Chez Vous, Too was Columbus, Ohio's most acclaimed restaurant. It featured impeccable food, first-class service and a wine cellar that was unsurpassed in the Midwest. Situated in the trendy Arena District, the restaurant's foundation was directly atop that of the old Ohio Penitentiary, a fact that Fred remarked upon--but only to himself--as being entirely appropriate for a wedding rehearsal dinner.

"They say the kitchen is right over the spot where they kept the electric chair," Fred remarked as he handed the car keys to the valet parker.

"Huh, you don't say."

"Yeah, you know, O. Henry started writing stories when he was locked up in the pen."

"Was that before or after the candy bars?"

Fred chuckled slightly but stopped when he noticed that John was too distracted to laugh at his own joke. He paused, opened the door to the restaurant and said, "Après vous, Jean-Paul, arbitrageur extraordinaire."

Although the restaurant did its best to give the impression that one had just entered Bofinger's on the rue de la Bastille in Paris--that's France, not Texas, and yes I know all about the Wim Wenders film, thank you very much--there were the inevitable concessions to Central Ohio taste. One was immediately struck by the scarlet and gray pennant bearing the words "Allez Buckeyes" that was suspended directly above an antique samovar that tastefully rested upon a Louis Quatorze table covered with chintz and Irish linen. Pride of place, however, was reserved for an original Leroy Nieman oil painting of the legendary Ohio State head football coach Woody Hayes who was depicted as the avenging Archangel Michael, sword in one hand smiting the enemy Michigan Wolverine hordes while bringing a police whistle to his lips with the other hand in anticipation of calling power 56 fullback reverse. The portrait hung in an alcove surrounded by several large Chinese porcelain vases filled with dozens of freshly-cut scarlet carnations, a shrine as it were, to the life-affirming clichés of the gridiron qua life and the inherent evils of the forward pass. Pilgrims from as far away as Bucyrus and Upper Sandusky had left piles of Buckeye nuts and Woody Hayes bobble-head dolls as votive offerings. Perhaps they were ex votos meant to alleviate the sufferings of the lame and the blind; more likely they were invocations for the celestial assistance of the sainted coach who, seated at the right hand of God, would intercede with the Lord so that He in His almighty wisdom would hear the prayers of His faithful Ohio flock and, at last, grant them victory over the Wolverines of Michigan.

As Fred passed the portrait he genuflected, made the sign of the Cross and said, "Hail Woody, full of grace."

"Stop it, Fred," John responded as he rolled his eyes and laughed. "Don't forget, you're Jewish."

With that, Fred began to bob back and forth while reciting the Kaddish in Hebrew with a decided Southern accent.

John stuck his fingers in his ears. "I forgot you attended shul in North Carolina."
They passed by the coat check room as they neared the maitre d's station.
"Anything to check, gentlemen?" asked the pretty blonde coat-check girl.

"No, sorry," John replied.

"Me, too," pouted the coat-check girl as her eyes lingered on John. She pursed her lips together in a discrete kiss and then silently mouthed the words "call me."

Fred raised his eyebrows and shot a conspiratorial glance at John.

"You're two for two tonight, Dude. Too bad it's your last supper…I mean, rehearsal dinner."

John was about to speak when the maitre d' arrived at his station.

"Ah, monsieurs, bienvenue à Chez Vous, Too. You have reservations?"

"Yes, we're with the Tuffelmann-Mulligan rehearsal dinner….I'm the groom-to-be."

"My condolences, monsieur. This way, s'il vous plaît."

The maitre d' escorted John and Fred through the main hall of the restaurant to a function room in the back.

"Well, there he is. Hi, son," said a distinguished-looking older gentleman to John. It was George Mulligan, Esq., John's father.

"Hi, Dad, where's Mom?"

"Ladies' room. She'll be back in a minute."

"I better find Barb."

"Fred, can I interest you in a martini?"

"Mr. Mulligan, there's only one reason to attend a wedding, and that's free booze."

