Dim Sum
I try to avoid spending time with Dad and Jean-Ivy as it only winds me up.
Unfortunately, Jean-Ivy’s birthday dinner is mandatory, and she gets to choose the restaurant.
Last year, it was Provocative Cow, a steak restaurant with leather-padded walls and topless male waiters with cow-patterned trousers.
Nobody knew where to look, apart from Woodstock, who ended up getting our waiter’s number.
The year before that was a tapas restaurant, where we were surrounded by flamenco dancers who clicked and clicked as we tried to eat our patatas bravas.
The year before that, the restaurant was pitch black which created a lot of issues, including Josh accidentally elbowing Dad throughout the meal.
‘I’m going to dance on this!’ she announces, and holds on to the centre pole, prances around it, and then, without a worry in the world, grips the pole with her leg and lifts herself up and tries to spin.
The train jolts, Beth falls onto the carriage floor, and we all, including Beth, start laughing.
It’s always a special moment when you can unite a carriage on the London Underground.
‘Your turn,’ Josh jokes. He knows I couldn’t do anything like that in a million years, but I wonder if he wishes I were more carefree about those things. A little more Beth, a little less me.
The restaurant is on the corner of Berkeley Square. Shui is spelt out in giant pink neon lights, and two models are dressed as butterflies dancing in front of the doors.
‘It doesn’t look that bad,’ Josh says.
I squirm. ‘Why can’t we just go to a normal Italian restaurant like most families?’
We are ushered in by the butterflies and led down a candlelit hallway.
A woman in a tight black dress demands our name and leads us into the restaurant.
A concrete Buddha sits cross-legged in the centre and is surrounded by candlelit tables, where people are posing with the food, more so than eating it.
We are shown to Jean-Ivy and Dad’s table.
Couples are meant to mould into each other over time, they usually start dressing in a similar style and using the same vocabulary, but Dad and Jean-Ivy have never moulded, with her gold dress and him in his knitted jumper, they look like guests at a murder mystery party.
‘Oh, look who we have here, the future bride and groom, coming to celebrating my little birthday,’ Jean-Ivy squeals. She stands and wraps her arms around Josh for an awkward amount of time. Then it’s my turn.
Dad stays sitting as he fiercely concentrates on the menu. After being squeezed to death by his wife, I sit down next to him.
‘Hello, Amy,’ he says, glancing up.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘Congratulations on your wedding’ he says, ticking that box.
‘Thanks.’
‘How’s work?’
‘Great. I’m probably going to be promoted to head of department.’
‘I didn’t know teachers could get promoted,’ he says. His eyes don’t look up from the menu. (When I decided to be a teacher and not a doctor, I also signed up for a lifetime subscription to degrading comments about my career.)
‘Well, they do. They get a pay rise and have control over how their department is run. I’ll be the youngest head of department the school has ever had.’
Dad, still looking at the menu, nods in a way that I can tell he’s listening and is (a little bit) impressed. He whips the page over. ‘So, you’ve got this promotion?’
‘It’s in the bag.’
I wait for him to say something encouraging, but instead, he says, ‘Should we order the chicken and the pork dumplings?’
‘Order everything Bobby, we’ve got a growing man here,’ Jean-Ivy says as she feels Josh’s bicep.
‘I’m off the carbs right now, so if there is some steamed veg perhaps?’ Josh says.
‘Steamed veg?’ Dad says, and scowls around the table. He’s about to launch into a ‘what kind of man are you’ rant, but then my stepbrother Woodstock arrives in his red sequin jumpsuit.
‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’ he squeals with animated jazz hands. The mother and son wriggle their fingers together like squid tentacles.
Growing up as an only child of academic parents, I was used to hearing the clock ticking at dinner. I would dream of having a sibling to fill the silence, but since Woodstock came parading into my family, I have longed to hear the clock ticking again.
‘You look gorgeous baby. That outfit is to die for,’ Jean-Ivy says and encourages Woodstock to spin around to display how tight the jumpsuit is in certain areas, and once that is done, he leaps over and begins hugging each of us from behind.
‘Sissy!’ he says, squeezing me. This is the most annoying thing about Woody, he insists on calling me Sissy, even though the only thing we have in common is our parents share a bed .
. . (Let’s not think about that, though.) He moves on to Josh.
‘Joshy Bosh. And Doctor Daddy.’ Dad freezes as a grown man wraps his arms around him.
‘Love the jumper, Daddy. Very Sylvanian Families.’ He takes a dramatic breath.
