Vanilla Mille-Feuille
Waste management is a weird business. It is often very interesting to see the things that turn up in the waste streams, like this food label in the picture above. When I see this label, I can almost picture the people at this fancy hotel in silk dresses with smooth hair, cautiously and delicately picking up a plate and a dessert spoon with their perfectly manicured nails. I can also hear them say the name of this dish. Some (probably foreigners) are saying it with just the right amount of stress on the double Ls of mille and know (by some miracle only) exactly which letters are supposed to be silent while (with magical powers) precisely replacing them with the ‘yeh’ that is not even there at the end of feuille.
Locals, however, are struggling with it — some who have heard the word before want to shoot themselves for not remembering the pronunciation anymore. I can almost feel their frustration of using a difficult word with so much potential to impress and forgetting the right pronunciation when it is the moment to step into the limelight and shine. Some others take a frantic moment to analyze the arrangement of the letters, try to remember what little they know of French, and do a fairly good job of silencing one or two Ls in their attempt at keeping up with the ambiance of the hotel. The rest have never heard of the word, so they are in a panic right now, rummaging through their brain for an excuse to avoid having to say it. The only solution for them is to retreat to their seats with empty plates slowly, letting the stress of it all win over the delicious, tasty dessert. A few that decide to be daring that day manage to utter a twisted version of the name and return to their seats but at least with a full plate apart from a red face.
Yet, here it is now. At my feet, covered in all this dirt. And somehow, the dominance of it in that high ceilinged, fragranced room echoing some light romantic music has diminished to just a piece of paper lying on the ground over which our bickering trash collectors are stepping, and our noisy waste trolleys are driving now, and then. With each person and machinery mangling it, the label is further pressed into the dirt disregarding its superiority with all its associated, intimidating aura. So, staring at it becoming soiled and crumbled, I wonder if, symbolically, this is also the actual place for our pretentious reputations that we hold so close and flaunt so profusely…
