Forking madness of fine dining etiquette

Somewhere between the third salad fork and ceremonial sniffing of the wine, occidentalist HNIs may have lost the plot. Extreme table manners have made dinner hostage out of linen napkins. Take from the left, drink from the right, and if you reach for the wrong glass, prepare to be hrrmphed by le hoity toity. Heaven forbid your elbows flirt with the table lest they summon the demons of Downton Abbey. Then there's the business of chewing. Not too loud, not too fast, and never with visible enthusiasm. Food must be consumed like a Victorian ghost: quietly, delicately, and with the emotional range of a tax audit. And let's not forget the sacred scroll of 'Don't slurp, don't burp, don't stab your dish like it owes you money.' We're not even going into trauma of watching someone eating with her hands.

These rules of the occidentally posh, handed down like mothballed hand-me-downs, serve one purpose: to ensure that those who don't comply are utilised to feel superior about oneself. Meanwhile, the French are dunking croissants in coffee, the Italians are slurping spaghetti with operatic gusto, and true blue-blood Indians are tearing into their puris like they're ripping Westphalian treaties. Frankly, if you're really aristocratic, you'll know that the true mark of civility isn't how you hold your fork - it's what sauce you dip your fries in.