Baby's on fire

As if fainting at the ceremony were not dramatic enough for this newly minted Jewish man, Asher had to outdo himself at the reception the following day with a pyrotechnic feat unlike any, to my knowledge, attempted by a 13 year old before. I remember when I made my grand entrance to the ballroom of Temple Etz Chaim, awash in 50s rock nostalgia complete with centerpieces fashioned out of old 45s, back in 1988: charging in to the brassy, iconic tones of the Rocky theme (not very 50s I know), fists raised and thrusting into the air above my yarmulked head, yet clutching my new gold bracelet with my finger tips against my wrist so that it didn't slip under the cuff and--tragedy of tragedies--be hidden from plain sight. Asher has done me up, however. This young man managed to march confidently into the Formula 1-decked halls of the Kensington Roof Gardens ON FIRE.



It was quite a way to kick off the party.

This was later however. Preceding this spectacular entrance, we were encouraged to ease into the festivities with bites of this and sips of that. Prosecco flowed, colorful non-alcoholic drinks lined the bar, delicate yet hearty appetizers made the rounds (which after 2 weeks of backpacking I attacked with a gusto to match Shenee's lionine love for sweets), a Formula 1 video game shaped like an actual F1 race car stood against the wall...



... and I, in my Arsenal FC scarf (worn in solidarity with Asher, whose bedroom, I discovered on Friday, is literally canvased in Gunners memorabilia, and which I bought at the flea market in Rye after I missed my train), made instant friends with a dashing waiter from Marseille whose second favorite team is Arsenal (after Marseille of course): "while I am in the UK," he explained to his colleague who, overhearing us, insisted insultingly that he was a Chelsea fan, "I am for Arsenal. But my true love is Marseille!" I must go to a game when I return, he then insists. "Oh I will!" I lie. (I won't, alas, be there on a weekend). In retrospect, wearing the scarf was more of a hassle than it was worth, given that the first thing anyone asked me--including people I'd never seen nor talked to before--was, "so why the Arsenal scarf?" It got old.



By the time the mock wall was removed to reveal the ballroom, I was already quite satisfied with the evening and would have been content to lie down and reflect on the sumptuousness of the scene and the memories of my own like experience 20 years earlier that it brought to mind. But then came Asher's incendiary entrance.

And then the buffet was introduced. I'll never understand the squeamishness with which some folks approach a buffet. Whereas I pile it on, in love with the sight of a dozen foods indiscriminately arranged in a pyramid on my plate, others find it necessary to make minimalist art of theirs, leaving islands of negative space between discrete dishes carefully arranged in mandala quadrants--the caesar salad daintily placed in this corner, the single skewer of grilled sea bass in this corner, the stuffed mushroom cap in the center, and perhaps, if there is room, a veggie kabob topped with a flash fried wedge of strong cheese to round it out. At first I was embarrassed by the gluttony implied by my presentation, but then I realized that I was merely being efficient with my greed while other returned to the spread 2 or even 3 times to make a more discrete example of theirs. Perhaps I am simply inured to the hugeness of food in America and am tasteless or classless as a result. Or perhaps I just relish ampleness philosophically. You decide (Austin knows what I mean I think).



Not nearly drunk enough yet to dance, when the band kicked up I held the camera in hand both as protection from being coaxed (read: guilted) onto the floor and for documentary purposes:



Little girl throws her hands in the air, and hence, apparently, just don't care.



Asher and Francine, inaugurating the festivities with the traditional Gushing Mother/Embarrassed Son dance.



When finally drunk enough, I slipped comfortably into the robot.

All told it was a bar mitzvah to put all bar mitzvahs to shame. My only regret is that we left too soon to find out about the after party at Francine's house, which apparently went until 6 am.

Some more pics:



Ali, Racheline, et moi at the ceremony, post-swoon.



After the ceremony on Saturday, two good Jews walk home from shul (or rather, walk to the bar for cocktails). Ali, a bone fide Scottish catholic, really took to the yarmulke and insisted upon wearing it for the duration of our exodus through swanky London.



Ali and Adam, pals. And I, looking curiously evil.



Me and Grandpa Irv from Miami by way of south Jersey.



From left: Francine's current boyfriend Steve's son (whose name I think is also Steve), Francine, Grandma Ruth (stunningly gorgeous in all her 83 years--Irv is a lucky man), and me.



Asher's best friend, or one thereof, trying to get sympathy from the birds. If only this geezer knew that crutches aren't enough. Girls want scars and stories too. Really, I just like this photo.

***

In Brussels now after tormented inner debate regarding whether or not to stay a couple more days in London. My hosts took exceptional care of me and it was hard to leave the friendly air for the cold isolation of my next several days in Belgium and Amsterdam. But this is part of why I came. To have variousness and anxiety and awe and drinks and food and exhaustion and inner torment and glee and bar mitzvahs and stories to tell when I get back. Yes, there are adventures I am leaving out of this blog, if only bc I don't have the patience to get into to them. And you have better things to do than read about them.

First and only picture in Brussels so far:



Had a Maes at a smoky pub called Chez Jo's off Chaussees d'Ixelles after eating a quiet pasta dinner at La Canadiere around the corner, Don Delillo as my only companion. And a good one at that. Off to see Brussels by day!