think I’ll be doing the cake elsewhere. Your thoughts?”
“Leg of Lamb carved at the buffet served with fresh mint jelly, phyllo wrapped halibut, shiitake polenta casserole, barbecued tofu, grilled veggies—though I’d also like to add a vegetable display. I’ve been doing the most amazing things with pumpkins of late. I’ll text you some photos. Yes to sushi. For the pasta station, I assume you want a chef making it fresh?”
“Yes, please.”
“Appetizers. I have this trailer trash line that sounds awful but is truly wonderful. Pigs in a blanket made with the most heavenly sausage from this kosher butcher on Fairfax wrapped in to-die-for biscuit dough, stilton cheese puffs, seared celery filled with crème fresh, melon wrapped in a prosciutto that will bring you to your knees.”
“Can I come in and taste those?” I asked. He was making me hungry.
“Of course. We do our client tastings on Fridays at noon. Let me know when you can come, and I’ll make sure they’re on the menu.”
“You’re a doll,” I told him. “You still do a chocolate fountain, don’t you?”
“Of course!”
“I love you.”
“Of course, you love me. Everyone does.”
“Now, Dermont—”
“Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good.”
