Barbarians at the gate

Lunch with AG, a colleague of mine from England.

"So what's going on?" I say, in between mouthfuls of cold cuts and marbled whole wheat. I notice that a bit of mustard has dribbled down my chin, so I subtly swipe the back of my hand across my mouth. I then pretend to reach down for a potato chip (5 minute rule!) and wipe my hands on my socks. Smooth operator, that's me.

"Oh, same old," he replies, as he carefully slices geometrically symmetric bite-size pieces of sandwitch with his knife. He does the same with his potato chips.

As I write this, I reflect on the necessity of expanding my culinary etiquette policy, which currently consists of only one rule: say-excuse-me-when-belching-in-mid-sentence.