The Confection Debacle

The following excerpt comes from The Collected Plays of Harold Higginbottom: Master of The English Dessert Farce. Higginbottom’s career was cut tragically short in a duel with a local tavern cook after he refused to believe the bread pudding had contained rye and not wheat bread. Of course, as countless scholars have now pointed out, his early demise is eerily paralleled in his most famous work, “A Trifling Matter” when Bartholomew argues with and kills his brother-in-law over whether to use melba peaches of caramel apples in the trifle.

Below is an excerpt from Higginbottom’s lesser known Confection Debacle, an insightful piece about love, self-loathing, and chocolate cake:

LIGHTS UP
THE HUGHES’ DINING ROOM

The room exudes old-worldly elegance with mahogany and lace. It is a dining room with a large table and doors on both sides to the kitchen and living quarters. A phone is mounted on the wall.

GEORGE HUGHES sits looking out the window uncomfortably across from his wife PRUDENCE. They are both somewhere in their 40’s, stuffy and proper to the last. They speak quickly, nearly overlapping each other, like the layers of a trifle.

PRUDENCE: Dear I was talking with the Watson’s about Thursday at the club and they said…George, you’re not even listening to me.
GEORGE: (startled) What dear? The Watson’s?
PRUDENCE: You seem so preoccupied George. What is it? Did they increase the VAT again?
GEORGE: Hm? Oh, no. I should hope not.

From the door to the kitchen BERTRAND the butler enters carrying a chocolate cake. He is impeccably dressed and in his 50’s. He is sharp and well spoken. He sets the birthday cake down, candle glowing before George.

PRUDENCE: You hadn’t thought I’d forgotten, had you?
GEORGE: It’s…

Prudence and Bertrand stare at George expectantly as he stares down at the cake.

BERTRAND: (taking over) Shall I make a wish for you sir?
GEORGE: No, Bertrand, thank you. (disbelief) Prudence, this cake is chocolate.
BERTRAND: Really sir it would be no trouble. I –
GEORGE: (interrupting) I shall make my own wish. I wish…to leave you Prudence.

He blows out the candle.

BERTRAND: Sir you mustn’t tell your wish…
GEORGE: I can not go on living in this horrid manner.
BERTRAND: (quickly) I’ll just go slice this cake then, shall I?

He removes the cake, and himself, from the room.

PRUDENCE: George, dear, don’t be silly. It’s just chocolate cake…
GEORGE: Prudence, I am deathly allergic to chocolate. The last time I touched the stuff I was in hospital for days.
PRUDENCE: How could I even have known you were allergic to chocolate?
GEORGE: You just don’t listen to me, do you? Just last week you tried to force your chocolate croissant on me.
PRUDENCE: What is this sudden obsession with chocolate George? You’re being ridiculous.
GEORGE: It is not an obsession. It is an example Prudence.

Bertrand reenters with slices of cake.

BERTRAND: Sir, it does sound awfully like an obsession.

He places the cake before George and Prudence. George picks up his plate.

GEORGE: If I ate this slice of cake, I could very well die. It seems to me that a decent wife would try and remember facts such as this.
PRUDENCE: George! This is so unlike you.
BERTRAND: Shall I have the chef prepare another dish? A creme brulee perhaps?
PRUDENCE: I suppose so Bertrand.
GEORGE: No. Bertrand, you remember my allergy, don’t you?
BERTRAND: Why, sir, I hardly see what my memory has to do with the matter.
GEORGE: Alright, fine. Prudence, please. I am leaving you.
PRUDENCE: You’ll leave me over chocolate, George? Don’t be ridiculous.
GEORGE: This isn’t about chocolate, dear. This is about my happiness.
PRUDENCE: Your happiness? What on earth do you mean?
GEORGE: Listen, I just can’t take it anymore, Prudence…This way of life…
PRUDENCE: What way of life, dear? We live very well, wouldn’t you say so Bertrand?
BERTRAND: Why yes, madam, if I could be so bold.
PRUDENCE: You could Bertrand, you could.
GEORGE: No, this. These conversations every night about who served better crumpets, the Watson’s or the Pearl’s…
PRUDENCE: Desserts again, dear!
GEORGE: No, no, no. Just the sheer monotony of it all. Every day sitting with you at tea time and having the same biscuits.
BERTRAND: (leadingly) Biscuits sir?
GEORGE: Yes, biscuits! I mean, no. Anything. Don’t you understand? I simply can not tolerate it anymore. It’s all so revolting to me now.
BERTRAND: Shall I cancel the creme brulee then, sir?
GEORGE: (thrown off) What?
BERTRAND: (lugubriously) The creme brulee sir, shall I cancel it?
GEORGE: Why on earth would you cancel the creme brulee?
BERTRAND: Well it would seem to me sir, that sir has taken a great distaste for all sweets…
PRUDENCE: Yes, Bertrand, do cancel the creme brulee, I don’t feel at all hungry anymore.
BERTRAND: Yes madam.

He disappears as George gets to his feet abruptly.

