Laughter would be bereaved if snobbery died. — Peter Ustinov
I am somewhat cautiously guarded about receiving lunch or dinner invitations these days from, for want of a better expression, I can only describe as the upper crust. Before you erroneously leap to the conclusion that, if I am on the invitation list of the creamy layer, I must necessarily belong to this exclusive club, let me disabuse you. I emphatically do not mingle with this rarefied class on an on-going basis, and I am not an inverted snob either. It’s just that in my professional capacity, I have had to occasionally hobnob with the jet set, and as I possess an honest face, a couple of decently tailored suits and a dry wit, I just about make the grade. My shock of silver grey mane completes the illusion of understated savoir faire. It’s all part of a clever ruse, and it works.
The thing is, one can have no end of fun observing these neo-sophisticates at the top of their game. And what better occasion than a Sunday brunch (sounds more impressive than the quotidian lunch), or a glitzy dinner at a swank apartment, catered of course, by the best professionals in town. Short of actually being ushered in with a name announcement, we haven’t quite gone to such ridiculous lengths, you are received with much fanfare by the hosts.
The customary shake of the hands with the host, and for the hostess, a gentle hug accompanied by an air-kiss on the cheeks is par for the course. Never quite worked out the correct etiquette for whether one veers to the left or right cheek first. Invariably the good lady turns the other way and you end up planting the kiss on her left eyelid! Or worse.
Anyhow, the preliminary pourparlers completed, you move swiftly seeking company. Everyone is usually standing around in groups and you attach yourself to one of them, on the flimsy grounds that you were able to recognise a couple of faces. A liveried waiter comes around with the drinks tray and you help yourself to a goblet of what looks like red wine. As the person standing next to you is also nursing a similar glass, the subject of wine suggests itself as a plausible conversational ice breaker.
“Rather good wine this”, you offer as an opening gambit. “Chilean, do you think? Distinct aromas of Atacama and Coquimbo about it”, I conclude with smug pretension. “My dear fellow”, ripostes my all-knowing wine expert neighbour. “Our host knows better than to serve plebian Chilean plonk. This is the real stuff, matey. Inglenook Cabernet Sauvignon 1941. Take a large sip, but be sure to swirl the goblet first. You won’t feel it touching the sides on its way down. Smooth as silk.”
“You are absolutely right, you know”, I lied. The large sip I took nearly choked me, but fortunately my friend’s attentions were drawn elsewhere and missed my fitful sputtering. “But how did you know what brand of wine it was?” I challenged. “You’ve been slyly taking a peek at the labels, haven’t you, you old fox?” “Are you kidding me? Only a philistine can’t spot the difference between an Inglenook and a Chateau Lafite 1787. Did you know that Francis Ford Coppola owns Inglenook, and he opines that this wine had just finished fermentation at the time of Pearl Harbour? And he should know. After all, he directed The Godfather - all three of them.”
What had that got to do with anything? I had had just about enough of wine snobbery, and moved on to another group where, mercifully, a waiter came around with some toothsome hors d’oeuvres. As I was feeling quite peckish, I helped myself to something that looked like a cross between a samosa and a curry puff. It tasted good too. “Very nice”, I said to the elderly lady next to me, “though it has a pungent, salty after taste”.
“That’s the cheese’, she stated confidently. “Probably Serbian Pule or Caciocavallo Podolico”. After a couple of munches more, she declared dramatically, “No, no I tell a lie. It is definitely Pecorino Romano. That after taste you speak of is sheep’s milk, the source. A dead giveaway.”
I spied with my little eye, the chef nervously hovering around in the dining hall and buttonholing him, inquired of him about the cheese. “Amul, Sir”, he bashfully admitted. “But please don’t tell anyone”. I reassured him, “Your secret is safe with me, my purveyor of tasty treats”.
It was time to gravitate towards another group, where the subject under discussion was cigars. A couple of gentlemen were actually attempting, without much success, to light their cigars. There was much ceremony and hoo-ha, first about clipping the ends, and passing it lightly over their upper lips, just below the nose. At last, they managed to light up and after the customary coughing, one of them said it was the best cigar he had ever puffed on. “What else can you expect from a Bolivan Belicoso Fino? Castro’s favourite, you know.”
“Surely not”, riposted the other cigar toting parvenu, “Good old Fidel would touch nothing other than Espada by Montecristo Quillon. Ask me, I have friends in high places in Havana”. I had read a few books on Castro and I always thought he was completely faithful to a brand called Cohibas, but I decided to let it pass, and move on. The cigar smoke was killing me.
Finally, I came across a group discussing music, a subject to which I could actually contribute intelligently. Or so I thought. Evidently the topic was ‘my favourite piece of music.’ One of the foreign invitees, a consular type, averred that Luciano Pavarotti’s rendition of Puccini’s Nessun Dorma! simply had to be the greatest of all time.
A sophisticated Parsi lady stated unequivocally that, Beethoven’s violin concerto in D is the piece of music she would pick to be played at her funeral. A youngish stockbroker, who had made millions from his gullible clients, preferred Bob Marley’s reggae offerings on his car stereo, though he was not entirely averse to grunge band Soundgarden either.
They all then turned to me interrogatively. “The young Sangita Kalanidhi Sanjay Subrahmanyan’s Tamil viruttham in ragamalika, Oorilen kaani illai, uravu mattroruvar illai’, always gives me goosebumps,” I ventured boldly. The befuddled group shied away from me in a marked manner, as if I had arrived from outer space. I hightailed it from the party, chuckling uncontrollably to myself.
(The writer is a brand consultant and a lover of music and good humour)
