Thread: Oscar Wilde's Cucumber Sandwiches.

Oscar Wilde's Cucumber Sandwiches.

Part 1:

Lady Canning was well acquainted with the prepossessing influence of her cucumber sandwiches upon the Prime Minister, from the previous occasions that he had called upon her. It was incumbent therefore to ensure that today's offering was of a likewise singular standard. The great man was due for high tea at three in the afternoon, and being in her esteem a true gentleman, was never late in keeping such appointments; unlike some of the incumbent parvenu politicians one came across these days.

Upon learning a week ago of his intention to call at her Belgrade Square residence, she had
very much taken measures into her own hands, applying herself diligently to the forthcoming event.

Thus it was on a clear morning in February, Lady Canning strode erect and distinguished into Fortnum and Masons in a manner somewhat beholden to Queen Bodacia carving her way through Roman hoards. Heads turned as she entered, for as a representative of English aristocracy she had about her that air of mystery and command that mere mortals cannot acquire, less still be taught. On her part she regarded such looks around her entrance as impertinent, having been accustomed to see throughout her years, all eyes not royal, ducal or marquesal fall before her own.

"I wish to purchase a cucumber," she exclaimed with cut glass diction to the somewhat effeminate male assistant at the grocery counter. She was endeared neither to his hang dog jowls, nor the pony-tail, the latter of which appeared to inadequately compensate for his prematurely balding frontal pate.

"I wish to purchase a cucumber," she repeated, as if as an insurance against the person she was addressing being a denizen of some twilight zone south of Calais where she regarded the standard of the Queen's spoken English as deplorable.

"A long one; firm, fresh and preferably from the Home Counties."

The assistant did his best to accommodate her wishes, noting albeit with a degree of envy, the expensive yet discreet jewellery, the striking profile and the deceptively lambent eyes. There was nothing deshabille about this customer; none of the faked attempts at anonymity behind overtly large shades, an outer skin of some transient pop star or soap opera celeb.

By this time the General Manager of the establishment had been hastily mobilised, and further joint excursions were undertaken to other multifarious satellite counters to view in a considered and critical manner selections of; brown bread, non-salted butter, black peppercorns from the Java Straits and Earl Grey tea.

This strategic exercise in provisions for the grand event having been successfully executed, she proffered her Coutts card for the sum of £6.52 and swept out of the store, leaving in her wake, without thought or consideration, the General Manager carrying the small wire basket of purchased goods.

The Bentley parked on double yellow lines at the kerb was in the process of being booked by a Nigerian traffic warden.

"What exactly is the meaning of this?" she addressed him, looking straight in the eye.

"It's a parking ticket Mar'm. You are illegally parked," he replied firmly.

"Nonsense," she retorted.

"My Bentley, and preceding that, the family carriage has been parked all over Great Britain without let or hinderance since the time of Charles I."

The traffic warden's countenance was not indicative of complete accordance with this fact, let alone his acquaintance with the statutory parking regulations in the West End of London during the reign of that particular regent.

Lady Canning had, it must be confessed, a true instinct of the man, in that he was capable of rebuke in this way and in no other. Thus, seizing the basket from the General Manager of Fortnum & Mason and the initiative from the confused Nigerian, she slid into the limoscene and glided majestically away in the direction of Oxford Street.

Part 2:

In the Belgravia drawing room the small table had been arranged along with two adjacent armchairs. To one side lay the best Royal Dalton with the tea pot already warmed, along with a jug of hot water, a caddie of Earl Grey, milk and sugar. To the other side, on a rectangular platter, the sandwiches; crusts removed, separated diagonally into fours, the cucumber cut in such an attenuated manner as to suggest the use of a razor.

Redolent of a culinary snack fit for Greek Gods in Elysian Fields, it's perfection lay in the simplicity of both it's contents and presentation.

Outside in the square, with the week-end fast approaching, the traffic was more subdued than normal. Perhaps the preponderance of embassy buildings there had closed early and their staff retreated, leaving de facto occupation to the other extremely rich, private owners.

Silently, almost as if by stealth, two long black Jaguars swiftly entered the square. The first drew up to the kerb and from the one behind two fit young body guards in grey suits exited to position themselves facing outwards, either end of the front car.

A short pause and the PM emerged, still serious faced from Question Time back in the Commons. He strode purposefully to the front door where the butler took his coat and led him through to the drawing room.

Lady Canning rose from her chair by the tea table, smiled warmly and offered her cheek. They were old acquaintances via their respective families and as such, very much at ease in each others company.

"Dear Lady Canning, thank you so much for accommodating my request to call on you."

"Prime Minister, the pleasure is all mine. Have you lost weight since I saw you last?"

There was a restrained smile on his full lips and the teasing enquiry was left hanging, for there had never been anything of a fulsome or unctuous manner in the way they conversed. If truth be known, they were equally balanced; he possessing the elegant fluency of a serving First Minister of the Crown, whereas the lady, well she was the Lady.

"Ah the cucumber sandwiches!" he exclaimed reaching for the plate.

"Patience Prime Minister. I shall pour the tea first."

To Lady Canning he was, malgre lui, like a naughty schoolboy. In return, his being lightly reprimanded brought back strong warm memories of his nanny during childhood.

"But Lady Canning, was it not Algernon in "The Importance of Being Earnest," that finished of Lady Bracknell's cucumber sandwiches?"

"Prime Minister," she said, tea pot half raised, " You are not one of Oscar Wilde's characters, and I am sure I take offence at some of the qualities of that fictional member of the aristocracy. One lump of sugar, or two?"

He stayed an hour longer than intended, all but consumed the entire platter of cucumber sandwiches and by the time he had made appreciative parting remarks to his hostess, was in an equitable frame of mind.

Chequers for the weekend lay ahead with the family around him. Next week he would be braced to; sooth the Germans, irritate the French, exculpate his Liberal Alliance partner from his latest mistakes, and undertake with a suitable considered demeanour, meretricious initiatives with the Americans.