Class is a loaded subject. The mere mention of it triggers all sorts of insecurity: Do I seem plebian? Are they mocking me? Have I not sufficiently concealed my lower middle-class background beneath a carapace of designer labels? In his 1983 book Class, Paul Fussell noted that the anxiety one feels when the subject of class is mentioned is a gauge of his or her social class. The upper class enjoys it because it flatters them. The lower classes don’t care because they can’t change their class identity. It’s the middle class that gets all worked up, because they’d like to be upper class, but could still slip down to lower class.
It’s a touchy subject. So we won’t talk about class. Let’s talk about cake.
In the Philippines, where the gap between rich and poor is so vast they seem to occupy different countries, you can tell a lot about someone by who bakes her cakes. The middle-income groups — the C and D demographics — buy cake from the big bakery chains. These chains have branches in all the shopping malls, and in countries that have large Filipino communities. The lower-income E and F demographics are too busy worrying about survival to think about cake. The elite A and B demographics may also patronize commercial bakeries, but on the occasions that call for displays of privilege, they refer to a private list.
This list contains the telephone numbers of upper- and upper-middle class matrons in Manila who make cakes to order. Let’s call them bespoke bakers. Each one has her own specialty: Mrs. Yulo has her strawberry shortcake, Mrs. Cunanan her ensaymada, Mrs. Vargas her butter cake, and so on. None of the confections on the list are sold in stores, although Mrs. Vargas’s pastries are now available at Vargas Kitchen, a shop started by her grandchildren. Some of the cakes are sold in small quantities every Saturday at the Salcedo Market in Makati City, whose core audience is from the A, B and C brackets.
For the most part, the cakes have to be ordered personally. You call the bespoke baker’s number, place your order, then pick it up the next day — unless they have the item in stock, or have so many orders that you have to wait a few days. Most of these bespoke bakers live in exclusive gated communities charmingly called “villages.” These villages are essentially ghettos for the elite, surrounded by high walls and patrolled by men with guns. The gates are manned by security guards who pleasantly ask you to state the purpose of your visit, request identification papers, then call up the house you’re visiting to ascertain if you are expected (or welcome). The degree of pleasantness may vary if you arrive in a taxi or on foot. Having been vetted, you may now pick up your cake.
So you see, that cake is not just a cake. Mere possession of the baker’s private number means that you know someone from her social set — her original customers — or at least know someone who knows someone. It means that you can afford these desserts, which are considerably more expensive than mass-produced baked goods. The people to whom you serve the cake can glean that your tastes are more sophisticated than the average cake-eater’s, that your income allows you to spend more on quality, and that you have access to the ghettos of the elite.
No one has to say any of these things. They just have to eat cake.
Among the elite, the cake world has been divided into territories, each one ruled by a perfectly-coiffed, well-dressed lady with a rolling pin. Recipes are jealously guarded. Encroachments into recognized turf — say, someone else from that circle starts selling her own chocolate cake — have been known to trigger hostilities. Whispers abound of society bakers luring prized pastry cooks out of each other’s employ, or bribing the kitchen staff to acquire precious recipes. One bespoke baker was said to guard her recipes so carefully, she never taught them to her maids, who could be “pirated” by her neighbors. She would get up at the crack of dawn to make her famous pastries by herself. Eventually, perhaps out of exhaustion, she was prevailed upon to share the recipe with her sisters.
Although the cakes are supposed to have been baked by the well-to-do ladies themselves, they do not necessarily labor alone. Having a “signature” dessert is such a status symbol that society matrons regularly send their domestic helpers to culinary schools.
Other society matrons rely on freelance pastry chefs like Carlo Estagle, whose lemon cake and chocolate truffle cake have their loyal adherents. “Sometimes I get urgent orders on short notice,” Carlo says, “And I suggest that they buy a cake at a well-known high-end patisserie instead. My clients say, ‘No, anyone can get a cake from there. We want something no one else has.’”
Cake and class — the issues haven’t changed much since Marie Antoinette uttered her infamous line (she didn’t, really, but it’s gone down in history). True, maybe you just enjoy a good dessert and none of this sociological stuff matters to you. Sometimes a cake is just a cake. In Manila, not likely.