The Way of the Gods - Part III

tsubaki flowersThis is part three of a three-part series.  Part one can be found here.  Part two can be found here.

A shrine official told us five friends of the bride that we had to wait in the chrysanthemum lobby again, as the shrine would be sponsoring family pictures.  My wife and I thought it was an appropriate time to put the required monetary gift in the pink, frilly envelope that I had bought at a twenty-four hour convenience store for 310 yen at 5:45 that morning after I had finished my hellish night-bus ride to Yokohama.  Before making the trip down to Kanto, we had scoured the Internet for guidelines on how much to give as this was the first time we had been to a wedding as a couple.  

Just as I was about to stick the correct amount of money in the envelope, the rest of the procession returned to the room with the pink carpet where we were waiting, which made us look like assholes; I panicked, and the envelope and cash fell to the floor and flew around comically in the wind created by the door opening.  I had to scramble around on all fours to grab all the cash and put it in the envelope - and I had to do this without creasing the bills (Money with wrinkles is considered in poor taste for a wedding gift, and appropriate for a funerary offering.) - before any more people came into the room.  

Maybe five or six relatives of the groom witnessed me rolling around on the floor grasping for loose cash before I managed to conceal my activity under one of the many brown, industrial folding tables and surreptitiously hand the envelope and cash to my wife so she could go to the bathroom and prepare everything in polite privacy.  

While she was in the bathroom, the shrine baba came and told everybody to head outside and start boarding the microbus.  I obviously couldn't go yet, since I was waiting for my wife.  There was an awkward moment where the shrine baba visibly wondered whether or not to approach me and ask why I wasn't boarding the microbus, but then she decided that the risk was too great for her - me being a foreigner and common knowledge being that Japanese is too difficult for foreigners to understand; she instead just pretended I didn't exist.  After about ten minutes, my wife came out of the bathroom and whispered, "you would not believe how small that envelope is!"  The shrine baba informed her - of course - about the microbus waiting for us outside.  We put on the airs of embarrassment that etiquette demands for taking so long, and pretended to kind-of-run all the way to the microbus parked twenty feet away.

The reception was at another facility, Meiji Kinenkan, which was where the Imperial Constitution of Japan had been hammered out some one hundred and forty years before in the presence of the Meiji Emperor himself.  After a ten-minute, meandering microbus ride through the crowded streets around Harajuku Station, we entered the drive of a very ostentatious building which managed to retain the general architectural theme of Meiji Jingu while simultaneously looking thoroughly Modernist.  

We followed the rest of the group inside and gathered in a massive waiting area, where we passed our pink, frilly envelope with the proper amount of unwrinkled cash to two of the five friends of the bride manning a table at the far end of the room.  Here we received a seating chart for the reception and sat at some secluded chairs at the edge of the room to gossip and people-watch.  A waitress dressed in black brought us refreshing orange juice and oolong tea.

We opened the seating chart to realize that the reception would have close to 300 people, 250 or so of which were priest/salarymen from Meiji and Yasukuni Shrines.  Then we were escorted outside to have pictures taken with the bride and groom (still wearing the same elegant yet seemingly uncomfortable, formal wedding attire) in a giant courtyard surrounded by heavily-groomed cherry and tsubaki trees.  Even though it was only mid-February, the tsubaki flowers were almost in bloom, and I began to realize why Japan celebrates the arrival of spring at the beginning of February.

Next we entered a large hall at the top of a wide, sweeping staircase and took our assigned seats at the table closest to the door.  There was a seat reserved for my one-year-old daughter, but we had left her with my mother-in-law and brother-in-law, and this made us miss her a lot.  I looked at my place: there was a personalized note wishing us luck in Boston, and I wondered whether the bride and groom had gone through the painstaking trouble to write personalized notes to each and every guest.  This note lay on top of two plates, with six sets of silverware arranged on all sides.  Five glasses of various shapes lay in the direction of the unassuming flower arrangement at the center of the table, beyond what I assumed by virtue of their small and intricate cuteness could only be the dessert utensils.  And this was not ostentatious: a card written in French and Japanese originally underneath my personalized note revealed that we would be treated to a twelve-course French meal.  More silverware and plates would accompany later courses.  I'll try to translate throughout when necessary.  Please forgive my myriad mistakes. 

