First wedding hot off the grill leaves couple full of love at Denny’s
Glasses clink at the bar.
Bacon fries in the kitchen.
A-1 sauce gets poured. Salt gets shaken. Customers take their seats.
The overhead flat screen shows the Sox are whupping the Yanks 6-0.
The hostess gets instructions: “Make sure you say ‘Welcome to Denny’s.’” She plasters on a smile and hustles up to the front door.
The limo pulls up. The bride, a small-town girl from Ames, Iowa, gets out. She’s got a smile wider than a slot machine and looks dazzling in a sleeveless white dress and silver heels, a fringed shawl covering her shoulders.
She poses for photos as a homeless guy across the street watches, propped up against a concrete trash can and blowing clouds of smoke into the air.
It’s Denny’s.
It’s Vegas.
It’s Fremont Street.
Welcome to the Levandowski-Keller wedding.
No. Wait. Not yet. The television news cameras need another shot. The bride gets back in the limo. She does it again. And again. And again.
She knew this was coming.
You don’t apply to be the first couple to get married in the downtown Las Vegas Denny’s new wedding chapel without expecting a little bit of attention.
“It’s a really special day, so why not share it with others?” says the bride, Nancy Levandowski, 53, just before she becomes Nancy Keller.
She and the groom, Steve Keller, 54, met online 3½ years ago.
She’s the food service director at Iowa State University in Ames. He’s a salesman for a food company. It was a match made in the kitchen.
They hit it off. Time passed. They decided to get married.
Why not Vegas?
Nancy came across an article in a food magazine about the downtown Las Vegas Denny’s and its soon-to-be-open chapel.
Oh, that’s a good idea, she thought. She pitched it to Steve. He said let’s do it.
They both had a history with the 24-hour food chain.
Nancy remembers sitting in a back corner while she was in college, studying for finals and snacking on fries or her favorite meal, Moons over My Hammy.
She says Steve, as an on-the-road salesman, eats there all the time.
They applied, along with what Denny’s bosses described as dozens of other couples. They were chosen and got the news a few weeks ago.
And so here they are on Wednesday evening, dressed up and standing before Paul Thornton, who ministers about 600 weddings a year.
He’s done weddings at the Valley of Fire, in front of the volcano at The Mirage, all kinds of unusual places.
“This one’s right up there,” he says.
Steve tells one of the TV cameras that, yeah, his friends and family didn’t quite get this at first.
“They think we’re certifiable,” he says. “You can imagine.”
The Yanks score a run right before the vows get started.
A family comes in. They take a seat on the bench in the front lobby while they wait for a table.
They don’t appear to notice the wedding. Or they’re just used to seeing this sort of thing in Vegas.
A hostess seats them at a booth. Another group walks in. A guy in a camo baseball cap is wearing underpants outside his clothes. These underpants, which are white, or used to be white, have words printed on the behind: “I love to fart.”
The minister begins to speak. He talks about love and the sacred duty that wedding vows bestow upon the couple. He says it is the most sacred thing a couple can do.
Two guys walk in the front door. They stand there with their mouths agape. Literally, their mouths are wide open as they take in the spectacle.
The groom talks quietly, as if his bride is the only one he wants to hear his words. She glows.
The stapler at the register clacks. Camera shutters click. Dishes clank.
Nancy begins to talk.
“I fell in love with you for so many reasons,” she says. Her voice cracks a little. She doesn’t look away from Steve’s eyes the whole time she’s talking.
The rings come out. They get slipped on. There will be a reception soon, at the bar, with pancakes and beer and Denny’s party favors.
The wedding party applauds. Members of the media applaud.
And the two guys at the front door, they’ve closed their mouths.
They’re applauding, too. And it’s not for the Sox.
Contact reporter Richard Lake at rlake@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0307.
