Oh, about 20+ years ago, I was at a party with a wealthy Pakistani American family. They served a lot of food, and I was a hungry graduate student. A hungry graduate student short of money, and with poor cooking skills.
There was cake.
I sampled it. It was glorious. Amazing. Delicious. I hadn’t eaten much in a bit.
“That cake is outstanding!” I gushed.
“Huh?” The hostess auntie said quizzically. “What cake is she talking about?”
The wealthy auntie’s wealthy daughter shrugged impatiently and made a wry face. “Er – just Pepperidge Farm.” Her face assessed me, clearly evaluated me and my delight over a grocery store cake.