One of things about living in Asia is that you become used to sharing your meals. Back home in Europe, I find it almost impossible to confine my fork to my own plate. The other night I dined at St. John with a good friend and someone I knew less well. It was a kind of business meeting. We shared our selection of starters at my suggestion, which was all very well. But then I became aware that I was being a little too forward in borrowing bits from my companions' main courses; not just a little taste of the the guinea fowl, but the accompanying mashed potatoes and sauce, the lentils with arugula. They were a little surprised, I think. It was one of those lapses in good English table manners to which I succumb all too often these days. Once, unconsciously, I slurped some delicious spinach juices from my rice bowl, in front of an appalled Italian friend. Often, I toss bones onto the table, which is perfectly okay in a rural Chinese restaurant, but not in London. When and how did I forget where my original boundaries were?
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