We sped down to Ensenada this weekend (really, going far too fast for the curvy sea cliffs, but we got the Mexican insurance, so it was okay) for the wedding between OC Weeklyfood critic Kelly McGinnisand her longtime beau, Mickey von Hemert. And really, there's no point in anyone ever throwing a wedding again. It's all been done.
With about a hundred guests staying together at the Hotel Coral and Marina(very resort-y pools, with lounges in the shallow end and a bar to the side; oddly, the TV stations available in our rooms were basically Trinity Broadcasting Networkand porn), we were extremely grateful not to be the guest about whom all the other guests were gossiping. It's much better to be the gossiper than the gossipee. And although we're dying to detail the juicy bits for you, we're thinking of Kelly's parents; they couldn't very well put them in the scrapbook.
Friday night's fiesta was held at the historic Riviera del Pacificoin downtown Ensenada, with a pretty good (and very loud) mariachi band playing "Tequila" several times while everyone ate extraordinary mole and chiles and taquitos and good stuff. The drunkest mariachi guy looked just like NewtGingrich, and he blew kisses at photographer Jeanne Rice, who attended with Shane from Element 17. Then we went to Papas & Beerand danced to techno before abandoning it for the very Lab-like bar downstairs, where a man was soulfully belting out Kansas and Elton Johncovers.
Saturday was spent lounging poolside like a rich person. The nice thing about the Hotel Coral is that all the employees there are handsome and don't look like they're starving, allowing one to drink margaritas poolside without that vexing guilt we certainly hope you feel when confronted with starving people. At 2:30 p.m., the guests boarded shuttle buses to the vineyards at San Antonio de las Minas, where chairs wrapped in white cloth like little brides were arranged under the shade of a circle of sycamore trees.
The ceremony, conducted in Spanish with an English translation, began as tuxedoed groomsmen walked on the soil toward the guests. The pixyish flower girl, glaring, walked solemnly (Ann Conway alert! We can't help it!) in a dress with flower petals encased in tulle. But we couldn't really see it because we were already sobbing. We spotted the bridesmaids, two of Kelly's supermodel sisters among them, milling outside their white tent. Their gowns were a stiff champagne satin with beaded sleeveless tops.
And then the groom arrived, cantering down the ridge in a sombrero and vaquero pants on a golden palomino that somehow even matched the bridesmaid's dresses. It was probably intentional.
Most brides are beautiful, but Kelly McGinnis used to model in Milan; besides that, she's a really nice person, which always shines through, disgustingly enough. She wore a crown and a lace mantilla, and her simple sleeveless gown was a golden cream, like flan, maybe. And then we cried a bunch more and were emotionally exhausted. And then there was the reception, but we've run out of room. (If there were any room, we'd tell you about the drunk guy who . . . Well, now, never mind that. And never mind the porn stars at the top of the column, too. That's what the rest of us do.)