I remember the time the college kitchen threw a curveball at us all as we sat in the oak-panelled Elizabethan dining room. Hamburgers! In buns! Now, being grammar school scum from the Midlands, I had no problem with this: both hands on the bun, lift, chomp, fold remnants behind face, followed by a handful of chips and swig of Lilt. Done.
But most people, everyone else I think, was wrongforked by this. I was amazed to find they set about their burgers with cutlery, uncertain and hesitant, eyes darting sideways, to see what the form was.
Boot was on the other foot the day they served pheasant and I almost broke a tooth on some shot that was still in it.