As Mr. Mulligan and Fred walked over to the bar, John surveyed the room, finally spotting his bride-to-be and her family sitting at a table as far away from the bar as was possible given the physical layout of the room. The Tuffelmann contingent was a cheery as an Ibsen play performed in a concentration camp. Barb Tuffelmann, John's fiancée, was a pretty dishwater blonde with a good figure who hardly ever smiled or spoke without prompting. It was not clear to his friends and family what it was that John saw in Barb. It was suggested that John was attracted to "moody" types; after all, before he met Barb he had dated a creative writing major from Smith who read Sylvia Plath while listening to Chet Baker records, wore nothing but black leotards, and drank chianti. Those more cynically inclined insinuated that Barb's reticence underscored a sexual promiscuousness--perhaps even a penchant for the orally erotic--not typically found in "perky" Midwestern girls.

"Hi, honey," John said to Barb as he leaned over to give her cheek a kiss.

"You're ten minutes late." Barb responded as she moved her head in order to transform the proffered cheek kiss into a Hollywood-style baiser d'air.

"Well, that's not late late, that's fashionably late."

The silence was deafening as John perceived two additional pairs of eyes staring daggers at him from across the dimly lit table. They belonged to the couple who in less than 24 hours would be his new in-laws, the Reverend and Mrs. Tuffelmann.

"A real Christian is always on time," Mrs. Tuffelmann snarled as she scowled at John with the same intensity as a lioness waiting to pounce on a wounded gazelle.

"Mother, I don't believe it! It's awful! Fuzzy Zoeller's shot landed in the bunker!" yelled the distraught man whose face displayed a stroke-threatening crimson flush and whose carotid arteries bulged ominously against a clerical collar. The Reverend Tuffelmann was never without a clerical collar. His golf shirts had clerical collars, his bowling shirts had clerical collars, and it was even rumored--and later substantiated--that he had pajamas and long underwear with clerical collars. Many people thought that the Reverend Tuffelmann was deaf because he always had an earpiece stuck in his left ear. The earpiece, however, was not attached to a hearing aid, but instead to a transistor radio permanently set to ESPN Radio. There is an old joke that some ministers are stuffed shirts and others are sports shirts. The Reverend Tuffelmann managed to be both simultaneously, combining the worst personality characteristics of Cotton Mather and Howard Cosell.

"Hello, Reverend Tuffelmann," John said meekly.

"Oh, hello, John. You're late. I hope you'll be on time tomorrow. I have gallery tickets for the Memorial Tournament and I don't want to miss Nicklaus teeing off."

"No, sir, we won't let the wedding interfere with the tournament."

Across the room, Fred had gone behind the bar and was adjusting the controls of the room's music system. The lyrical tenor saxophone of John Coltrane playing "Easy to Remember" soon covered the room with a warmth like a comfortable old sweater.
"Eeee-oooooh," Mrs. Tuffelmann grimaced. "Jazz. Real Christians don't listen to jazz."
"John, you promised me. Your relatives and friends have upset Mother. You only think about yourself."

John nervously cracked his knuckles, cleared his throat and tried to change the subject.

"Can I get anyone a drink?"

"Mother and I don't drink distilled spirits. And there had better not be any at the church tomorrow, young man."

"Barb?"

"By this time I would think you shouldn't have to ask. Chocola, please."

"OK, I'll be right back."

John left the Tuffelmanns who remained silent until he got out of earshot. They huddled closely and whispered to one another.

"Barbara," Mrs. Tuffelmann began, "You need to keep a tight leash on John. His family and friends aren't our kind of people. Why, I understand that Fred is a…Jew."
When Mrs. Tuffelmann spoke the word "Jew" she glared at Fred with a disgust that would have made Julius Streicher proud. In her mind's eye Fred was suddenly transformed into a hook-nosed Hasidic Christ-killer, die Ewige Jude wandering the streets of Columbus, Ohio in search of Midwestern Christian babies to offer as blood sacrifices to Baal, Buddha or whatever pagan god was celebrated by those people who wore beanies and insisted upon going to church on Saturday.

