A Wedding Reception with Hundreds of Guests

War | Nag | Omit | Ramadan | Downpour | Vouch | Loop | Gridlock | Allegro | Filipino

The buffet is stacked up like gridlock. A line of pantsuits and notched lapels, Saturday morning at the DMV deep, getting testy because the beef tips are gone. Cocktail dresses scowling that table five already got coffee.

Filipino hostesses pound out a steady loop – kitchen to serving table, kitchen to serving table – their loyal fingers clamped around the blistering edges of chafing pans. Carmelita winks at me. Bites her lip. Sweat drips off her nose and splashes in the crisped potatoes with rosemary salt and goat cheese, then she heads back to packhorse more broccoli rabe before a war starts. Up front, next to the gift table, the four-piece bounces out a simple allegro because we settled that T-Pain and Rick Astley don’t get played until after the lemon and elderflower cake is served.

Rhonda starts to nag. I told you this wasn’t enough, she says, tugging at her bustle.

Table nine was called up but sunset isn’t for 47 minutes so they stayed put, except for the woman with enough shit piled on her plate that I venture she’s aiming to feed most of Jakarta. Which tells me she’s on the bleed, on account that you don’t risk being honor killed on Ramadan just for wild mushroom polenta cakes. Though I can vouch that they’re fucking great.

I don’t know why you didn’t hire more of them, Rhonda says.

Waiting out a downpour on the sixth tee yesterday, Theo tells me “If they don’t appreciate your presence, maybe it’s time to give them your absence.” Something I chose to omit when Rhonda asked how the round went.

The last sip of my spiced pear martini disappears. Time to find Carmelita.