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Wedding Cake Triage
The brakes slammed and everything happened in slow motion--just like you hear it does. It must have been only 5 seconds, but it seemed like long minutes as he watched the cake tear itself loose from its moorings and catapult through the air. Suddenly sound came rushing back and there was the second tier right-side up with a Grand Canyon down the middle! The third tier was curiously devoid of icing on top, sitting between the two front seats of the van. While the bottom tier had an avalanche down one side, its basket weave buttercream perfectly preserved against the back of the driver's seat. Miraculously, the thirteen layer groom's cake and the first anniversary top tier were perched perfectly on their tray, without a blemish. Doors slammed open and the pastry chef leaped gasping from the rear of the van. He was panting, eyes dilated, going into shock. The wedding was scheduled to begin in an hour and 15 minutes, and we were already late to deliver the cake. It had been pouring all day and the light was fading fast. I could see in the faces of the horrified driver and the panic-stricken chef that they were prepared to bolt back to the city and wait for the bride to arrive with a lynching party. But what is a wedding without a cake? And who wants to disappoint a young couple on their big day? (Or slink back to the city covered in buttercream, for that matter.) So, back in the van we went, as it dawned on me that the denuded layer in the front was actually upside-down. It was carefully flipped, icing scraped off of seats and walls, and we headed for the nearest grocery. There were fast-food joints, video stores and garden centers. Bowling alleys, car dealerships and perky card shoppes. Didn't anyone shop for food in this town?? Aha! There was a grocery store. I sprinted down the bakery aisle in search of spatulas and tubs of icing, while the pastry chef begged the mercy of the fourteen year old clerk in the blue-and-pink-iced doll cake department. (Crikey this was never going to work. Who would believe a pink basket-weave on one side of the cake and white chocolate buttercream on the other?) But the spunky bakery girl came through with a bucket of cream cheese frosting, spatulas, pastry bags and the biggest assortment of basket-weave tips you've ever seen. It was like a scene from ER. While the pastry chef crouched in the wet parking lot rebuilding the collapsed side of the cake perched inside the van, I lay on my belly in the back, desperately redoing the basketweave on the Grand Canyon layer. The driver shined flashlight spots on us and dispensed paper towels like an OR nurse. An hour later, we had three miraculously restored cake tiers. Meanwhile, the wedding had just begun. With the pastry chef kneeling in the back, holding a dowel down the middle of the listing groom's cake, the van creeped along back roads toward the reception building. At every bump, we each held our breath. It was raining again. Bursting through the doors to the hall, we made a beeline for the kitchen and commandeered every inch of available space. The desperate manager had been calling all over the county in search of us, and the pastry chef's assistant was sobbing on the phone. In twenty-five minutes, all four layers were stacked, draped with fresh fruit (luckily ordered by the bride) and picked free of blanket lint from the van. The manager stood over us calling out deadlines: 15 minutes; 10 minutes; 5 minutes! The driver and I wheeled the cake out to the reception room and cleared a space on the table. Holding our breath, we counted three-two-one and carefully lifted the hugely heavy cake onto the table. The slightly wobbly basketweave was turned to the back and the last smudges of buttercream were cleaned from the silver base. As we finally breathed again, the first guests arrived. It was a miracle to behold. And everybody loved it. Especially the groom--sworn to secrecy until after the honeymoon--who winked at the pastry chef and pretended to pick blanket fuzz from his tongue when his bride fed him the first slice. (Note: Specific names have been avoided to protect the traumatized.) --Ann Martin |
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