"A bakery blasphemy is abroad in San Francisco.įoster's English Muffins are being sold sliced.Īs everyone here knows, English muffins are never touched by a knife. The English muffin stories ran in 1969, when I was a teenager: "Do as I suggest and I'll go along with your bleats and pleas, even to the point of encouraging you to strangle femininity to death.") As actual newspaper copy it was ludicrous, but as San Francisco Chronicle material it was choice: arch, silly, flamboyantly uninterested in bourgeois sobriety, and aiming, I'm guessing, for precisely the sort of reaction it elicited from my mother, who loved being infuriated by Count Marco as much as she loved reading George Murphy's front-page stories about the scandal of English muffin redesign. ("I'll make a deal with you libido-orationists," read one typical Marco passage. The Chronicle had hired Count Marco in 1959-in real life he was a hairdresser named Marc Spinelli-to assume the voice of a fussy Continental aristocrat in a regular column that railed about "you American women," who Marco liked to complain were fat and whiny and insufficiently attentive to their husbands. You have to be over 40 to remember Count Marco, and to have grown up in a household where the Chronicle was delivered to the doorstep so that your mother could open the women's pages to Count Marco and begin pounding the table about what an idiot he was. White flour, but bigger holes (those ambient yeasts again.)
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