I just read author Peter Mayle’s wonderfully
informative guide “Acquired Tastes.” As one might suspect, Acquired Tastes is
devoted to the little and not-so-little extravagances that make life
worthwhile.
Now the skeptical might,
rightfully, inquire as to why post instructions on the good life when there is
so little bloody good to be had, but an appreciation for quality is rarely tied
to wealth, but education. Who of us, after all, has not known an obscenely rich
individual who displays vulgarity in all aspects of life — with impudence?
While shouldering through a depressingly austere period of lack, why not
develop a “prosperity consciousness” and train yourself in the ways of a
discriminating connoisseur and practiced bon vivant.
Expectations tend to increase in
direct proportion to the amount of money being spent, and if you’re spending a
fortune you expect perfection. Alas, life being the badly organized shambles
that it so often is, and with so much of it dependent on the behavior of
erratic equipment (servants), perfection is rare. After a while, the ‘having way too much mulah’
realize this, and then they start looking for trouble. I’ve seen them do it.
Details that I would consider
trivial assume enormous significance: the breakfast egg is inedible because it
is marginally under boiled, the silk shirt is unwearable because of a barely
visible wrinkle, the chauffeur is insupportable because he’s been eating garlic
again, the doorman is either insufficiently attentive or over familiar – the
list of maddening blots on the landscape of life just goes on and on.
How can you have a nice day if
some fool hasn’t warmed your socks or ironed your newspaper properly (how is
that going to work with on-line editions)?
This was brought home to me one
evening a few days ago at the house of a charming couple who suffered from ‘having
way too much mulah’. One of their guests—it may have been me, now I come to
think of it—accidentally nudged the heavy gilt frame of a murky painting in the
living room. The alarm went off, and the security service had to be called and
reassured and placated before we could sit down to dinner. While we were
eating, our hostess spoke about another daily problem, that of the cutlery. It
was beautiful old sterling, irreplaceable and heavily insured; a priceless
heirloom. Unfortunately, the insurance was only valid if the cutlery was kept
in a safe during off-duty moments, and so knives, forks, and spoons had to be
counted and locked up after every meal!
Well, you may say, these are only
minor drawbacks to the otherwise enviable life of bliss that is enjoyed by the ‘having
way too much mulah’. But after pressing my nose up against the window and
watching them in action from time to time, I’m not at all sure that they enjoy
themselves as much as we think they do. And why? Because, damn it, something is always not
quite right.
…Then I remember during my stay in Venice, a magnificent establishment with an equally magnificent chef.
Impossible, I thought, to fail to enjoy dinner in such a place. But I was
wrong. Sitting at the next table were four resplendent examples of ‘having way
too much mulah’ from Milan. They were not happy. The white wine was not chilled
exactly to their taste. A finger was lifted, but the waiter took longer than
thirty seconds to arrive. Good grief, what is the world coming to? Throughout
dinner, I could hear totally unjustified mutterings of discontent. No matter
how delicious the food, how splendid the surroundings, things were not quite
right. And this atmosphere—almost suspicious, poised for
disappointment—pervaded the entire room. There wasn’t a jolly millionaire in
sight. It will be the last time I eat in a subdued Italian restaurant.
After a few experiences like
this, the thought of living permanently among the ‘having way too much mulah’ doesn’t
appeal to me at all. But I have to say that some of their minor investments—the
small consolation prizes that they award themselves as they struggle to get
through each day—are extremely pleasant, and potentially habit-forming. Once you’ve tasted caviar, it’s hard to
contemplate its distant cousin, lump fish roe, with any real gusto.
Perhaps the single most enjoyable
part of my research, which has covered a period of about four years, was
meeting the artists themselves, the people who provide the luxuries. All of
them, from gardeners to tailors to shoe makers to cooks and wine blenders, were
happy in their work, generous with their time, and fascinating about their
particular skills. To listen to a knowledgeable enthusiast, whether he’s
talking about a hat or the delicate business of making pasta is a revelation,
and I often came away wondering why the price wasn’t higher for the talent and
patience involved.
