One year later, Ivanna and I, who by now had become the talk-about item all over town, received an invitation to have an "anniversary dinner and entertainment show" at the Marquis, all expenses paid.

"Hey Ivanna," I said, as soon as the blonde-haired beauty, I had fallen in love with, answered her door, "did you get one of these?" In my hands was an invitation, on official "Marquis" letterhead, inviting the two of us to an all-expenses paid dinner at the only five-star restaurant in town. And it was to coincide with the one-year anniversary of when we first met in the most famous restaurant on the eastern seaboard.

"Yes," exclaimed the blue-eyed former beauty queen, holding up her copy. "I can't believe it. Has it really been a year?" Excitement and more than a little naughtiness exuded from her face. "Do you want to go," she asked, and by the way she said it, I knew Ivanna wanted to.

"Of course, my darling," I laughed. "And I have an idea just who is going to be 'that' entertainment."

This wonderful woman, who had caught my heart, burst into laughter. "Yeah, and we had better start saving money, NOW, for the laundry bill."

That had been four weeks ago, but now as Ivanna, sporting a brand-new diamond engagement ring on the fourth finger of her left hand and wearing a Dolce & Gabbana black lace dress with accompanying La Medusa Naplank Pumps, walked by my side, we stepped across the threshold of the place that held so many delightful memories for us.

The shiny black high-heel shoes created by Vercase, were the perfect complement to the Ruby Pork Pie hat, created by master designer Ruby Roxanne. The Ruby, in black, with a blood red Spanish flower, perched at just the right, or jaunty, angle on Ivanna's head, was the ideal match for a black lace dress. My light gray three-piece suit and gray python-skin boots were an excellent choice alongside Ivanna's all black look.

One year, to this day, Ivanna and I first met, and it was not under the best of circumstances. In fact, more than once, I felt sure my betrothed wanted to kill me.

Now, as Eduard, the Maître D' escorted this newly-engaged couple to our table, one with an excellent view of the entire dining room, the manager made his way toward us. It was the same short, dapper, gentlemen as before, Mr. Harkins. And as usual, he was dressed like he had just stepped out of the pages of Esquire Magazine.

Not wanting to wear out our welcome, Ivanna and I did not make a habit of visiting the Marquis on a regular basis, but we stopped by every other month or so. And true to his word, Mr. Harkins would accept no payment from us. Though we did not repeat our past performance, every trip to the five-star restaurant was always another of a long list of wonderful experiences for Ivanna and me during the year-long courtship.

"Ah, Mr. Roberto and Ms. Ivanna, what a pleasure it is to have you back at the Marquis." While Mr. Harkins, himself, seated Ivanna, a server presented a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, which Eduard, opened with a flourish.

Though many prefer Dom Perignon as the premier champagne, The Marquis has only carried Veuve Clicquot since the day they first opened shoppe in 1912. The old man, a decedent of the original Marquis de La Fayette, always considered those wines from the Reims-based Champagne house to be superior.

"Mr. Harkins, you are too kind to us, sir," I started, but was quickly interrupted.

"Nonsense, my good Roberto," Mr. Harkins interjected with a cheerful wave of his hand. "It is you, and this most wonderful lady, who do us a . . ."

Looking up I saw that the general manager of The Marquis was staring unabashedly at
Ivanna's left hand.

Bowing, Mr. Harkins turned his gaze back toward me. "Mr. Roberto, I did not know. May I offer my congratulations, sir," he said shaking my hand. And then, with a quick bow, Mr. Harkins took Ivanna's hand and gave her one of those kisses like they do in the movies. "Ms. Ivanna, my sincere congratulations. And if I may . . ."

I was looking at the little man, who had become a dear friend to Vonni and myself over the last year, and I saw what looked like a tear form at the corner of one eye.

Wow. He's really . . .

"Ms. Ivanna, Mr. Roberto," he said, turning back to me, "may I offer my most sincere congratulations. And, may I add, it would be an honor, if you would allow the Marquis to host your reception. All expenses, of course, would be on the house.

Suddenly, applause started, first at the tables nearest us, and then throughout the room as word of our good fortune quickly spread.