I looked around the room, at the baroque chandeliers and the other suits, the elegant bouquets of flowers and the gilded screens, and felt slightly underdressed.  The officials from Meiji and Yasukuni Shrines were all wearing matching suits - reifuku, my wife called it - appropriate for both weddings and funerals, doubtlessly paid for and provided by their respective Tokyo mega-institutions.  This uniform consisted of a plain, black suit, eggshell-like white shirt, and shiny white tie.  I, on the other hand, was a virtual beacon of color, sporting a navy blue blazer, a light blue shirt, a thick, royal blue tie, royal blue socks, gray pants, a dark burgundy belt, and dark burgundy leather Oxfords.  

A tuxedo-clad waiter brought me a muffin of some sorts - actually an escargot, coquille Saint-Jacques et crevette aux fines herbes en croute (snails, scallops, shrimp and Jacques Herb crusted) muffin of some sorts.  I had to resort to the iPhone Google search to confirm that one takes silverware from the outside-in at these sorts of events.  It had been a long time since I had frequented any nice restaurants, and iPhone Google has been a reliable crutch for poor short-term memory skills for the past two years or so...

I'm a slow eater; and I like to savor what high-quality food I consume, so the slow pace of the course was much to my liking.  Along with the muffin-like thing, we were brought Japanese sake - poured into the smallest of the five glasses nearly to the brim - and a light champagne for a tall, thin glass.  After dipping in to our snail muffins, everyone toasted to the new couple, pounded booze and was given immediate refills, which some of us learned to sip more slowly as an ubiquitous, corny, facility-provided M.C. introduced himself.

The respective employers of the bride and groom talked about what good and faithful servants they were, and the second course came.  This entailed salade de foie gras grille et de homard (salad of foie gras and lobster grill).  This wedding was my first time to eat both escargot and foie gras, and I must say that I greatly enjoyed the snails (they tasted like my favorite shellfish: mussels), but I could have done without the fattened goose liver paste.  Luckily, Kirin beer was poured into the third of five glasses around this time, and it seems no beverage can complement foie gras like a nice, cold lager.  

Various shrine officials took turns speaking.  Many of their compatriots were already drunk and leering by this point; and a few of the speakers stammered, stuttered, and stumbled over their words red-faced.  These speakers, about five in number, bestowed their own no-doubt experienced and wise counsel on the new couple, imparting timeless gems like: marriage is about love; marriage is important; don't forget to take marriage seriously; and have babies.  Towards the end of this round of speeches from colleagues of the groom, we were treated to the third course: consommé Théodora, a light, asparagusy chicken broth.

It was at this point that I began to pay more attention to the front of the large room.  There were probably ten or fifteen tables between us and the bride and groom, who were sitting in front of a golden screen identical to that of before, but three or four times as large to fit a much larger room.  To their right was the podium from which the various speakers broadcasted blessings and words of wisdom, and to their left was a string quartet.  Up to this point I had assumed that the Vivaldi and Mozart I had been hearing was coming from speakers lost somewhere in the electronically complicated, be-chandeliered ceiling of the room, but sitting up a bit allowed me to perceive two violinists, a cellist, and a bassist, to the left and slightly below the couple's elevated stage.  The fourth course arrived: gelette de sole et de crabe avec sauce au safran (gelete sole and crab with saffron sauce) accompanied by white wine.

I loved everything about this course.  I tend to order fish at nice restaurants, since I find cheap fish generally to taste poorly but can easily tolerate cheap beef, mutton, pork, or chicken.  I also greatly enjoy the taste of sole or flounder, but find it hard to find boneless sole in Japan, a nation which scorns eating fish without bones the same way Westerners look down upon taking the crust off a sandwich.  

The M.C. announced that the bride and groom were going to take a break to change clothes.  Finally! I thought, they deserve some comfort after being so formally dressed all day!  A spotlight followed the bride as she exited past our table to applause, and the same showmanship accompanied the groom's temporary departure ten minutes later.  While they were out, we were served granité au champagne rose, as a palate-refresher before the second entree.  This was a boozy and sophisticated kakigoori.