"Don't worry, Mother. You won't have to deal with Fred Livingston much longer. I've picked out new friends for John."

"That's my girl. It's bad enough that John is Catholic. Why, those Catholics are almost as bad as the Jews. Imagine, attending church on a Saturday evening."

The Reverend Tuffelmann slammed his fist down on the table so hard that water spilled out of glasses.

"That's an abomination! The Sabbath starts on Sunday at 11:00am and ends just before the NFL Pregame Show starts."

"Amen," responded Mrs. Tuffelmann.

"That's not all. I was talking with John's father and do you know what he said? When I asked him what he thought about the new starting quarterback at Ohio State he said he'd been too busy lately to follow college football."

"My land," replied Mrs. Tuffelmann in astonishment.

"Can you imagine that? If a man can't find the time to follow Buckeye sports he probably doesn't find the time to attend church."

"Or to take care of his family," Mrs. Tuffelmann added. "Let's go, dear. This dinner has upset me already, and if we go now we can stop off at Sam's Club before it closes. Those 128 oz. jars of pickled beets are on sale. Buy five, get one free."

"That's a good idea," Barb replied. "I need to go to stop at the church and see if the flowers arrived. I don't know why they were having such a hard time finding brown carnations."

"Barbara, you have such wonderful taste. Pink, peach and brown are so beautiful together."

"…And brown goes with everything."

The Tuffelmanns got up and slowly walked across the room to the groom's side. It would not be an exaggeration to say that the effect of that 50-foot walk was similar to the experience of successfully making it through Checkpoint Charlie during the coldest days of the Cold War. One left behind the gray suffocating hopelessness of the Iron Curtain for the optimism and freedom of the West. It was almost too much for the Tuffelmanns to bear.

John, Fred and Mr. and Mrs. Mulligan were drinking highballs and laughing.

"I don't know, Fred. I still think "The Corbomite Maneuver" is a pretty great episode."

"No way, John. It's got Season Three written all over it."

"Hey," Mr. Mulligan interjected. "As long as Grace Lee Whitney's in the episode, it's a classic for me."

Mrs. Mulligan raised her left eyebrow and said, "Oh, really? You used to go ga-ga over Uhuru. What's the matter--your jungle fever go away?"

"Mom!"

"Sandra!"

"Touché, Mrs. Mulligan. Need a refill?"

"Please."

Fred walked over to the bar as Barb grabbed John's arm and pulled him over to the side.

"John," she whispered. "Stop talking about Star Trek."

"What?"

"You know nobody in my family likes Star Trek. You're embarrassing me. Father says they never show any Lutherans in outer space."

"Excuse me. We were just having a little fun."

"Well…it's just that my family thinks you're weird…especially for liking that show. I mean…it's bad enough you're always reading books."

"Barb, we've been through this before. I'm studying for the bar exam. I've got to read books."

"Well, just don't do it in public anymore. I don't want people to talk."

John and Barb walked back to the table. A nurse was wheeling an elderly woman in a wheelchair into the room.

"Grandma, I'm so glad you could make it this evening. How are things in Wapakoneta?"

"Huh?" the old lady yelled as she tried to adjust her hearing aid.

"I said, how are things in Wapakoneta?"

"You don't have to shout, John. I'm not deaf….Oh, hell, that's right, I am deaf. Uh,

Wapakoneta? What do you expect? Bunch of farms and the Neil Armstrong Museum.

They roll up the sidewalks at 5:00pm on a good day. Now be a good grandson and get me a boilermaker."

"Coming up, Grandma." John looked at the Nurse who rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders in resignation.

Now that Grandma Mulligan had arrived all hopes of the Tuffelmanns for an early exit were dashed. Mr. Mulligan took over control of the wheelchair from the Nurse and wheeled Grandma over to the table where both families were now seated. He popped a wheelie and Grandma squealed with delight.