Now, however, after enjoying a full-course meal that only the finest chefs in the land could have prepared, and a leisurely after-dinner brandy, Hennessey X.O., of course, augmented by a plate of strong cheeses and chocolate-covered bacon, of all things, Ivanna and I slowly made our way to the western, or far side of the dining room. Gossip was abuzz as we strolled to, destiny, perhaps. More than one flash went off as our fellow diners started easing out their cellphones.

As we stopped at the first table, the one that was literally aligned with pies of all sizes, shapes, colors, and vintages, I looked over at Vonni. "Is that the mayor over there," I tilted my head a little toward the right not wanting to point.

"Yeah, with a wife young enough to be his daugher," Ivonna replied in a self-righteous tone. "And I saw two council members in the back corner, with a couple of beautiful women hanging on to their every word. And," she lowered her voice as if we were talking in a conspiratorial manner, "they're not the women they are married to."

After looking around, in as casual a manner possible, I added, " I think I've seen five or six journalists in the crowd, too."

"Yeah, the big three are represented," Vonni replied meaning ABC, NBC, and CBS.

"Well, hell." I said after reflecting on what she had said. "We're about to be world-famous."

Vonni, the most beautiful woman in the world, in my humble opinion, had difficulty snorting down a laugh.

"Ya think!"

Now, as we looked at that table loaded with all sorts of missiles of mess, we saw that everything from humongous flans filled with all sorts of fillings, to single-serve tarts made from the finest fruits available, were spread the length of the table. There were cream pies, custard pies, fruit pies, and you guessed it, my favorite one, the chocolate pudding pie. Each of these, and there were six of them, were filled with the most delectable pudding.

Wow. There must be at least three inches of pudding in each of those.

And perhaps as an aside to my well-known preference, these pudding pies were at the very edge of the table, as if, an invitation for action.

Looking at the other five tables, the sundry supplies of messy mayhem appeared to go up in order of messiness. The next table was aligned with cakes. The third one carried multiple bowls of pudding, from plain vanilla to strawberry, butterscotch, some type of berry, perhaps blueberry, lemon, and of course you guessed it, chocolate. Perhaps in deference to my tastes, as well as that of my fiancé there were two bowls of the latter.

The fourth carried nothing but custard. There were three rows of six 2-liter pitchers each. And each one was filled with custard of a different flavor. The first row carried the standard custard, with its rich yellowish color. In the center, was my favorite, chocolate custard. And against the wall was a third flavor, one that its pinkish look proscribed to be strawberry custard.

The next-to-last table was aligned with more pitchers, this time filled to the brim with chocolate sauce. There appeared to be two flavors among the dozen pitchers, again, of 2-liter, or half a gallon for those of us who hailed from the United States of America. The first row appeared to be milk chocolate, while the back row had a darker look, probably dark chocolate.

And then, there was the last table. And lo and behold, what a sight it was. I could see that Mr. Harkin had spared no expense.

Wow. He must have gone all out. We are going to be so messy when this night is over.

Looking over at Ivanna, whose beautiful face was covered with a look of overwhelming awe, I gave a slight, mischievous grin, before turning back to Mr. Harkin.

On that last table, there were not one, not two, but three towering chocolate fountains each of a different size. The first one, which starting at five feet tall, was the one that I knew from past experience. And looking over at Ivanna, I saw that she still remembered it as well. We both grinned at each other over pleasant memories.

But it was the other two that took our breath away. The second fountain must have been seven feet tall, and the last one was even more impressive, standing at probably about ten feet. Liquid chocolate flowed downward from their tops.

And, again, those wonderful people of The Marquis had left no stone unturned. From the pale color, flowing down the first fountain, it was obvious that white chocolate was used in that one. Milk chocolate must have been next, as that creamy light brown liquid glistened under the spotlights, shining brightly for that purpose, as that stream made its way to the base of the fountain. Last but not least was the granddaddy of them all. The monstrous giant at the end of the table, the ten-footer, gurgled up a really rich, deep, dark chocolate that streamed down, as if a challenge to the two of us. Well, we knew who really was going to be the recipient of that deluge of messy wonder.