Father of the Bride (12 page)

“I’ve been finding out about caterers,” continued Mrs. Banks in the bland tone of one conscious of having done her work while others fiddled. “The only thing to do is to have one come out from town. Sally Harrison had one for little Sally’s wedding. She was crazy about him. His men were efficient and courteous and he’s done a lot of weddings for people we know so he understands the sort of thing we want and she said he was very reasonable. Let’s see. She gave me a card. I put it somewhere. Now let me think—”

Mr. Banks picked up his book, knowing that he wouldn’t be troubled by the subject again for at least half an hour.

On the following Saturday morning Mr. and Mrs. Banks drove to town and visited the offices of Buckingham Caterers, specialists in luncheons, dinners, buffet suppers, cocktail parties, wedding receptions, christenings, lodge meetings and general social functions.

Mr. Massoula, who appeared to be in charge, was obviously a young man who knew his way about. He had a long upper lip decorated on its lower edge with a tiny mustache, reminiscent of a fringe on a lamp shade. His double-breasted, blue suit was sharply creased and his thin, black hair was plastered down so tightly that it might have been painted on his skull.

Wedding reception? Yes indeed. Buckingham Caterers were fully equipped to take the whole affair over. Mr. and Mrs. Banks didn’t need to give the matter another thought. Just specify the date and they could romp off to the Arizona Biltmore or Palm Beach or Palm Springs or wherever it was that people like Mr. and Mrs. Banks spent their time. The point was they
did not need to worry.

Buckingham Caterers had handled some of the biggest and most expensive weddings in the country. Mr. Massoula let it be understood clearly that they were not in the habit of putting their shoulder to weddings which were not in the upper brackets of the social scale.

“But first,” said Mr. Massoula, reaching under the table and producing several large photograph albums, “I’d like to get your ideas about a wedding cake. Once the wedding cake has been established Buckingham Caterers take over. Now here is a very popular cake. That’s Brenda Santanya. You know. Daughter of Princess Fraschisi by her second husband.”

Mr. Banks looked at his wife. They hadn’t even thought about a wedding cake. To Buckingham Caterers it was obviously not a matter for discussion. Mr. Massoula turned over dozens of photographs showing brides and grooms about to destroy hideous cakes of every size and shape. One could see that the cakes were different, but the brides and grooms all looked alike.

Mr. Massoula had an encyclopedic memory for names and social connections. The First Families of the nation passed in review before Mr. and Mrs. Banks. They had never heard of most of them, but they were pleased by the way that Mr. Massoula assumed that all these people were their buddies.

“That’s one of Tommy Manville’s weddings,” he said. “We’ve done almost all of them. Good old Tommy. Delightful person, isn’t he?”

Mr. Massoula was obviously a young man who knew his way about.

Mr. Banks was about to say “Yes” but checked himself. He began to wish he had chosen a less socially prominent caterer.

“Ours isn’t going to be a big reception,” he ventured.

“Small and select. I understand perfectly. Buckingham Caterers can handle them any size.”

Mr. Banks’ fingers tightened on the edge of the table. “We don’t want a cake,” he said with dignity. Mrs. Banks’ admiring glance fortified his courage.

“What! You don’t want a cake! Why—”

Mr. Banks shot the works. “I think cakes are cheap,” he said. “Every Tom, Dick and Harry has cakes. We don’t want one.”

Mr. Massoula looked at him with new respect. “I understand,” he murmured. “It is true that the
very
select weddings no longer have them. We must show them, though. Most people wouldn’t understand if we didn’t.”

“Of course not,” said Mr. Banks. He dreaded the moment when he had to tell Mr. Massoula that this particular reception was to be held in a place called Fairview Manor.

Mr. Massoula brought up another large album from under the table. “While you’re here I’d like to have you look at a few shots of some of our receptions.”

As he looked Mr. Banks’ dismay turned to panic. Buckingham Caterers not only dealt exclusively with the uncrowned heads of American Industrial Aristocracy, but apparently they catered only on huge estates and in palaces. He wondered how he could get out of the whole thing gracefully. Maple Drive had suddenly become a kind of suburban back alley. Quite obviously his home would look like somebody’s gate-house to Mr. Massoula.

But it was too late. Mr. Massoula had pulled out a pad of forms. “Now we should get some idea of what you would like to serve. We will supply the champagne of course.”

Much to his chagrin Mr. Banks turned slightly red. “I’m sorry. What I mean is I didn’t know. That is to say I’ve bought the champagne already.”

Mr. Massoula’s face clouded with politely restrained annoyance. “Then we will have to charge corkage, of course.”

“Corkage?”

“A dollar a bottle for drawing and pouring.”

“Oh, Delilah can take care of all that.”

“If you are referring to one of your house staff,” said Mr. Massoula firmly, “you must understand that in an affair of this kind the caterer takes over completely. Any other arrangement would cause friction in the servants’ quarters. I am sure
you
understand, madam.” He smiled at Mrs. Banks as mothers smile at one another over the heads of their wayward young.

Mrs. Banks returned the smile. “Indeed I do.”

