The family was sitting comfortably in the most desirable section of the restaurant, awaiting the arrival of their newest member, a son-in-law, accompanied by the youngest daughter of the family.
The patriarch, a famous and highly regarded Broadway performer and screen actor sat at the head of the table, his wife seated beside him. They were filled with curiosity and anticipation. Their daughter’s marriage, only recently revealed to them, had been a small town courthouse affair. How would the young man present himself, and how would they accept into the family a guitar playing poet with a russian sounding name. Most curious and concerning to them was the fact that their new son-in-law, whose father was employed in the academic philosophy trade, did manual labor for employment.
The patriarch’s wife, formerly a dancer, sat alongside the two older daughters. One daughter was an ordained minister, the other, sitting with her own husband, worked the New York City real estate market. A lone son, employed in the sciences, sat alongside the father.
Earlier in the night the newlyweds lay spent on the bed in the Greenwich Village loft belonging to her father. The loft was the in-town apartment he used when working on or off Broadway. The primary family residence was a large wooded estate in rural Westchester county.
The young bride suddenly cried out, her breathing labored, “We need to go! We’ll be late!”
After quickly washing they dressed and hurried down the stairs onto the sidewalk and rushed to the subway. Rain was falling and blowing sideways in sheets.
The subway ride to the Tea Room was unpleasant. Their hair and clothing was soaked. She was filled with angst and felt an awful foreboding, re-living her mother’s treatment of her over the years. He was delighting in the moment. The voices in his head were speaking to him, advising him to absorb and commit to memory every nuance of this adventure. Leaving the subway they dashed through the driving rain toward their destination, the legendary and storied Russian Tea Room.
“There’s Carnegie Hall!” the shaggy and soaked guitar player exclaimed. “Mark my words baby, I’m playing there someday!” The bride cursed, “We look like we’re homeless and strung out. They may not let us in. Mother will be furious when she sees us looking like this.”
The maitre d’ wasn’t certain of protocol for how to gently repel undesirables from the Tea Room’s foyer. The soggy and offensive couple standing before him presented a surreal contrast to the Tea Room’s normal blend of celebrities, elites, occasional tourists, and wealthy diners.
“We’re expected by the SR Marshala party. He’s my father,” the shivering and dripping bride declared.
“Ah… But of course!” the maitre d’ responded, squinting as he appraised the two before him, efficiently calculating the situation. “If you would please follow me.”
The diners they passed on their way radiated resentment, some angrily astonished by the repulsive couple being led through the elegant dining hall. Arriving at the table where the family was sitting, the newlywed poet immediately sensed their disgust and horror- except in the face of the patriarch- who sat smiling, his eyes twinkling with bemusement. ‘Wild dogs run together,’ the poet thought to himself.
Toasts, pleasantries, and subtle probings ensued, then all focused on the menu and the meals they would order. The young couple each ordered an exotic sounding entree with salad. Their meals arrived quickly and the poet husband sampled his dish. He then asked, to no one in particular, “So what exactly is Veal le Bebe? What kind of animal is this?” Silence fell around the table suddenly. He felt a kick to the ankle from his bride. Scanning the table he once again saw faces revealing revulsion and distaste focused upon him.
“Newborn calf,” his bride whispered in his ear. “Don’t say another word. It’s a taboo subject. I told you to keep your mouth shut if you were uncertain or confused tonight!” The young poet looked down smirking and had another mouthful. With perfect timing the patriarch said to the poet, “I listened to your music last night. Really liked Wild Train. Focus on those kinds of songs, son.”
As they picked at their meals the newlyweds heard the real estate sister call out, “So Sis, I see you’re wearing a ring, but I can barely see it from here. It’s so small!” Her face was reptilian and tone of voice a toxic brew of scorn and condescension. The mother’s eyes danced about with rage. The new bride held back tears. The minister sister sat stoic and silent, intrigued by the young man seated across from her.
Indeed, the ring was a twenty dollar five and dime band, purchased by the bride as a reminder of her vows.
CP Butchvarov
2023
Copyright © 2023 by CP Butchvarov