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SHOPPING Operation Wedding Dress The Lower East Side is a fabulous source of gorgeous gowns that won't break you
by Pat Arnow
 hen I’m waiting for the bus on Avenue
A, I love to look in the window of
Blue. Every time, the single mannequin
is wearing a new dress, unfinished usually,
but beautiful – one day with a plunging
neckline and taffeta full skirt, another
with rows of torn fabric over a fitted bodice
and tight skirt.
A friend’s search for a wedding dress
gives me the chance to enter that mysterious
atelier and other shops in the neighborhood
that I, of the jeans and corduroy
set, would have no other occasion to visit.
What she and I find are creative designers
who make terrific one-of-a-kind dresses
at very reasonable prices. Every place we
go, attentive dressmakers provide good
advice on what body parts to emphasize
and what to downplay—and how to do
it… And while my friend is receiving
much individual attention, no one pressures
her for a sale.
Can two inexperienced wedding shoppers
wandering on the Lower East Side
find that drop-dead dress?
We start the hunt on a chilly Saturday
in mid-April on 9th Street, where there’s
one great dress shop after another. (First
we gobble eggs and buckwheat pancakes
at Veselka, abandoning all hope for that
elusive size 8.)
My friend doesn’t want to get too fancy
or even necessarily white, but she wants
something longish and slightly offbeat.
An hour passes, we have visited six shops,
bought some offbeat non-wedding clothing,
and haven’t covered half a block.
We make quick work of Selia Yang’s
shop. Her gowns are shimmering and
lovely, but start at $2 thousand. Twice the
price limit my friend has set.
At Meg, proprietor Meghan Kinney
shows us several stylish satiny wedding
dresses, but only part of each one suits
my friend’s body type. Meghan says she
can cobble together different styles and
make a dress. The end-of-July wedding
barely gives her enough time. Cost will
be around $400. We’re impressed with
Meg’s kind and friendly help, and leave
with our hope restored for a good-looking
gown that won’t deplete us.
We check out the luscious parachute
silk dresses at Jill Anderson, with their
crinkly fabric and shirred full skirts. The
gold and taupe dresses cost between $350
and $450 and can be made in white. But
the fit doesn’t feel just right, and the store
can’t really customize enough to make
the shape work.
We pass a tiny store with a little bride
doll in the window and must check it out.
It’s Bridal Veil Falls, devoted to making
wedding veils. We’re surrounded by froth,
delicate nets with flowers or polka dot lace
cascading from floor to ceiling and fronted
by a fairy godmother who is Margaret, the
owner and designer. She smiles at our bedazzlement,
realizing we aren’t ready to
shop seriously for the topper, and suggests
we try the formidable Blue.
Blue’s designer Christina Kara wears
a triple strand of big pearls and has bits
of thread clinging to her skirt. She looks
at my friend and pronounces her a good
subject. Show off the good legs with a
tea-length dress, she advises.
She sorts through the rack of partially
made dresses and brings out one with
rows of silk. The fabric doesn’t come
together in the back, but the front gives
an idea of how it would look. Suddenly
my friend realizes that her exposed back
is visible through the storefront window
to everyone on Avenue A. I stand behind
her so she can look in the mirror without
some stranger checking out the flesh.
Christina, who has had the shop for
some four years and lives on Grand Street
in the East River Co-op, tugs, wraps and
drapes, displaying the different fabrics.
She provides sandals with heels, then
takes off her pearls and puts them on
my friend. There. We’re getting excited.
The price would be about $1,500 and she
could do it in time, though just barely. It’s
tempting, but, alas, a budget buster.
On Orchard we check out the vintage
stores, and find some gowns, but brides in
the old days were scrawny. My tall friend
is dismayed by the puny-sized dresses, so
we move on to the venerable Adrienne’s.
This is a 57-year-old bridal shop near
Rivington, with a companion bridesmaid
shop across the street. The ladies buzz
us through the locked door, but won’t
let us browse. We need an appointment,
and there’s not one to be had for almost a
week. Despite the brusque reception, my
friend sets up a time.
By the end of the day, my friend is discouraged
but willing to give the neighborhood
one more try before hitting the
big stores.
Our treatment at Adrienne’s when we
get there the following week is anything
but brusque. Andrea understands exactly
what my friend wants and what will flatter,
but like Blue and Meg’s, there’s no
one gown that has it all in the same dress.
This skirt and that top, and this fabric can
all go together. It can be done in time and
within my friend’s budget. She has just a
few days to decide, though, if she wants
a custom dress.
We hop on the M14 bus, aiming for Angelo
Lambrou’s dress shop on 7th Street,
but I spot MoMo FaLana’s at 3rd Street.
Like Blue, it’s a place that has always
intrigued me. The tie-dyed silk gowns in
the window are the dresses that ol’ hippies
like me dream of, colorful, shimmery,
drapey. The bright reds and blues
and purples flow and meld, and the dying
process make the dresses permanently
wrinkled. I grab my friend, and we lurch
off the bus.
Maureen Roberts, nicknamed MoMo,
greets us warmly. She lives on Ludlow
and has owned the shop with her husband,
the designer, for seven years. When
we ask about wedding dresses, she shows
a row of halter dresses in shimmering
pearly shades tinged with delicate pinks,
purples and blues. They look like wedding
gowns, but with an offbeat flair.
Prices range from $350 to $650.
My friend takes one with a little train to
try on. When she walks out in the dress
and looks in the mirror, for the first time
in our expeditions, she smiles. MoMo
tells her to step into a hand-dyed petticoat
with layers of crinoline. It gives the skirt
a flattering A-line and peeks out fetchingly
underneath.
My friend looks stunning. She’s a modest
person who doesn’t give much credit
to people who say she’s gorgeous (she
is), but she looks in the mirror happily,
and says, “I feel pretty in this dress.”
Mission accomplished.
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