“By the way,” said Mr. Massoula, “are you serving French champagne?” Had he said, “You are serving French champagne, of course?” the meaning would have been the same.

“As a matter of fact I’m not,” said Mr. Banks in a tone that acknowledged the eccentricity of his decision. “I just think it’s a shame to waste good vintage champagne on these kids. So I’m giving them American,” he finished lamely.

Mr. Massoula nodded understandingly. “That will be all right with us,” he said graciously. “Now, about the food. Let’s see. The wedding is in early June. How about a large cold salmon at either end of the table with the various salads in great bowls in the center? Another dramatic arrangement is a cold sturgeon in the middle of the table. Now for the ices, we pride ourselves on a very special effect with colored electric lights embedded in a huge cake of ice, capped—”

“But,” interrupted Mrs. Banks timidly, “we hadn’t intended to have that kind of a reception.”

Mr. Massoula gave her a puzzled look and laid down his pencil. “What did you have in mind, madam?”

Mrs. Banks fingered her handbag nervously. “Well, we thought that maybe some small assorted sandwiches—different kinds, you know—and ice cream and little cakes—”

“Of course you can have what you wish, madam, but that is usually what we serve at children’s parties.”

“Well, it’s what we
want
” said Mrs. Banks with a sudden harshness that in turn surprised her husband.

She realised that neither of them had ever before catered in such a hovel.

“Of course. Of course,” said Mr. Massoula, making notes. “And I can assure you that you will be pleased when you see the results. Now where will the reception take place?”

“Twenty-four Maple Drive, Fairview Manor,” said Mr. Banks belligerently.

“Is that a club or a country estate?” asked Mr. Massoula.

“It’s my
home,
” replied Mr. Banks with dignity.

Mr. Massoula bowed slightly in deference to the generic sacredness of all homes. “What attendance do you anticipate?”

“About a hundred and fifty.”

“Is it a large house?”

“No,” said Mr. Banks defiantly. “It’s a small house.”

“Then of course you are planning for a marquee on the terrace.”

“I have no terrace. If they overflow the house they can tramp around in the yard.”

“And what if it rains?” asked Mr. Massoula with a rising inflection, glancing at Mrs. Banks. “What if it pours that day?”

“That’s just what /said,” put in Mrs. Banks. “Stanley, what
would
we do if it poured?”

“A marquee is very inexpensive,” reassured Mr. Massoula soothingly, “and even if it doesn’t rain you really
should
have it. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll have one of our field engineers go over the property. We always have to do that anyway to study circulation problems and that sort of thing.”

“Listen,” said Mr. Banks desperately. “We’ve talked about everything but how much this is going to cost.”

“The cost,” said Mr. Massoula, “will be relatively small for a party such as you describe.” His tone indicated that the kind of party which Mr. Banks had described wasn’t much of a party. “For the
minimum
refreshments which you have specified the cost will be a dollar and a half a head, plus corkage, plus the cost of the marquee and sundry small expenses. For that Buckingham Caterers take
complete
charge, including experienced and courteous men who have been with us for years. Don’t consider the cost, Mr. Banks. It will be trifling compared to the service which you will receive.”

•  •  •

Apparently the social season was dragging a bit, for a few days later Mr. Massoula arrived in person at 24 Maple Drive. He was accompanied by a sheepish-looking character with handlebar mustaches, whom he referred to as Joe. Mrs. Banks assumed that he was one of the field engineers whom Mr. Massoula had spoken about, although he looked more like a horse-car conductor.

Mrs. Banks was a meticulous housekeeper and she had always been proud of her home. Now, as Mr. Massoula and Joe wandered from room to room with cold appraising eyes and occasional mumbled comments, she realized that neither of them had ever before catered in such a hovel.

“Small,” said Mr. Massoula.

“I’ll say,” agreed Joe. “How many head did you say?”

“Hundred fifty.”

“Jesus,” said Joe. Mrs. Banks was afraid he was going to expectorate, but he refrained with an obvious effort.

“Circulation’s bad,” said Mr. Massoula.

“I’ll say,” agreed Joe.

“We’ll have all the windows open on that day,” assured Mrs. Banks.

“What
we
mean by circulation,” said Mr. Massoula kindly, “is the
guest
flow from room to room. A room with two interior doors has minimum circulation. A room like this with only one is—is—well, it’s a death trap. Where does this go?”

Mr. Massoula pulled the knob of a door. It came off in his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Banks miserably. “It does that unless you push it in first. That just goes into a closet anyway.”

Mr. Massoula placed the knob on the dining-room table. “Is this the pantry?” The two men seemed to fill the little room.

“Small,” said Mr. Massoula.

“Dark,” said Joe.

Mrs. Banks snapped the electric switch. Nothing happened.

“Bulb’s busted,” said Joe. “I seen enough.”

Mrs. Banks followed them gloomily back to the living room.

“Circulation in this room’s O.K.,” said Mr. Massoula.

“Only one that is,” said Joe.

“But you couldn’t get more than a hundred and twenty-five in the house.”

“Squash ’em like bugs if you did,” said Joe.