‘And family, without further ado, please meet my Moon.’ A gaunt, transparent man appears from nowhere.
There is silence as we ponder whether to call an ambulance or not.
‘He’s a little shy. Aren’t you, baba?’ Woodstock pinches Moon’s cheek.
The ill-looking man manages a half smile.
He sits down next to Jean-Ivy, who starts complimenting his buzz cut, but then she gets distracted by the arrival of the Laurent-Perrier rosé.
‘Bubble time.’ She claps.
‘I love bubble time,’ Woody squeals.
‘I’m not drinking until the wedding,’ Josh says.
‘But it’s Jean-Ivy’s birthday,’ Dad snaps.
‘I know Robert, but you’ve got to sacrifice today for a better tomorrow,’ Josh says with a straight face. This is not going to go down well. Dad turns to me.
‘What in God’s name is he talking about?’ I give him a leave-it-alone look. Dad points at Moon. ‘What about you? Are you going to have some champagne?’
‘Moon doesn’t drink because it disturbs his natural energy,’ Woodstock explains with a sympathetic head tilt as if it’s Moon’s disability.
‘Natural energy? What is happening to men?’ Dad exhales impatiently. ‘Right, let’s toast anyway. Cheers to Jean-Ivy, my beautiful wife, on her birthday, you are my whole world.’ He leans into Jean-Ivy for a kiss, but instead, he gets a slap on the arm.
‘Bobby, give it a rest and order this food, we’re starving.’
Dad smiles off his rejection, then clicks the air, and the waitress with her flying high ponytail comes over with her iPad.
‘Yes. We’ll have the wagyu beef yakitori, shrimp tempura, black rice, crispy rice, fried rice, tipsy lobster pad Thai, honey glazed salmon and petals, a chow fun, petal pad Thai, chicken dim sums and a whole Peking duck.’
‘Daddy, we would like some tofu,’ Woody says.
‘Toe . . . what?’ Dad frowns.
‘Moon doesn’t sacrifice animals.’
‘Some toe-poo then. And . . .’ He sighs at my fiancé. ‘Some steamed vegetables.’ He then looks across at Moon, who now has his eyes closed. ‘Make that two steamed vegetables. That’s all. Thanks.’ He hands the menu over without looking up.
‘Bobby, I need to tell Amy about this surprise. I’m bursting,’ Jean-Ivy squeals.
Dad looks at his watch and gives her the go-ahead nod.
She crawls her bony, ring-filled fingers across the table towards me.
I slowly put my hand near hers, and she grabs it like a spider on a fly.
‘Dad and I want to treat you on your very special day, so we have paid for a luxurious dressmaker to make you a bespoke wedding dress.’ Her eyes crinkle and her mouth makes the shape of a cat’s bum.
I try to free my hand, but she keeps a firm grip. This is a disaster.
I stumble through my words. ‘Tha-that’s kind. It is. But I’m planning on wearing my mum’s dress.’ Both Jean-Ivy and Woodstock cackle at the same time.
‘Oh, Sissy, you don’t want to wear that old thing. It’s not like it brought much luck.’
‘It did until—’ Josh squeezes my knee to stop me from finishing the sentence.
‘What do you think, Josh, don’t you think she deserves a nice wedding dress?’ Jean-Ivy asks.
‘I think that would be nice,’ he says and squeezes my knee again. ‘Won’t it?’ He asks me the question, unsure if he’s right or wrong. He is very wrong. Woodstock starts clapping like a wound-up toy. I push Josh’s hand off my knee.
‘My friend Lace is going to make it. You’re going to love her, Sissy. She made this fabulous jumpsuit.’ He stands up, and we all flinch from the view at eye level.
‘But I’ve got Mum’s dress.’ I protest. ‘What we really need help with is the music. Josh has been looking at bands, and the hiring fees are insane. If you could contribute towards that instead . . .’
‘I have a better idea,’ Dad interrupts. ‘Jean-Ivy could get the band back. Couldn’t you, darling?’ Her face lights up, and Woodstock claps again. No. No. No.
‘No, please. I—’
Suddenly, five humming waitresses surround our table and place bamboo steamers in front of us.
‘Namaste,’ the waitresses say in sync. And then throw a handful of pink petals over our heads. Josh picks a petal from my hair and flicks it to the ground.
Amy & Josh
Invite you to celebrate their marriage
on
Saturday, February 22nd 2025
2 p.m.
The Chipping Barn, Berkshire
RSVP
Amy_Elman95@