The Wedding Dinner at Kebab Cafe

With Chris and Estelle, Zora and I took a car to Ali’s. We were fashionably late. Hey it’s our wedding dinner; they’ll wait. Ali says his place maxs out at 25. We got 27 in there somehow. But I don’t think we were all sitting down at the same time.










The traditional wedding… pies. Nicole made these with Tamara’s help. Nicole makes the best fruit pies in the world.


The, uh, bride and groom.


Egyptian brothers. Ali issued a command for everybody to pace themselves. There was to be a lot of food. Actually, it was the perfect amount of food, I thought.


It was raining hard outside. And hot and humid inside.





After a few rounds of food, people started taking tables and chairs out into the street. Zora and I got worried. We never would have approved a belly dancer, had we been consulted. It was all Ali’s doing, and it did set a nice tone for the whole evening. She was the real deal, from Egypt, and with impressive stamina. Zora liked the fact that wasn’t skinny “like all these phony belly dancers.” She explained: “When they’re too skinny, you’ve got nothing to watch!” She’s thought about this more than I have.


I’m not sure what this transaction was about.


This one’s pretty clear though.








Estelle was very cute and really loved the belly dancing.


No wedding is complete till the bride is dancing with money slapped on her forehead.


post belly dance.


kissy-kissy


lovey-dovey


By the way, that’s a great map behind me. It’s from 1918 or something like that and has the block-by-block ethnic composition for all of Manhattan.


I was making some toast. It didn’t match Jim’s earlier toast. He brought us all to tears. Despite there being no rings and Jim not being at the actually wedding, he nailed this part of the Best Man job.

So there Zora and I are standing on chairs. I’m going on about friends, love, food, blah, blah, blah…




Then we toast and Zora proceeds to fall backwards into the bathroom. Class-y!
But she managed not to spill her wine, which actually was kind of classy.




This was right before the fall.





The rain stopped.


The ever popular Katie (and Joel).





Chillin’ at the bus shelter.





Aaron, ladies’ man.





Joel, John, and Deb.





The tiara made its rounds. But then so did Tamara’s bra.





Yeah, like you need another... bottle.


There were about 38 bottles of wine between about 27 people. Results aren’t final yet, but Tamara is by far and away the favorite to win the celebrated award for most hung-over the next day. I got off surprisingly easy. But the walk home was pretty drunk and surprisingly difficult. Zora, meanwhile, had to be at work at 10 or so. I slept till 1.

Going to the chapel...

City Hall. Actually, it’s the municipal building across the street from City Hall. But I like it’s (slightly run down) grandeur.


Here’s the way it works. You go through a metal detector. Take the elevator up to the 2nd hall and go to the left. You have to get your marriage license ($35, payable in money order only) at least 24 hours before you can get married. So he did that on Friday. The place was a mob scene on the Friday before the 4th of July weekend. You have to wait in three different lines. One to get a form, another to turn in the form, and a third to pay.

So on Tuesday we take the subway down to city hall for the wedding ($25, payable in money order only). The lines aren’t so bad. But we have no witness. Patrick, Zora’s dad, shows up first. So we put his name on the form and start the wheels of bureaucracy rolling.

Window number nine.


Religion costs extra.


The “chapel.”


Poor Zora hadn’t really slept the night before and was very tired.


So after you turn in your completed marriage license form, you get sent to the hallway to wait. Around this time Tamara and Karl show up. They call you into a room about four or five couples at a time. This room had good air conditioning. From this anteroom, you get called one party at a time into the actually ceremony room.

Room number one.


Getting our $25 worth! In the power vested in her by the State of New York, she pronounced us husband and wife!


The bride is kissed


Next!


It’s official.


Hey, they’re not married!


Peter and Zora. After the wedding.


I either look very drunk or very pleased with myself.

Meanwhile, before we got married, this couple needed a witness for their wedding. Zora was sitting next to them and agreed. They didn’t speak much English. As soon as the marriage woman started talking. He said, obviously well rehearsed if a little too eager, “I do!” He got to say it again when she finished.


