Not much is known about the Groomzilla. Born of temporary circumstances, he is a fleeting figure and thus highly elusive. The fact that he takes shape within the maelstrom of wedding planning—with everyone too distracted to take notice—has only made him harder to grasp. He is tragically under-researched; like Bigfoot, he is a figure of mythic proportions, cobbled together from second-hand accounts.
What we know for certain is that the Groomzilla is hostile, opinionated, and pugnacious. He’s like a mesovortex, a storm within a storm, often far more dangerous than the parent system it’s nestled inside.
Few partners emerge unscathed in the Groomzilla’s wake. I am among the very few—living proof that the Groomzilla is not only alive and well, but well-spoken and with higher standards than a dowager countess on Downton Abbey. This is my tale.
Initially, David didn’t even want a wedding. He hates being the center of attention and anything that feels too contrived or treacly, so to compromise, we decided to throw a fun party. On two conditions: we wouldn’t do any traditional bride-and-groom stuff—save for an intimate, bare-bones ceremony right beforehand—and I would oversee the planning.
By the four-month-out mark, with the help of our incomparable planner Serena Merriman, my mom and I had secured a date and venue (December 7, The Boom Boom Room). I knew I wanted Hunter Abrams to shoot the wedding, and though I didn’t yet have a dress, I wasn’t worried. I was going vintage and had a slate of appointments lined up. Everything was running smoothly—until I began to notice a shift in David. Where once he was happily hands-off, now he was requesting to collaborate on my wedding Pinterest board. Where once there was stubble, now there were whiskers.
Truth is, I really should’ve seen it coming. David, you see, is a man who knows what he likes and likes the finer things. He is a self-taught sybarite with a taste for esoteric delicacies and gilded excess: Bombardinos in San Cassiano, fil d’ecosse socks, that sort of thing. So the chance to dream up a decadent wedding? I knew once I invited his input, the European beau monde in him wouldn’t be able to resist.
What I didn’t know is that I would awaken a magisterial menace that had apparently lain dormant inside him this whole time.
It was exactly three-and-a-half months before the wedding when he officially turned.
It started with the caterer. David asked to join our call with Peter Callahan and his team, who presented a parade of playful, bite-sized riffs on classic dishes, designed for passing and stations since we’d opted against a seated dinner. Few appealed to David. Before the call had even ended, he went to work.
For the next two weeks, David spent nearly every waking hour of his free time hunkered in front of his computer, plumbing the depths of high-end catering companies; researching sumptuous mid-century supper clubs; and immersing himself in the legendary delectations of French culinary virtuoso Auguste Escoffier.
Late at night, when his fingers started to go numb and his vision began to blur, he’d slink into bed and turn on old episodes of The French Chef, dozing off to the high-pitched, transatlantic lilt of Julia Childs making duck à l’orange.
Honestly, it all happened so fast. One second he was willfully, blissfully ignorant, the next he’s texting me at two in the morning on a Tuesday “just some high-level vibe setters to think about: retro NYC, tableside flambé, cherries jubilee, New Year’s Eve, Slim Aarons, maybe a Tiki element (less Margaritaville, more Trader Vic’s at The Plaza circa 1965?)”.
One second he’s easy-peasy, deferring everything to me, the next he’s sending the caterer an “amended menu” he concocted from scratch that included mini Yorkshire puddings with prime rib and horseradish cream, mini wild mushroom wellingtons with a pastry lattice, and Champagne gelées for dessert (“effervestent, one-bite truffles of Champagne jelly, each displayed like fine jewelry on silver trays,” he noted).
The caterer loved it, and wondered if David might consider consulting for them on a freelance basis. David looked at me and rolled his eyes. “They wish.”
I started to wonder if I could have prepared for this. Would I have been better equipped to deal with the finger-snapping prima donna I was soon to wed? And then it hit me: of course not. The Groomzilla is, by definition, an aberration, unforeseen. Existing in a paroxysm of chaos—where invoices whiz by in rapid fusillades—he’s hard to see coming. He’s like a spectral force haunting an Edgar Allen Poe story. He hides in plain sight.
Suddenly, I was jolted out of this reverie with a ping. A text. From him.
“Should we just do a destination wedding?”
Days later, I finally found my dress at Happy Isles’ NYC location. I texted David excitedly, telling him the news. “Ok, but does it match the space?” he texted back. “Remember: low light, sparkly, holiday, mid-century NYC glam.”
For the florals, Serena connected us with Brittany Asch of Brrch Floral, whose work I’d been obsessing over for years. We traded references, but ultimately I trusted Brittany’s vision and let her take the lead. For everyone’s sake, I limited David’s involvement. When he later, unsolicited, offered me his two cents on the florals—“I like monochrome, ’80s Japanese/Charlie Sheen’s apartment in Wall Street vibes”—I knew I’d made the right call.
It feels almost quaint now, thinking back to when David was against receiving gifts. Dear reader, would you believe me if I told you he added a jet ski to our registry?
The man I lived with was becoming unrecognizable. I’ve never seen him more enraged than when the caterer cut “star anise pod garnish” from our White Russian specialty drink. “And the steak au poivre?!” he demanded. “Why marinated? What are we hiding?!” Two weeks out, he forwarded me an email confirmation for 500 silver coupes, rush-delivered (“otherwise, what’s even the point of having mini sundaes?”). Then, days before the wedding, I briefly feared we’d have to call the whole thing off when an article came out declaring brown suits the next big thing in groomswear. “Yours is midnight brown!!” I kept insisting. Eventually, he conceded. It was.
On the day of, the Groomzilla was still kicking. He had fully monopolized the TV in our suite at The Standard, watching movies like Bride Wars and Rachel Getting Married to “get in the mood.” When it was time for me to get dressed, it took a lot of cajoling to get him out of the room. I could tell you I was surprised when my bouquet and white fur stole went missing, just as I asked my friends to grab them for me, but I’d be lying.
And then, to my delight, the night unfolded without a hitch.
Of course, no two Groomzillas are alike; I can only speak to the specific subspecies that graced me. Mine, for instance, likes his beef bourguignon deglazed and his steak frites à la minute. He likes his dress shoes cut from Shell Cordovan and his swizzle sticks in burnished gold. Could he be bossy? Sure. Obstinate? Absolutely. But my god, were his ideas fabulous.
Which is why, when he really let loose at the wedding and decided that, of all nights, this was the moment to reveal he could cut an exceptional rug, I couldn’t fault him. The man had worked hard. He had earned it. And I had to admit: he did very good.
