Lies and Weddings(66)
Pepper-Crusted Rooibok Carpaccio | Wild sage oil and caper berries
1992 Screaming Eagle “First Flight of Eagles” Cabernet Sauvignon
Smoked Quail | Lardon gastrique and yuzu honey
1972 Domaine Comte Georges de Vogüé Musigny Blanc Grand Cru
Yellow-Backed Bream with Andalusian Pan con Tomate | Sauce vin jaune
2019 Chateau de Beaucastel Chateauneuf-du-Pape Blanc Roussanne Vieilles Vignes
Kagoshima A5 Wagyu Beef | Smoked apple, pumpkin, and jus de boeuf
Dominio de Pingus 1995
Golden Kelp Panna Cotta with Sea Buckthorn Caramel
Preserved Lemon Cake with Elderflower Drizzle
2018 Nino Franco Vigneto della Riva di San Floriano Superiore
menu created by eric de carysforte
To most people on the planet, the wedding banquet of Christian Radford and Amanda Joy Finch would have constituted one of the most unforgettable experiences of their lives. The dinner took place among the rare botanical specimens of one of the most enchanting gardens in the world, the Jardin Majorelle.[*] One of the world’s greatest chefs had created a delectable feast of exorbitant meats and precious seafoods caught that very morning off Mutsu Bay in Japan and flown in by private jet, in the same way that an equally exorbitant and precious pop star had been flown in as a surprise to serenade the wedding guests.
But Rufus was not having much fun. His mind was preoccupied by the quagmire that he found himself in. He was caught between his own desires and his sense of duty to his family. He had been commanded by his aunt to seduce and charm Martha Dung, a woman he barely knew and was inclined to neither seduce nor charm. Yet, he couldn’t help but be fascinated by the spectacle that seemed to accompany this woman. She was certainly the center of attention at this wedding—whenever she moved, the swarm of tech bros buzzed in formation around her like giant gnats while her security team kept a watchful eye from the periphery. Over the glacially paced dinner, Rufus witnessed the game of musical chairs around her table as every brogrammer and wantrepreneur took turns getting his fifteen seconds of face time. Even now, it looked as though there was a TED conference orbiting around her on the dance floor. How was he supposed to get her attention?
As Rufus ate dessert and watched the action from behind a giant cactus, Rosina, glittering in a gold and silver sequined cheongsam, stealthily slipped into the seat next to him and whispered in his ear, “What are you doing?”
“I’m enjoying this lemon cake and watching a bunch of wankers try to dance.”
“Stop stuffing your face—you should be out there stuffing Martha’s face!”
“What if she doesn’t like lemon cake?”
“With your tongue, silly boy!”
Rufus winced at the image. “Auntie Rosina, times have changed. You can’t just go up to a woman anymore and even introduce yourself, much less shove your tongue down her throat. It’s all beside the point anyway because I’ll never be able to get a moment alone with Martha. She’s constantly surrounded by groupies.”
Rosina glanced over at the dance floor. “Look at that hairy oaf dripping his sweat all over her. You need to cut in before she drowns.”
“I believe that hairy oaf invented the cloud.”
“Who cares? You think she wants to be dancing with the Hairy Cloud when she could be dancing with you? Now, I’m going to have a little chat with Christine Lagarde, and by the time I’m done squeezing some intel out of her on the next set of rate hikes I expect to see you at the very least twerking with Martha.”
Rosina got up and began jabbing her fingers through Rufus’s hair. Then she reached down and unbuttoned two buttons on his shirt, exposing most of his chest. “There. Much better. Now, get on with it!”
She took off, leaving Rufus feeling rather icky. He was suddenly transported back to Greshamsbury Hall, age nine, and perched on a stool in his bathroom as a stylist slathered a big blob of mousse onto his head. Rufus grimaced as the woman pointed the hair dryer right into his face, almost burning his forehead as she mussed up his hair. Arabella entered in a stunning tartan Vivienne Westwood ball gown, ready to be photographed by Nick Knight for Dazed and Confused magazine. She assessed her son, who was going to be a prop in one of the fashion shots. “There. Much better.”
“It just needed a bit of texture, ma’am.”
“He inherited my Chinese hair, it’s always been too straight and too black. I wish he had the curly luscious locks of his sisters.”
“Are you kidding? I’d kill for hair like his! It’s divine,” the stylist cooed.
“You think you want straight hair, but I promise you don’t. Now, can we put a bit of makeup on him? Maybe blue lipstick and a little glitter eyeshadow? Something to make him look a little cooler next to me.”
“Absolutely, ma’am. We’ll transform him into a mini Malcolm McLaren.”
Rufus sat on his stool, not daring to move an inch but absorbing every word. As long as he could remember, his mother had always fussed over the way he looked. It was as if she disapproved of his appearance—his shock of black hair was never quite right; his eyes, even though they were thankfully not slitty (his mother’s words), were spaced too far apart; his chin was too sharp; and his nose was all wrong.
“Where did that nose come from? It’s neither Chinese nor English,” she would say as she paraded him in front of one plastic surgeon after another, as each one tried to convince her that he was too young for rhinoplasty and if she would simply be patient he would grow into his nose. Not content, she would fixate on his physique, badgering his endocrinologist about the fact that he wasn’t growing fast enough. He remembered being asked to leave the examining room on one visit when he was thirteen, and the minute he was outside he could hear his mother whispering loudly through the door: