Rich People Problems-Kwan 2017 (WWT)

first, many of the Burke’s Peerage crowd talked about how terribly vulgar it was for a
Singaporean to buy one of the finest houses in Britain and try to run it “in the old way”
with its mind-numbing number of staff and all the trimmings. But the landed gentry
accepted their invitations anyway and after their visits grudgingly had to admit that the
Shangs hadn’t mucked it up. The restoration was splendid, the grounds were even more
splendid, and the food—well, that was utter heaven. In the decades that followed, guests
the world over began to covet their invitations because word got out that Harlinscourt’s
chef Marcus Sim—a Hong Kong–born prodigy who had trained with Frédy Girardet—was
a genius in both classic French and Chinese cuisine. And it was the thought of breakfast
this morning that made Jacqueline reluctantly get out of bed.
She walked into the dressing room adjoining her bedroom and discovered a fire already
burning in the fireplace, a vase of freshly cut Juliet roses arranged on the dressing table,
and the outfit she had selected for the morning already hanging against the copper
warming rack. Jacqueline slipped on her figure-hugging cream fit-and-flare sleeveless
dress with iconic pointelle knit trim, marveling at how it had been warmed to the perfect
temperature. She thought of weekends at other English estates, where the bedrooms felt
like iceboxes in the morning and her clothes felt just as frozen when she put them on. I
don’t even think that the queen lives this well, Jacqueline thought, recalling that before
Alfred and Mabel had moved in, her godmother, Su Yi, had sent a team over from Tyersall
Park to help train the British staff properly. Asian hospitality standards were fused with
English manor-house traditions, and even her boyfriend Victor had been impressed the
last time he visited. Holding up his Aubercy dress shoes one evening as they dressed for
dinner, he said in astonishment, “Honey, they fucking ironed my shoelaces!”
This morning, it was the chef’s eggs that most astonished Jacqueline as she sat at one
end of the immense dining table in the Grade II Heritage-listed breakfast room.
“Ummmm. How is it that only Marcus can make scrambled eggs like this?” She sighed to
Mabel as she savored another forkful.
“Doesn’t your chef do good eggs?” Mabel asked.
“Sven’s omelets are fabulous, and he can poach perfectly. But there is something about
these scrambled eggs that are absolutely divine. Fluffy, creamy, and just the right amount
of runny. I look forward to every visit because of them. What is the secret?”
“No idea—I never touch the eggs. But you must try some of this yu zhook. *2 It’s made
with Dover sole that was caught just this morning,” Mabel said.
“It’s the cream. Marcus uses the top cream made from our Guernsey cows in the
scrambled eggs,” twelve-year-old Lucia Shang piped up from the far end of the table.
“At last—she speaks! That’s the first peep I’ve heard out of you all morning, Lucia. Now,
what’s this book you’re so engrossed in? You’re not still reading those Hunger Games
vampire novels, are you?” Jacqueline asked.
“The Hunger Games isn’t about vampires. And I stopped reading them ages ago. I’m
reading Siddhartha now.”
“Ah, Hesse. He’s quite good.”