Page 104 of Fathers of the Bride
Actually, she was right. But I wasn’t willing to give up any ground in the moment. I asked, “Are they vegan food scrapes?”
“Some of them, but not all. Hers will be, of course. The rest of us… there’s a steakhouse in Beverly Hills that throws away filet mignon the minute it’s thirty-six hours old. Can you imagine? I mean, yes it sounds decrepit but apparently it’s perfectly edible.”
All I could imagine was that I’d be eating an old steak that had been thrown into a filthy dumpster where it sat for God knows how long until it was plucked out by our caterer—who was hopefully wearing gloves. And hopefully not charging us twenty-five dollars a pound.
I had a momentary vision of everyone in the wedding party sick to death with food poisoning. Okay, it was more than momentary. It took nearly a whole minute to shake the image of everyone puking all over my baby blue hydrangeas.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” I asked. “I mean really, really safe.”
“Of course, it’s safe. Do you know how much perfectly good food is thrown away in this country?”
“A lot?”
“Awholelot. The caterer told me how many tons, but I forgot. See, I didn’t need asensitivitycoach at all. All I needed was my future daughter-in-law to inspire me.”
“Do you know what he’s making?”
“Oh, no. He has to decide the day he harvests. He never knows what’s he’s going to find. I will say this. He’s famous for his mystery meat in béarnaise.”
Though I thought it was a disgusting idea, Kelly would love it. Ever since she was able to use the word WHY, she’d been asking impossible questions like: ‘Why are there starving people when we throw away so much food?’ As much as I’d wanted say, ‘Go ask your father.’ I stopped myself and took a stab at explaining the way capitalism functioned. That raised the question, ‘Why is capitalism more important than people?” At that point, I gave up and said, “Go ask your father.”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you their name.” She paused, so I was expecting something clever. Instead, she said, “Dumpster Dining. Isn’t that cute?”
“Uh-huh,” I said because I didn’t think it was cute at all. It focused attention on the worst aspect of this idea. “Upcycled Cuisine” would have been better. Or “Foraged Affair.” Why was I never around when people needed me most?
“You’re right,” I admitted to Pudge. “Kelly will love it.”
The caterer arrived a few minutes later, and that took Pudge and Lissa’s full attention. Something wasn’t going right, and Pudge went full Karen on the caterer. I decided not to find out exactly what was wrong.
Bradley came over and, as we watched his wife berate the caterer, under his breath said, “Women. Can’t live with them, can’t live without—”
The look on his face said that he’d suddenly remembered who I was. He said, “Oh God,” then called out “Jeffery!”
While Bradley turned himself in, I went over to meet the caterer, whose name escaped me almost immediately. He recognized me and said a few complimentary things. Nice enough to make me regret forgetting his name.
“You don’t actually get things out of dumpsters, do you?” I asked.
“Of course we do. That’s the whole point. We do reward tipsters: cooks, waiters, produce managers—the people who let us know when decent food is thrown away. We’re there within the hour.” He smiled happily at me. “Do you know as a country we waste nearly forty percent of the food we produce? Our goal is to recover what we can and teach people that food doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful, and that sell-by-dates are really just suggestions.”
Kelly and Avery arrived, and then a bit later the groomsmen and Martha the maid of honor. Pudge snagged Kelly and introduced her to the caterer. I was making notes about what I’d say during the rehearsal portion of the rehearsal dinner. I had everything on three-by-five cards, but I wanted to not look at them. My hope was that I’d know the plan so thoroughly I wouldn’t look once at my notes. That it would all be spontaneous and effortless.
Andy arrived, dressed very nicely in a black suit—an untrendy suit that fit, a crisp white shirt and no tie. I was thinking that his fashion sense seemed to have improved since he and Raj had broken up, when he sighed, “What is Raj doing here?”
“I don’t know. He’syourex-fiancé.”
He aimed himself at Raj, but I grabbed him by the arm. “I’m sure Pudge invited him. They seem close. Or maybe starstruck by each other might be a better way to look at it.”
“When you break up with someone it’s really better if they actually go away,” Andy said.
“After tomorrow you don’t have to see him anymore. How about we get you a cocktail,” I suggested and dragged him into the house.
Our drinks tray—which you might recall since I did at least four shows on it—is on the buffet in the dining room. I’d filled the ice bucket about a half an hour before. I made him a limonata and gin. He and I had been drinking them during our very brief reconciliation.
“Thank you,” he said, then looked at me very seriously. “It’s almost here.”
“Yeah, it is.”
We were in the midst of a verklempt moment when a gruff-looking guy in a greasy blue onesie showed up in the doorway. Okay, it wasn’t really a onesie. But it was a full-on one-piece work outfit, and I don’t know what else to call it. Jumpsuit? Coveralls? Something to that effect.
