by Pat Arnow

At Adrienne you must book an appointment in advance Meg's store manager Melanie Hodgetts Parachute silk dresses at Jill Anderson New dress for Blue’s only mannequin Local Wedding Shops Adrienne’s 155 and 156 Orchard Street, (near Rivington). 212-475-4206 Angelo Lambrou 96 E. 7th St. 212.460.9870 Blue 137 Ave. A, (near 9th St.) 212-228-7744 Bridal Veil Falls 445 E. 9th St. 212.674.3900 Jill Anderson 331 E. 9th St. (near 1st Ave.) 212.253.1747 Meg 312 E. 9th St. (between 1st and 2nd) 212.260.6329 MoMo FaLana 43 Avenue A (at 3rd St.) 212.979.9595 Selia Yang 328 E. 9th St. 212.254.9073

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.