A Letter From Paris: The Wedding Rehearsal From Hell

A Letter From Paris: The Wedding Rehearsal From Hell

By John Sherman

Peter Nicoll, the sage of The Ashby

Photo © by Leonard ShapiroInn

It had been a very warm September these many years ago. The upcoming Friday was reserved by a notable member of Middleburg's gentry. His daughter, who lived in New York, was to be married the next day. The Ashby Inn had hosted many, many of these rehearsal dinners. No problema.

Our protocols required a tent to be brought in, our hedge against unforeseen elements. It was a grand blue and white striped affair. Tables for ten, cloths, chairs and standing heaters (just in case) arrived Thursday. The buffet menu was set—the unadventurous tenderloin and scallop potatoes, then profiteroles. Flower arrangements would arrive the next day. Routine. Friday the temperature fell 20 degrees. By noon, the clear plastic sides of the tent had been dropped and tethered. Extra Sterno cans were stashed behind the buffet. Staff working the party were advised to dress warmly.

Peter Nicoll, whose restaurant days go back to Middleburg's L'Auberge in the 1970s, was scheduled to work with me that night. Peter was right out of central casting: tall, rail thin, sharp features with the bearing of a captain of the guard. Add a pleasant, but compelling, accent from his native Britain. I can't imagine anything happening on a restaurant floor that Peter hadn't dealt with. Until, perhaps, that night.

Most of the party arrived by limousine. They were not from around here. For many of them, such affairs were held at the Waldorf or the Plaza, Manhattan venues that were warm and crowded with servers. Not the cold darkness of some hick town in Appalachia.

The ladies were of a piece, as if they had emerged en masse from Bergdorf's dressing rooms. Spaghetti straps holding up little black cocktail dresses gave little protection when what was needed was a Hudson blanket. Their swains arrived in dark suits. Slicked back hair was de rigeur back then. To their credit, they bravely lent their jackets to the ladies.

The bar was alive, giving off some warmth. The kitchen was setting up the buffet, doubling the Sterno. The tables sparkled with silverware and orchids. Only the mother of the bride had a frown. A deep, forbidding frown.

The heaters were struggling with the size of their challenge. About a half hour in, I watched the nearest one lose its glow, then go dark. Helpless in mechanical crises, I found Peter. He walked over and fiddled with propane connection. The glow came back. The evening was saved.

In the sequence of one-two punches, the second came a half-hour later as guests were yucking at a slide show of the couple in a dancing contest. One of the servers, Martha, her face stricken, reported a ground squashiness in one of the corners. I knew in a second what was happening. I thought about hijacking one of the limos and heading for Dulles, destination wherever.

Of course, the septic system had balked. The odor was on its way. Our only break was that the growing swamp was somewhat removed from the tables. The young were dutifully eating and chattering, but it was obvious the chill inside was capping the evening's earlier effervescence.

The mother of the bride, in her fur, was clearly in distress, which was clearly headed toward hostility. These Mama Bears start to growl at the least threat to perfection. She had no idea what was coming. There was no faucet we could turn to bring a sudden end to the nightmare upon us. I imagined the heels of those Pradas covered in mud as the party began pressing toward the entrance. I could hear the foul mouth of Papa Bear as he threatened not to pay. Who could blame him? My pathetic defense would be that it was not unusual for a surprise Canadian cold front to move in and the septic field to fail. All part of the package.

While I was frozen in private despair, Peter started for the entrance and the kitchen's herb garden. I did not witness this septic disaster as the mother of invention. He returned with a bundle of uprooted sage plants. Turning his back on the party, he stripped away what he needed. Two or three of the staff provided a loose shield as Peter, standing on a folding chair, laid his pile on top of the nearest heater.

Soon the sage began giving off a scent, but not the usual odor of sage. A server, Martha, immediately said "pot," which, given the crisis, seemed perfectly acceptable.

The profiteroles were left on plates. No one wanted coffee. The general mood was "let's blow this joint.” Be my guests. The inn gods, a quixotic lot, seeing that we were on our knees, relented. No one had to tie their napkins around their noses. The Pradas emerged like new. The bill was silently paid.

Mama and Papa Bear were not invited to the ceremony, as Peter Nicoll bowed to receive the inn's Croix de Guerre for heroism under fire.