Upper Crust

It's a given fact that the Lower Echelon of The Upper Crust does not bake bread.

They buy it. Then discuss its merits. If they are really into bread, they hire a personal chef who specializes in producing yeasty delights baked "just for them".

To preserve this awareness of the dough theory, it is manditory to marry well within one's social status.

If a member of the Lower Echelon of The Upper Crust weds a member of the Bourgeoisie, it will inheritantly cause misunderstandings.

And Gadzooks, forget about extended marital bliss if an aristocrat contracts a union with a plebs.

It just won't happen. Everlasting union, that is.

Such was the case of one of my closest friends. For years, Victoria was accustomed to hearing her Mother's cultured voice reply to the subtle lifting of their chef's left eyebrow: "Hmmm . . . Gorgés. Brioche should have a bit of flavor, don't you agree? Perhaps it needs a touch of caraway . . . ?"

Ever headstrong, Victoria chose to fall inescapably in love with Mike, an Irish proletariat.

And you know the Irish. They love their taters and bread.

After the newly-wed marital bliss wore off, I distinctly remember Victoria's anguish concerning the bread issue.

With gloves properly placed atop alligator purses which scratched the soft weave of our Chanel suits, Victoria and I waited for the maître d' to escort us to our table at Maxims.

Once seated, Victoria plowed immediately into the heart of the matter. "Kate! He wants me to bake bread! If I hear: "Just like my mother did" one more time, I'll sue for divorce."

I didn't add to her woe by stating the obvious. She really should have thought of this before the "I do's".

Innocuously, I replied: "There are cookbooks, I suppose."

For a moment it appeared as if I would have to describe what a cookbook was, as Victoria fixed me with a bewildered gaze.

Yet, a moment later, in a breathy undertone, she said: "People actually use those?"

"Cookbooks? Yes, my dear, even the best chefs use them."

"Oh, I didn't know! Let's go shopping, Kate, and see if we can find one."

"They are quite common, dear. Finish your lunch. Then we'll visit a bookstore."

Not that I am a dime polisher but I did believe that Victoria's purchase of one hundred-and-thirty-three cookery publications was far beyond the pale of her new financial status.

I should have called later to ascertain her husband's reaction to Victoria's culinary-challenged purchase but I have to admit, a full calendar of soirées blitzed the affair from my attention.

Until the day, several months later, when I happened to glance upon his obit in the Times.

Mother and I were seated in the formal dining room sipping our morning coffee.

"Michael O'Flaherity," I mused aloud. "O'Flaherity sounds familiar. Do we know anyone by that name, Mother?"

"Just the baker, dear."

"Baker . . . baker. But, of course! That's Victoria's married name." Then, the whole episode of the homemade bread fiasco came rushing to mind.

I telephoned Victoria immediately.

"I am so sorry, dear, to hear about your husband's demise. What happened?"

It was difficult to follow the gist of her story, for after each third word or so, loud cries of anguish interrupted her tale.

It's deplorable how the mannerisms of the underclass rub off on the peerage. In times of crises, the noblesse know to keep a stiff upper lip.

Struggling to glean the details from Victoria's hysterical account, I began to piece the situation together.

Her husband, Mike, had discovered the one hundred-and-thirty-three volumes of bakery techniques at the exact moment Victoria presented him with her first loaf of home-baked bread. His reaction to the books was much as I had expected it would be.

By Victoria's own words: "The elite should never knead dough". And so she hadn't. Oh. She had poked the yeasty substance a time or two with a dainty pinky, then had quickly slid the whole kit-and-kaboodle into the oven.

Twenty minutes later, when she removed the unrisen bread from the stove, she fervantly prayed that somewhere in Mike's ancestry, there had been a person of Jewish descent. They, at least, understood the concept of the unleavened loaf.

To give the poor deceased fellow some credit, he did try to swallow a bite of the hammer-hard substance. Yet exactly as he swallowed, Victoria chose to disclose the dollar amount of the cookbooks.

Which confirms my opinion: If one tries to swallow food while in the angst of anger, one will surely choke to death.

There was a funeral, of course. Followed by Victoria's sojourn through Europe. For healing purposes.

Fortunately, she met a Blue-Blood and their nuptials were performed without delay.

It was during my last visit to Victoria's that I had the chance to observe her new chef. Honorée, I believe his name was.

He approached as Victoria and I sat together at the patio table and, quite like Gorgés, raised one eyebrow as he presented the brioche. Victoria sniffed the aroma, peeled away a small section, then daintily tasted the sample.

"It needs caraway, Honorée. Brioche should have a little flavor."

You can see, my faithful readers, that this entirely supports my point of view. To maintain the illusion of the dough theory, it is manditory to marry well within one's social status.
Upper Crust © 2005 Chaeli Lee Sullivan