I went to a wedding reception in Chinatown last weekend. A wedding I could walk home from. Wow. I’ve been waiting for this my entire life. And before the reception started I made a pact with myself that I would try every dish thrown my way. And I held up my end of the bargain through all ten courses served. If I go the rest of my life without again eating jelly fish tentacles or sea urchin, I will not complain.

This was a traditional Chinese wedding. There was an emcee who spoke 95% Chinese the entire night. The bride sung a karaoke song to her now husband. There was no dancing. No dancing?! Hey! I think I like Chinese weddings!

Now I’ve been at the singles table before. The out-of-towners table. The relatives table. The kids table. The odds-and-ends table. But this was a first. I was at the white table. The round eye table. The cracker barrel.

And even though I felt a bit insulted when we were the only table to be given forks, without asking for them, while every other table was given only chopsticks…. I slurped down my shark fin soup and smiled, genuinely happy for the lovely couple.

In what I’d like to call an accidental mistake in etiquette but will admit was really the presence of insecurity, I snuck ahead of the farewell line to avoid the bride and parents and went straight to the groom at the end. “Hey man, thanks so much for coming, really.” “Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t miss it.” “Seriously man, thanks, when I get back we have to get drinks.” “Sure thing.” I slipped him the red envelope, so proud of myself for doing the extra research.

It felt strange to be wearing a suit in Chinatown as I wound my way tipsily through its narrow corridors. I didn’t feel like a king. I felt like I looked like I was trolling for hookers or something. Not a soul in sight and I was still concerned about what people were thinking of me.

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