GEORGE: Now look here! I do want a creme brulee, blast it! Bertrand!
PRUDENCE: Dear, you really must calm down. All this sudden hatred of desserts…It won’t do your blood pressure any good at all.
GEORGE: I don’t at all hate creme brulee. My feelings about it, are, in fact, the exact opposite of what you have just said. You see, here we have another example, you simply do not care what I think about anything.
PRUDENCE: (exasperated) George I don’t care how you feel about creme brulee.
GEORGE: Exactly!
PRUDENCE: Oh for god’s sake, George! Calm down. What reasonable man could become so inflamed over brulee? (pauses, realizes she’s made a pun, laughs) Oh, I’ve made quite the joke there. George, do you get it? Inflamed…over brulee…?
GEORGE: (yells into the kitchen) Bertrand! Do not cancel that creme brulee! I expect it shortly.
BERTRAND (O.S.): (yelling) So you’ve changed your mind then, sir?
GEORGE: (yelling) What? Changed my mind?
BERTRAND: (pops in from the kitchen) About sweets, sir. You’ve changed your mind on the whole confection debacle, have you?
GEORGE: (wearily) No, Bertrand.
Bertrand eyes George suspiciously.
BERTRAND: (eyes George suspiciously) Alright then, sir…
GEORGE: Fine! Yes. I expect to be eating a creme brulee shortly, Bertrand.

Bertrand, confused, heads back into the kitchen.

PRUDENCE: George, you’re acting outrageously. You have me quite convinced that you’ve catapulted your right mind straight out the window.
GEORGE: Prudence, that is not at all the case. I’m quite within my right mind and I have come to the logical realization that I positively hate you.
PRUDENCE: You couldn’t possibly hate me over crumpets.

Bertrand re-enters.

BERTRAND: And biscuits, madam.
PRUDENCE: Yes, and biscuits.

George begins pacing the room, quite angry, on a tirade. His speech should be firm and slightly brittle, like a good Scotch shortbread.

GEORGE: It is not about biscuits! Nor crumpets! Nor chocolate! Nor treacle tart for that matter, which you refuse to serve for some ungodly reason. My feelings from day one were all mixed up, contrived, and over the years and years of your icy temperament have cooled. But, just recently some fire has sparked within me, and feelings have bubbled up, uncontrollably, forming into an exquisite souffle of loathing. (To BERTRAND) Bertrand, where is that creme brulee?

Bertrand exits.

PRUDENCE: Is this one of your strange ideas of a joke?
GEORGE (Sits): No.
PRUDENCE: (heating up) You know George, it’s no easy feat on my part to put up with your antics! Constantly discussing the perfect tiramisu! I have…Oh, rubbish!

She lights a cigarette. Bertrand reenters with the creme brulees, which he places before George and Prudence. George prepares himself to dig in, arranging his napkin as a bib. Prudence attempts to stifle the beginnings of tears.

GEORGE: Looks quite delicious Bertrand.

Bertrand bows.

GEORGE: Thank you, Bertrand. That’ll be all.
BERTRAND: (Coughs, to PRUDENCE) Madam, if I may…perhaps you would like me to pack a few things for you stay at Her Ladyship’s? Until all these pudding troubles have blown over…?
GEORGE: Bertrand, that won’t be necessary, I shall be leaving.
PRUDENCE: (sharply) Oh, eat your creme brulee!

George is shocked by the sudden outburst from Prudence. He picks up his spoon and goes to eat.

PRUDENCE (composes herself, to Bertrand) Why, yes, I do believe that to be the best course of action. We shall wait things out. Call ahead, Bertrand.

George takes his first bite, MOANING in delight. The creme brulee should have a thick, slightly runny consistency to it and almsot ooze when prodded. The sugar on top should be browned, though care should be taken that it is not burnt. Burnt sugar would be unacceptable.

GEORGE: Oh, my! This is delectable!

He continues eating, savoring every bite, oblivious.

BERTRAND: Of course, madam. I shall make the arrangements.

He exits.

GEORGE: Are you going to eat yours, dear?

She stares at him and takes a long drag on her cigarette. He walks over and grabs her creme brulee, bringing it back to his side and eating it standing up.

GEORGE: (yelling) You know, Bertrand, this is quite delicious!
BERTRAND: (pops head in) I shall tell the cook sir!
PRUDENCE: And do prepare the car, Bertrand!

BERTRAND: I have already spoken with the driver.

Bertrand exits.

GEORGE: (yelling) Something about this that’s quite peculiar! Know what it is Bertrand?
BERTRAND: (pops back in) I haven’t the foggiest, sir.
GEORGE: Well, ask the chef then when you get a moment.
BERTRAND: Absolutely, sir.

He exits as George finishes the creme brulee and sets it down.

PRUDENCE: I am leaving you George.
GEORGE: (to himself) I wonder if it’s cinnamon?
PRUDENCE: (louder) I shall be at my mother’s. You can expect to hear from a lawyer shortly.

George simply continues contemplating the brulee. Bertrand enters and hands an overcoat and hat to Prudence, which she puts on.

BERTRAND: Shall madam be requiring further assistance this evening?
PRUDENCE: No thank you Bertrand. That’s quite alright.

Bertrand bows. Prudence turns to George.

PRUDENCE: Goodbye, George.
GEORGE: Hm, what?
PRUDENCE: (finally) Goodbye. George.

She turns and stomps out. A moment passes.

BERTRAND: Sir?
GEORGE: (through some coughing) Yes, Bertrand?
BERTRAND: Shall I inquire as to –
GEORGE: (coughing harder) Yes, Bertrand.

Bertrand ducks his head into the kitchen for a moment as George desperately drinks water, before returning.

BERTRAND: Bad news, I’m afraid sir. (He pauses, ashamed)  It’s chocolate sir.
GEORGE: (horrified) Chocolate? What do you mean! I just ate it! I ate both!
BERTRAND: Oh, sir…you really shouldn’t have…
GEORGE: (gasping for air) Bertrand?
BERTRAND: Shall I call an ambulance, sir?

George collapses face first onto the ground. Bertrand picks the phone up off the wall.

LIGHTS OUT.

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