My family didn't go in for table manners much. We didn't exactly fight with forks over the last chip (well all right … but it was only once and dammit he's still got one working eye) but there was never any attempt by our parents to instill in us the tedious bourgeois codes that had been beaten into them.
Generally, I thank them for this. Eating is a pretty un-neurotic experience for me and I've learned enough to pass in polite company. It didn't take long to pick up that you worked from the outside in with the cutlery; that nobody much cares which wine glass any more; that though you're supposed to pile your peas on the back of your fork, even the Queen packed it in around 1958. In fact some newer rules have sprung into being unique to our generation. My parents had to learn to tilt their soupbowl away from them and never use fingers. We've had to learn to pick up our sushi and slurp our noodles direct from the bowl.
But there's one point at the average social meal where I still lock up in confusion. It's at the end of the main course, when the plates are cleared away and a frisson runs round the table. Cheese or dessert first?
To read the rest of the story, please go to: The Guardian
