Celebrating marriage, the Hong Kong way
The minute I crawled into the taxi next to my fellow wedding guest, C., I realised I was not dressed appropriately for the occasion. The possibility that I might not be formal enough had buzzed through my head for a split second when I had glanced at my reflection in a shop window; seeing C.'s gorgeous print skirt and freshly coiffed neat head made my brain (even in its anti-sinusitis medicated state) realise that I was in danger of looking like a hippy
gypsy at the banquet in my scarlet floral dress, tousled hair and black tassled shawl. I had been going for the 'casual summer evening' look - instead it looked as though I would be going the way of a casual street mongrel. I prayed that I might be lucky, that someone would have a VPL showing through their smart Gucci trouser suit.
We walked into the huge marbled hallway leading into the banqueting rooms: I realised my prayer had been in vain - all the women, including the bride's mother in her sixties, looked like bright-eyed teen starlets in their backless silk dresses and were glittering with jewelry. My only chance of survival was to pretend being a street mongrel was
a la vogue, so I tossed away my shawl, reminded myself I had jewels on too, which were pretty if not as ostentatious as those worn by the other ladies and grinned a shiny, glossy grin at the photographer taking the group photos. Luckily, the bride, W., was wearing a white number that had tiny diamonds embroidered all over her bodice which was so dazzling everyone else was too busy admiring her to notice me. W. looked radiantly happy, and she let go of her tight clutch on her new husband's arm to greet us.
"W. dear, isn't that dress rather heavy?" I asked, kissing her on both cheeks, carefully so that no pink lipgloss would be misplaced.
"It is quite heavy," she agreed, as she leaned forward to receive my kisses. "My back hurts and my arm is aching from holding it all up."
"Are those real?" I asked in jest, pointing at the tiny crystals studding the white silk around her waist.
"Yes, they are," she began in earnest, but C. cut her off, bursting into fits of laughter.
"Oh my God," she managed to say. "J-A just asked W. if her
breasts are real!"
"I did not!" I said, turning bright red as everyone else started laughing along. "Keep your dirty mind to yourself!"
W. didn't mind, she was too busy grinning at her steady stream of guests.
The wedding banquet that followed was a feast fit for conquerors and those with a good HDL/LDL balance:
Whole roasted suckling pig
Fried crab claws
Stir fried scallops with Yunnan ham and broccoli
Shark's fin soup and shredded chicken
Stir fried chicken with mushrooms and celery sticks
Steamed green garoupa with spring onion and ginger
Chili fried chicken
Fried rice with Yunnan ham and pineapple
Noodles in soup
Chinese petit fours
Fresh fruit platter
(there was one other dessert, but I forgot to bring home the menu)
My fellow guest D. and I decided to find out if the gigantic wedding cake standing in the corner was real so we went off to confront the cake, but W.'s sister stopped us from approaching it.
"It's fake," she said. "We ate the wedding cake after the ceremony."
"Did you keep a slice for the christening?" I asked, and W.'s sister looked at me blankly. D., an Englishman, quickly filled her in.
"We usually keep a slice of the wedding cake in a tin for the couple's baby's christening," he said. W.'s sister nodded, but still looked puzzled.
"I'm afraid we didn't," she said.
W. and her new husband showed us videos of their individual childhoods, their dates and the wedding ceremony. I tried not to read the sentimental subtitles, fearing I would make an uncharitable remark. I resisted the urge to scream at the sight of two teddy bears that were supposed to be the newly-weds at the end of the second video. I even managed to stick to water throughout the meal. W. changed dresses at least three times, each new outfit worthy of an Oscar night, while parents, best friends and siblings took turns making speeches and toasts.
"I'm not going to have a Chinese banquet - I'll take the three course wedding dinner," said C., two hours into the meal. We were still only half-way through the menu.
"What, you don't want to feed your guests?" I said in mock horror.
"Actually, I guess I should get a man to marry first, before I think about the wedding dinner," C. mused on, as though she hadn't heard me. The two girls sitting next to us were comparing their diamond engagement rings - one ring had a platinum band so was heavier, but the other was a full one carat so was brighter. C. took photos of the rings.
"We'll send them to M. as a hint," she joked.
Later on that night, I called M.
"Can we wear red threads plaited around our wrists instead of engagement rings?" I asked, thinking of the strings worn by a Hindu friend.
"But guys don't wear engagement rings," he said.
