SUZANNE CALLED ME UP one morning. Things had quieted down by this time. She was working hard down at the station, Larry was managing the restaurant on weekends and taking an accounting course at night on top of that. They were busy with the puppy of course, always the puppy. And they’d bought this cute living room set, sectionals. White, naturally. Try talking a pair of newlyweds out of a white sofa, that haven’t started a family yet. They just can’t picture what lies ahead.
“I got this great idea last night while I was lying in bed,” she said. “I’m going to give a dinner party. For the two sets of parents. You and dad, and Larry’s folks.”
Now, my daughter was never exactly Betty Crocker. I’ll never forget her making quiche this one time, back when she was in high school. She just stuck a hunk of cheese on top of the pre-baked pie crust and poured a little cream and egg mixture on top. Said she figured it would melt and blend in, once she put it in the oven.
But the other thing about Suzanne is, once she sets her mind to doing something, she does it. And not halfway either. So you knew it wasn’t going to be any take-out pizza dinner she’d be serving us, or even spaghetti or hamburgers. You knew you were in for a gourmet experience.
“I don’t know, Susie,” I told her. “Joe and Angela seem like nice people, but they don’t have that much in common with your father and I.” I mean, Joe Maretto wasn’t exactly the kind of person you could sit down with and say, “Did you read that article in yesterday’s Wall Street Journal?” I doubt the man has held a golf club in his whole life, unless maybe he keeps one behind the bar at that restaurant of his, to use on unruly drunks. The other thing I didn’t want to mention to Suzanne was, these people are Italians. They know their food—as you have only to look at Larry’s mother to realize. I didn’t want to see Suzanne getting in over her head. Didn’t want to leave her open to criticism, you know, when this really wasn’t her forte.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” she said. “I already bought a recipe book. It’s by this woman named Martha Stewart who’s a real expert at entertaining. There’s plenty of pictures.”
So it was all set. The four of us were going to Larry and Suzanne’s Columbus Day. This was two, maybe two and a half weeks’ notice, but you know Suzanne. Always the perfectionist. I doubt a day went by she wasn’t on the phone to check on some detail or other. Could she borrow my crystal wineglasses? How about Grandmother Miller’s lace tablecloth? What did I think of pear-filled crepes and barquettes with leek chiffonade for appetizers? I won’t even get started in on telling you all we went through over the main dish: should it be Italian, knowing the Marettos, plus the fact of it being Columbus Day? Or did she want to steer clear of Italian food? In the end she went with a pesto-goat cheese-sun-dried tomato lasagna recipe of Martha Stewart’s, with raspberry orange soup for the first course. She was going to have these little individual radicchio leaves with smoked quail and currant sauce and coriander on the side.
What kind of wine? She went out and bought a book about that. I can’t even remember what she ended up going with, red or white. But whatever it was, you knew it was the right choice.
Day of the dinner, Suzanne was a nervous wreck. This is just the six of us mind you—all family. But that didn’t matter to our Susie. She might as well have been cooking for President Bush. Everything had to be just so. And it was.
Larry was so proud of her. Anyone could see that. “Can you believe my wife?” he said, when he was taking our coats. “All I can say is, Julia Child better look out or she could be looking for a new job.”
“How about that idea?” said Earl. “You ever think of introducing a cooking-type show on that cable station of yours?”
Suzanne was looking a little tired. She didn’t say anything. She still had tarts or something in the oven she had to keep checking on.
So we all sat ourselves down on this new sectional sofa of theirs. His mother couldn’t get over the color. “All I can say is, the first thing I buy you, when your first child is born, is a set of plastic slipcovers,” said Angela.
“This is the new style, Ma,” says Larry. “You don’t put slipcovers on a sectional.”
“Yeah, well furniture styles may change,” she told him. “But I’ll tell you one thing that doesn’t, and that’s what babies do in their diapers. And it doesn’t always stay in their diapers either.”
Larry serves us cocktails. They have swizzle sticks, napkins with their names printed on the corner even. I tell you, these kids had thought of everything. “So, Pop,” he says. “How’s it going down at the restaurant?”
“Pretty much the same as when you were there yesterday,” his father says. Then we all just sit there.
“Have you lost weight, Angela?” I say. Not that she was looking exactly svelte, but you wanted to keep the conversation going.
“Who knows?” says his mother. “I don’t step on the scale, the scale doesn’t step on me.”
“Speaking of weight,” says Earl, “have you seen that Delta Burke, on ‘Designing Women’? First she gets married, and next thing you know the woman’s bursting out of all her clothes. Every week you tune in the show, she’s a little fatter. Good-looking woman, too.”
“Think that would ever happen to you, honey?” says Larry, and he gives Suzanne a pat on the rear. One thing I happen to know Suzanne never liked is that sort of thing. Certain gestures you can save for the bedroom, you know?
Suzanne doesn’t say a word. She’s dishing out the soup I think.
“Well I just want to say for the record, that if Suzanne ever did pack on a few extra pounds like that Delta Burke, I’d love her just as much. There’d just be more to love, is all.”
“In my business you have to be very careful about your diet,” says Suzanne. “The television camera puts an extra ten pounds on everyone. So you can’t let your guard down for a minute.”
“Well I for one plan to let my guard down tonight anyways,” says Larry. Who looked like he’d been packing on a few extra pounds himself since the wedding, if you want to know the truth. “Can you believe the spread my girl put on for you guys?”
We sat down to eat. I tell you, this was quite a meal. Though I’m not sure whether the Marettos fully appreciated it.
“Skinny little buggers, these quail,” says Joe. “I guess they were out of chicken, huh.”