The bride and groom returned twenty minutes later, this time wearing an expensive-looking Western style wedding dress and a tuxedo respectively - not comfortable at all I think, although I have never worn a wedding dress, nor a tuxedo.  We were served the sixth course: filet de boeuf en croute, farai de champignons et de fines herbes avec légumes chauds (crusted beef tenderloin, Farai mushrooms and herbs with warm vegetables).  I have no idea what a Farai mushroom is, but they were delicious: pure white, unadorned, light, and fresh.  The warm vegetables consisted of broccoli and asparagus, which went nicely with the filet.  The beef was tender, red, bloody, and delicious.  The crust was good too, but unnecessary, I thought.  This was all served with a heavy red wine.  I usually don't go for red wine, but this was excellent.  I had a few glasses.  The bride and groom cut the wedding cake in the Western style, and the groom fed a small piece to the bride.

It was both disheartening and invigorating to think that we were only half-way through the course, numerically speaking.  My wife and I, as well as the other guests at the table, now our chatty friends, were already quite full, and the room had descended into a sort of chaos.  No one was paying any attention to whomever was speaking.  Drunken priests/salarymen were stumbling all over the room like toddlers at play.  Several tables were completely empty: lonely plates piled up before being tragically taken away, to be put out of their misery back in the kitchen.  Other tables had thirty or forty chums gathered around them, laughing and cavorting loudly.  I took a break to use the bathroom and found a long line and a scene: four or five younger priests/salarymen were babysitting an older priest/salaryman who was lying on the floor vomiting.  As I walked back to my table, I crossed paths with a waiter on his way to the bathroom to bring the puking priest some water - situated tastefully on a platter with lemon slices and an elegantly folded warm towelette.     

It was time for salade melangée aux fines herbes (Mixed salad with herbs).  This was delightfully bland after the aforementioned richness of crusted beef, red wine, and vomit.  A waitress approached with Suntory whiskey, which I declined.  She refilled my red wine and Japanese sake glasses.  Around this time, the room went dark - perhaps a shrewed way to reel in the party-goers for the event's grand conclusion.  We were treated to an already-spliced-and-edited digital video version of the day's events followed by a projection of photos from the bride and groom's respective youthful days, free from the procedural expectations and burdens and joys of obligation that mark adulthood.  My wife was in a few of the bride's pictures.  I expected Solsbury Hill by Peter Gabriel to accompany the slideshow, but we got a more tasteful, less cliched Beatles acoustic melody instead.  Sorbet aux framboises et glace aux pistou en mille-feuilles (raspberry sorbet and ice cream pesto mille-feuilles) were gently brought to the table.

Shortly after this, we were served melon et fruits de saison plus wedding cake.  I normally don't care for melon, but ate all of it in the spirit of enjoying myself.  The wedding cake was light and creamy, with strawberries and other cut fruits mixed in with three-layered frosting.  The seasonal fruits in question were blackberries and raspberries; but - this being February - I was curious where these seasonal fruits were coming from.  Were they imported?  I asked a waiter, which my wife seemed to disapprove of.  He disappeared for a few minutes and came back to tell me the blackberries and raspberries were from Shizuoka Prefecture, at the base of Mt. Fuji.   

Coffee came, and, after consuming much booze, having sat in a dark room for a while, and being so full from good food, I was grateful for a caffeine pick-me-up.  Shortly afterwards came an assortment of petit fours.  These were of white chocolate, heart-shaped variety, dark chocolate squares, and a crusty type.  We took one of each and split them as best we could in order to maximize variety while minimizing stomach explosion.  When I had first glanced at the card upon arriving, I had been looking forward to mini eclairs and Napoleons, but at this point I was glad there would be no more temptations.  As we nibbled on these sweets and sipped our coffee, the M.C. performed a few corny magic tricks with giant cards and linking rings which everyone was too drunk and listless to appreciate.

The reception was over.  The couple lined up right next to our table by the door with their respective parents; tears flowing freely, each said thank you and goodbye to all the guests.  We lined up one by one and thanked the relevant parties before departing individually into the wild Tokyo night just outside Meiji Kinenkan.  It was now close to seven o'clock.  The whole event, from the time we had arrived at Meiji Jingu, to the time we left, had comprised more than eight hours, every single moment of it unimaginably enjoyable.  Compared to the austerity of the ceremony and the elegance of the reception, traveling back through Harajuku and eventually to my wife's brother's apartment in Yokohama first by foot and then by train was like the final scene from a zombie movie where it's all reached critical mass and the house can no longer be defended.  Back in Yokohama, safe inside my brother-in-law's apartment, I hugged my daughters and immediately fell asleep.