Throughout literature (and lower forms of entertainment) the Father of the Bride is an object of just ridicule, a ditherer with a hopefully ample wallet sweating on the sidelines while people actually competent in such matters orchestrate the wedding.
I recently proved to be no exception whatsoever during the marriage of my younger daughter, Anna, in Livingston, Montana. I had no part in any of the central decisions that made the several-day party implacably smooth except in the area of food and wine, and even in the matter of food I deferred somewhat to my older daughter, Jamie, now a novelist, but formerly an employee of Dean & DeLuca in New York City. I was mostly the not very tiny voice yelling “more” and more we had including crab and shrimp from Charles Morgan’s company in Destin, Florida, bread and cheeses from Zingerman’s in Ann Arbor, Michigan, including Grafton cheddar, Comté, Papillon Roquefort, triple crème l’Explorateur, Vermont mountain cheese, Stilton, also roasted Italian olives. I almost forgot Dunn’s Irish salmon, and patés including splendid wild mushroom loaf. I also almost forgot the oysters and the actually prime Delmonico roasts, the Norwegian poached salmon, the two hundred pieces of duck confit made by the chef Mark Glass. There were about a hundred in for dinner and another fifty came along later.
Somehow they drank nineteen cases of wine, not to speak of eating all the food. Years ago while cooking beef ribs at his house Jack Nicholson told me that “only in the Midwest is overeating still considered an act of heroism.” We’ll have to throw in Montana, too. Of course drinking a lot is de rigueur at weddings except in the dourest confines of yuppiedom.
Since it was my sole delegated responsibility I gave the wine my full, somewhat manic, attention, testing twenty or so Côtes du Rhône over a year’s time in case lots, before settling on a Sablet blanc and Bandol for the red. I’m very good at this sort of testing compared to my miserable college years; my pratfalls are in the arenas of the novel and moviemaking. The Sablet is quite wonderful though I drink very little white wine. The Bandol decision was easy as I had been drinking and serving it for years. I rather like this sturdy, suggestive red with everything, and often with nothing at all. It invariably has made me happy, recalling as it does the primal flavors of sun and earth, rather than lightbulbs and supermarkets. It is also affordable if you can withstand the usual nagging of your accountant. Whenever life begins to crush me I know I can rely on Bandol, garlic, and Mozart. It will also be served in vast quantities at my funeral. This opinion was obviously shared by those at the wedding, the legion of the hollow legged. I salute the Domaine Tempier. This pleasure in geologic time is no more evanescent than life herself.