"I haven't had that much fun since I made out with Barney Oldfield at the Indy 500 in '32." Grandma squinted her eyes and pointed at the Tuffelmanns.

"Who're they?"

"Mom, you remember the Tuffelmanns? Barb's parents?"

After a few seconds pause a look of recognition came across Grandma's face.
"Oh, that's right. Those horses asses John is getting stuck with as in-laws. Speaking of John, where's my boilermaker?"

John had just begun to walk back from the bar when he overheard the previous exchange. He stopped in his tracks, downed the shot and chugged the beer.

"Fred…"

"Don't worry, I'll get another drink for your Grandma."

"…I'm going to get some air."

John went to a door next to the bar, opened it and walked out into the alleyway behind the restaurant. No sooner had he begun to massage his forehead and take a deep breath than he heard a voice that sounded like George Carlin's Hippy-Dippy Weatherman.

"Psst, hey Dude, over here, man."

John turned around to see a slouching figure encased in a haze of marijuana smoke. It was Binky Tuffelmann, Barb's older brother, smoking a ganja stogie of Cheech & Chong dimensions. He coughed and handed the mega-doobie to John.

"You partake, man?"

"Uh, no thanks, Binky. I don't do that and even if I did, you know I can't afford to have any controlled substances in my bloodstream this close to the bar exam."
Binky coughed again. "You sure, man? This is Meigs County Gold. Best shit this side of the Mekong Delta."

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'll just stick to cocktails."

"Bummer, Dude."

Binky lit up the joint, took a deep drag and held his breath for what seemed longer than a synchronized swimming team performing a complicated routine at the Olympics. Binky's face turned Absinthe-green before he doubled over and coughed violently. He straightened himself up but remained glassy-eyed and panting furiously.

"Binky, are you OK?"

"Yeah, man, it's just that when I get high I forget to breathe sometimes. Whoa, man, it takes concentration to be a good stoner."

John looked at Binky with a mixture of disdain and disbelief, mentally doing the calculus to determine what were the chances any children he and Barb would have might inherit the Binky chromosome.

"Say, Binky, I'm curious. Aren't you worried about random drug testing at your school?"

"Nah, man, I got this." Binky took out of his pocket a small vial containing crystals. "It's counterfeit pee. Just dump some in the cup when you're bleeding the lizard for the Man."

"Well, you learn something new every day."

"Not me, man. I got enough of that learning stuff in college. Hey, how come you're still in college? You've, like, been in college forever, man."

"Well, Binky, I'm just finishing law school. So that was three years on top of the four that I took to get my bachelor's."

"Yeah, but now you're getting married, so a lot of good that bachelor's degree did you, man."

"No, you see…a bachelor's degree doesn't mean that one has to be a…." John stopped his explanation in mid-sentence. He stared at the finger he had raised to emphasize an earlier point. The more he stared at his finger, the more he came to realize the utter futility of employing logic in any discussion with his future brother-in-law.

"Oh, just forget it, Binky."

"Sure, man. Say, what's with the books? You're always, like, reading books, man."

"Well, Binky, you see there are a lot of laws and they're written down in books. So in order to become a lawyer you have to read a lot of books."

John didn't know whether to laugh or to go get another drink. It seemed strange to have to explain to anyone the concept of "reading law," especially since the concept had been axiomatic since the time of, oh, say, Hammurabi, but he reminded himself that this was Binky he was talking with, and Binky found concepts like breathing and walking via alternating footsteps to be intellectually challenging.

"That's a bummer, John. I hate reading."

"But aren't you an English teacher?"

"Well, yeah, man, but I just assign books. I don't read 'em."

"Never?"

"Nah, man, I haven't read a book since I got my bachelor's….Hey, man….I just remembered….I'm still a bachelor. All right!"

"So, Binky, why'd you major in English in the first place?"

"I wanted to do something with my mind, man." He took another long toke from his joint.

"Well, you certainly have."

The door to the alley burst open. Fred came running out.

"John, come quick. I think your Grandma is having a stroke."

To Be Continued---

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