While it has always been nothing more than an annoying but unavoidable chore, I find eating
to be a rather intimate activity, which is why I do not see much difference between a restaurant
and a brothel, where, purely because of some social convention, I have to spend the equivalent
of a week’s worth of home-made dinners on something my body is going to excrete a few hours
later anyway, just to show all the strangers occupying every inch of space around me that I have
impeccable table manners.