Sophistication
Sophistication is a French invention. The French are
masters when it comes to nurturing, and more importantly,
selling sophistication. Think of some expensive (and
therefore classy) brands. Chances are that more than half
of the ones that spring to mind would be French. And the
other half would be distinctly French sounding wannabes.
This world domination in sophistication is impressive for a
small country of the size and population of Thailand.
How do you take a handbag manufactured in Indonesia, slap
on a name that only a handful of its buyers can pronounce,
and sell it for a profit margin of 1000%? You do it by
championing sophistication; by being an icon that others
can only aspire to be, but never ever attain. You know,
kind of like perfection. No wonder Descartes said something
that sounded suspiciously like, "I think in French,
therefore I am!" (Or was it, "I think, therefore I am
French"?)
I am amazed by the way the French manage to have the rest
of the world eat things that smell and taste like feet. And
I stand in awe of the French when the world eagerly parts
with their hard earned dough to gobble up such
monstrosities as fattened duck liver, fermented dairy
produce, pig intestines filled with blood, snails, veal
entrails and whatnot.
The French manage this feat, not by explaining the benefits
and selling points of these, ahem..., products, but by a
perfecting a supremely sophisticated display of incredulity
at anyone who doesn't know their value. In other words, not
by advertising the products, but by embarrassing you.
Although the French are not known for their physical
stature, they do an admirable job of looking down on you
when needed.
I got a taste of this sophistication recently. I confessed
to a friend of mine that I never could develop a taste for
caviar -- that quintessential icon of French
sophistication. My friend looked askance at me and told me
that I must have eaten it wrong. She then explained to me
the right way of eating it. It must have been my fault; how
could anybody not like fish eggs? And she would know; she
is a classy SIA girl.
This incident reminded me of another time when I said to
another friend (clearly not as classy as this SIA girl)
that I didn't quite care fore Pink Floyd. He gasped and
told me never to say anything like that to anybody; one
always loved Pink Floyd.
I should admit that I have had my flirtations with bouts of
sophistication. My most satisfying moments of
sophistication came when I managed to somehow work a French
word or expression into my conversation or writing. In a
recent column, I managed to slip in
"tête-à-tête," although the
unsophisticated printer threw away the accents. Accents add
a flourish to the level of sophistication because they
confuse the heck out of the reader.
The sneaking suspicion that the French may have been
pulling a fast one on us crept up on me when I read
something that Scott Adams (of Dilbert fame) wrote. He
wondered what this ISO 9000 fad was all about. Those who
secure the ISO certification proudly flaunt it, while
everybody else seems to covet it. But does anyone know what
the heck it is? Adams conjectured that it was probably a
practical joke a bunch of inebriated youngsters devised in
a bar. "ISO" sounded very much like "Iz zat ma beer?" in
some eastern European language, he says.
Could this sophistication fad also be a practical joke? A
French conspiracy? If it is, hats off to the French!
Don't get me wrong, I'm no Francophobe. Some of my best
friends are French. It is not their fault if others want to
imitate them, follow their gastronomical habits and attempt
(usually in vain) to speak their tongue. I do it too -- I
swear in French whenever I miss an easy shot in badminton.
After all, why waste an opportunity to sound sophisticated,
n'est-ce pas?
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