Ketchup and the Beverly Hills Hotel 1977

JULY 11, 2020

I’d say “keeping a straight face” was the theme of planning my entire (first) wedding.

Finding a few fancy white dresses that I really liked, I was very excited to take my mom back to the shop.  As soon as we walked in the store on that crowded Saturday morning I realized it was not a bridal shop but a shop for buying a dress for your Quinceañera.

My mom and I were trying to keep a straight face while I, a 20-year-old Jewish girl, took several fancy Quinceanera dresses into the fitting room which was filled with teenage Latina girls. The sales woman was kind and brought a chair so my mom could sit. 

“I’m plotzing from this place” my mom says to me. I try not to laugh. We started our day at the snobby bridal shop in Saks.  There, the sales women were very snooty, and didn’t appreciate my feedback that everything they had me try on was too itchy.  Here, the sales woman was kind, even though my mom and I were the only two not speaking Spanish. And I’m sure my mom was the only woman speaking English with Yiddish seasoning. 

One dress in particular, was very pretty, and I felt beautiful in the way I think all brides should feel. It was off the shoulders and had layered tiers of sheer fabric. And it didn’t itch! Not at all! I sashayed out of the fitting room. Did a spin! Look ma, no bra! Big grin on my face. She was mortified at my loud announcement but at the same time she started to laugh. How much, she asked?  The dress was less than $200, which made us both very happy.  I was already getting a wedding at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I didn’t want my working parents to spend thousands on a wedding dress.

We did wind up going back to Saks and buying a veil.  I tried it on with my new quinceañera dress that I brought in with me. The sales woman’s nose was so high in the air all we could see were her snobby nostrils. But I didn’t give a fuck. I made a pig face behind her back and again my mom and I busted up.

The days spent planning my wedding hold very wonderful memories of time spent with my mom. She was enjoying being the mother of the bride and I was enjoying being the bride.

My favorite memory was when my mom and I went to the Beverly Hills hotel to meet with the banquet manager.

Back then there was just one person who was in charge of everything for your event. His name was Otto Bangamann and he had a very thick accent. He was barely 5 feet tall, or as my family would say, no bigger than a fart.  We had to finalize the menu, which gave our guests a meat or fish option. 

We were escorted down to Mr. Bangamann ‘s office. It was a very glamorous space, but small; I still remember the heavy gold metal chairs, with the faux bamboo backs, upholstered in peach velvet.  My mother could not budge her chair it was so heavy, but Mr. Bangamann being ever the gentleman, helped her get seated.

He then proceeded to discuss the menu with us. The one thing that stood out was my mother trying to explain to him how in addition to the very elegant dinner we were serving, we had to have Heinz ketchup bottles on every table.  Of the 10 tables of 12 people each, at least 60 of those people were flying here from New Jersey—Our East Coast family. My entire family has a unique affinity for Heinz ketchup.

Apparently, they can’t even begin to eat a meal unless there’s a bottle is in plain sight. And it can’t be anything off brand. It’s got to be the real deal. And it can’t be decanted into a fancy bowl because then it is unverifiable. And that is, of course, unacceptable.

Once I was out to dinner with my family when the idea that the restaurant was using Heinz bottles but filling them with off brand “catsup” came up. This started a table war with everyone patting out puddles of ketchup on their plates, dipping their fries and taste testing. My dad called the waitress over and my mom politely asked if they were filling the Heinz bottles with non-Heinz ketchup.  She looked mortified, going one step further and saying she had filled the bottles herself and yes, it was all Heinz.  She then quickly cleared all our ketchup-filled plates. And brought us the check. We looked at each other knowingly. There was no fucking way that was Heinz ketchup and we left.  My dad still left her a good tip. 

Back at the catering office Mr. Bangamann was looking a bit mortified himself.  Mrs. Klein, he said to my mother, I’m sorry, vee cannot have catsup on zee tables. Zis iss not done at zee Beverly Hills Hotel.

I look over at my mom and I see her holding her face so she doesn’t laugh. Kind of pinching in her cheeks.  Just seeing this classic move of hers makes me start to laugh. I’m terrible at holding in my laughter.  But I was very good at fake sneezing so I throw in a few sneezes. This odd outbreak of sneezes breaks the tension and gives my mom time to compose herself. And stop her face pinching. 

We do not wish to insult Otto Bangamann. He’s been very nice and very accommodating. But between his thick accent, and his attack on Heinz ketchup, I can see my mom winding up for a come-back.  “Mr. Bangamann, she begins, while I appreciate your position, this is our affair. We must have ketchup on every table. It must be Heinz. And it must be in the original bottles. One bottle per table.” I am now doubled over coughing trying to camouflage my laughter. My mother is back to pinching her own face. Wisely Mr. Bangamann moves the topic forward, to that of the cake.

 How many layers would you like on the cake? My mom and I look at each other— how the hell should we know? My mom asks what he suggests, how many do we need to feed 100 guests? He launches into a big explanation on layers of cake, and layers of people. My mom is again face-pinching.  I’m not even breathing, I’m trying so hard not to laugh. Next, he puts on teeny-tiny wire framed reading glasses and gets out a very long piece of paper.  Just the site of this long paper makes my mom and me both grab our cheeks.  What the fuck could this long paper be? Would he next don a velvet coat and play a trumpet?

He starts reading down an enormous list from the game show $100,000 Pyramid. Category: things you’d find on a wedding cake. Whatever he asks, we just nod yes.  It’s the best we can do.  We are mother-daughter cheek-pinching bobbleheads. Then he clears his throat and like any good game show host, he reads us back our answers: 
Layers - 3 plus topper
Cake - White
Icing - white
Beading: yes
Strings of pearls: yes
Garlands: yes
Dots: yes
Bows - yes
Piping - yes
Flowers - yes
Petals - yes

He suggests lemon filling. I say fine, thank you.  My poor cheeks.  If he doesn’t stop, I’ll have to start sneezing again.  Finally, his checklist is done, the ketchup dilemma not really solved but I can only hope that the message was delivered by my mother’s raised eyebrows.

 I overhear my mom talking long distance, to her cousin one night.  “Harold, you wouldn’t believe the aggravation we had with this pip, Mr. Bangamann.   He didn’t want to put Heinz out on the table. He kept suggesting that they serve it in a silver dish. I had to explain to him so many times that we need the facocktah bottles of ketchup on the facocktah table. I told him if he doesn’t have the ketchup on the table, my entire family is going to ask for the bottle so he might as well put them out ahead of time.”

On the night of my wedding the rabbi came to our room for us to sign our marriage certificate. While we were signing there was a knock at the door. Somehow, we accidentally had two rabbis show up to marry us. We also had a wedding crasher at our party, and not Owen Wilson. Bad omens? As soon I began my walk down the aisle on my father’s arm I started crying.  Another omen. Later that night I thanked my parents for a beautiful wedding. I say to my dad it was such a wonderful party - I wish people could get married more than once in their lifetime. I meant that in the best way possible, because it was such a fantastic party. 

In hindsight it was a terrible thing to say and the color drained from my dad’s face, faster than the money drained from his checkbook. Also, in hindsight, how was I supposed to know that I’d wake up one day and want a divorce? But that night of my wedding, the wild child in me felt tame.  I saw how happy my family was. I was finally settling down. With or without ketchup, I was turning out okay.