Category — reception

Sorry this follow-up post has taken so long. I was busy stewing in my rage… and Brian was in town.

For a few weeks, I tried my best to repair my relationship with Embassy Suites New Orleans. I called, I wrote, but apparently the catering manager had decided to break up with me by avoiding me altogether. I was more than a little insulted. I haven’t gotten this kind of treatment since freshman year of college when some guy I was seeing (who I didn’t even like that much) stopped returning my calls. No! This is all wrong. I should be the one doing the breaking up. Don’t you know that I am a catch? I am totally cuter and smarter than you, and… I mean, don’t you know that our wedding is a good sales opportunity?

I grew tired of our little game of “playing hard-to-get” and called her boss, the assistant general manager of the hotel. I explained who I was, why I was calling and that I had been trying unsuccessfully to get in touch with this chick for more than two weeks. Silence.

I tried a different tactic, using my friendly phone voice and describing how much we loved the space and how we really wanted to work out a way to have our reception there.

Me: We really love the Embassy Suites’ atrium, and we want to have our wedding reception there. The only problem is that we had negotiated a six-hour reception from the beginning, and your catering manager said that was fine, but at the last minute, she said we can only have it for three hours.

Assistant General Manager (who I suspect might be the “assistant to the general manager”): We only do three-hour receptions.

Me: OK, well, she told us we could have a six-hour reception. Why is that changing now?

AGM: We only do three-hour receptions. (long pause) I can maybe stretch it to four hours.

Me: (now I’m really imagining this guy is Dwight. “Bears. Beets. Battlestar Galactica.”) Seriously? We are talking about a wedding in New Orleans, right? Why won’t you do more than four hours?

AGM: (slightly irritated, condescending tone, as one would speak to a slightly challenged five year old) Ma’am. It is a liability for us to serve alcohol to people for more than four hours. If someone were to get hurt, we would be responsible. It’s just not possible.

Me: (talking in my own babysitter-who-has-a-difficult-charge voice) By all means, you should have the right to refuse service to anyone you think has had too much to drink. Would that allow us to have a longer reception?

AGM: No.

Me: What if we switched from a full open bar to just wine and beer after four hours? Or supplied our own alcohol for the last two hours?

AGM: NO. I am not flexible on this matter. Our maximum is four hours. You won’t find anywhere else in this city that will give you more than that.

Me: (in my “Oh, really, fool?” voice): I find that very hard to believe. This city has bars that never close. I’m sure we can find a reception venue that will serve alcohol for six hours. By the way, is your catering manager on vacation or something? She hasn’t gotten back to me.

AGM: No. She’s the one who gave me your number. Do you want her to call you?

I was all kinds of riled up when I got off the phone, and Brian and I made it our personal crusade to find another location. Call me crazy, but I just didn’t feel like forking over a few thousand dollars to these teetotalers. (And that woman never called me back, by the way.)

We trolled the Warehouse District and the French Quarter looking for the perfect spot, and we found it– Mulate’s Restaurant. It’s funky, it’s also on Julia Street, the food is fantastic, the space is huge and the people are nice. Where do we sign?

Brian and I have been basking in the glow of our own awesomeness lately, perhaps a little prematurely. Over the last few months, we have lovingly created the Mother of All Google Spreadsheets with research on photographers, churches (more on that in future posts) and, most importantly, the place that will keep us in food and booze during our party.

Honestly, the reception venue is the most critical decision after the extensive “DJ, if you play [insert Village People/Celine Dion/James Blunt song here], I will fight you” list. What if we pick a place that has bland jambalaya or a bartender who makes weak drinks? I shudder at the thought.

We initially had our hearts set on the Elms Mansion and Gardens on St. Charles Avenue because it’s beautiful and I have a soft spot for gazebos, but having a January wedding outside is a little stressful. And expensive. Turns out a tent for 200 people costs $2700. To rent. Next!

We checked out the other popular New Orleans wedding venues– House of Broel (too hoity toity), Rosy’s Jazz Hall (too small), Magnolia Mansion (too pricey)– before finding the perfect place: Embassy Suites. It’s a gorgeous, colorful hotel on Julia Street in the Warehouse/Arts District, and the indoor atrium is just what we’re looking for. A space big enough for everyone to eat and dance and make merry, big windows and skylights, funky murals on the walls and an outdoor feel without actual exposure to the elements, all for a reasonable price tag. It’s also a hotel, which means we can go out after-partying in the Quarter and easily crawl up to our rooms afterward. Perfect.

I was about to sign the contract and put down the deposit a few days ago when I noticed the contract only reserved the space for three hours. The basic wedding package is only three hours, but we had said from the get-go we would need to extend it to at least five or six hours (I mean, let’s be honest about our crowd here). The catering manager quoted us a price for each additional hour, and all was well. That is, until she told us they didn’t want to serve alcohol to any group for more than three hours. But we could work out “alternate ideas.”

Uhhhh. Exsqueeze me? What kind of alternate ideas? Sippy cups of Kool-Aid? We’re talking about a wedding. In New Orleans. It’s practically a city mandate that we throw a ridiculous party where everyone from the best man to Great Aunt Edna gets a little tipsy on too many mint juleps. A three-hour reception is just not gonna cut it, and a six-hour reception with three hours of liquor might incite riots. Brian and I are pretty chill, but you just don’t mess with our food or alcohol consumption. It’s just not a good idea.

I’m still waiting on a response to my strongly worded e-mail. I’ve got my hard face on. More to follow.