My mother tells the story of when my sister and I went for the first time to the University Club, my grandparents' formal supper club in Pittsburgh, when we were five and eight.
We didn't know what forks to use for our salads of endive and walnut, and, worse, we skirmished around the potted palms, in our patent leather shoes, giving each other sparks. Little barbarians. I remember it being fun. I remember the ladies' "powder room" that had what my grandmother called "a divan." "Funny bone" was another word my grandmother used.
My mother, burning with embarrassment, leashed and took us home, and coached us for the next twenty years in fish forks and water goblets. A viscountess couldn't more politely spear an asparagus. But when it is necessary?
We don't "dine," we snarf, inhale, snorffle, vacuum, and in ten minutes whatever was on the table is in our cells, fueling.