You got one job as a witness, and it’s to keep your eyes open! Standards are pretty lax, to say the least.


Meanwhile, Jim and Daphne were picking up Vietnamese sandwiches, as instructed. Pork. Spicy. Delicious.


The shop doubles as a jewelry store.


The red bag coming down the hallway is filled with Bahn Mi (Vietnamese sandwiches) and is being carried by Jim, who was somewhat peeved that he missed the actually ceremony. But you can’t fight city hall.


Meanwhile. Karl got suckered into being this couples witness. So we had to wait for them as well. Luckily, we had sandwiches to eat. If there's an angry father coming after Karl, he might be in trouble. We had to pass a "no more witnessing" rule at this point.


This is truly one of the most diverse places you’ll see. Everybody who gets married in New York City has to come here (or one of the other locations—each borough has one). No exceptions. Rich, poor, white, black, native, foreign. They’re all here.


nice hat!


So we all went our separate way. We packed Zora’s dad, Patrick, on the A train to Howard Beach and JFK. Zora and I headed uptown. Uh, taking the subway back from my marriage. Is this what I agreed to?


We went to Penn Station and somehow met our friend Chris, who had no cell phone, no knowledge of where to go, and no plan for us meeting. I still don't quite understand how this worked. That’s her baby girl, Estelle, enjoying her first ride on the N Train.


We got home, the baby cried some, Zora slept some, and we all got ready for dinner.

This, by the way, is the first known picture of me Zora together. It is from college in the Fall of 1993.

July 4th: Fried Chicken, Independence, and a Bachelor Party of Sorts

Tamara serving up one of many, many platefuls of really good fried chicken. It’s the same fried chicken we always make now. There just happens to be an article about Edna Lewis, the very woman behind this very recipe, in today’s New York Times.



Then at the end, Ali did his magic and took the fried chicken, poked holes in it, and spread spicy garlic butter and raw garlic on top. This was then finished in the oven.


I begin reading of the Declaration of Independences. All the S’s looked like F’s.


“When in the course of human events...” Miss Robins is no doubt very proud of me.


Some rable rousers at our party then started lighting fireworks in the street. I and my fingers stayed a very safe distance away, despite Tamara’s very explicit linking of firework handling and manhood.


About this time Ali mentioned that he was going to go and smoke some sheesha. That’s when I declared, in my best imitation of some B-movie line, “Bachelor Party!” Yes, a bachelor party of mint tea and sheesha. Wild indeed.

Karl at first said, and I quote: “I can't go. I have to help Tamara clean up.” Speaking of manhood and lack thereof... Eventually he came to his senses and all six men left at the party piled in Ali’s van.


Deluxe it ain’t. But as a former Con Ed van, it does have a yellow mars light on the top. When I have borrowed the van, Ali has (for good reason) refused to tell me where the switch is. But on this ride, Ali turned it on, in honor of the wedding. I still don't know where the switch is.


This particular sheesha joint (there are many here) feels very authentic with tented over astro-turf backyard and a box of kleenex on every table.



Secure in my manhood, I ordered apple flavor.


Jim, ever doubting, went with the manly straight stuff.


Narguila technology. There are many parts.


Somehow, and not surprisingly, Ali served himself and all of us.





Caffeinated and tobacconated, went proceeded to the private Slovak social club across the streets where Ali is a regular. Ali is not Slovakian.


Two pigs heads appeared. Oink. Oink.





Zora’s father, Patrick, taking an aggressive bite.





Ali is more tender...


I drink. Jim wanted to pay the bill. Somehow the check for 5 of us drinking heavily for four hours came to $59.74. I think Ali beat him to the punch.





Like any good bachelor, I was ordered to get on the bar.


If only it weren’t for the low ceiling.


We left around 4 and I got home around 5. After riding Patrick back to Zora’s old place where he was staying, I had to “ghost” a bike with a flat rear tire back to my place, about 2 miles away. There are more fun things to do after a night of drinking. But all was well. Zora woke up when I got back and didn't get any more sleep, poor thing. I slept till noon.

Orange juice

It's sights like this that makes me know Zora is the woman for me.