I am nouveau riche. And by “riche” I mean I came from nothing and now I’ve got something. Not a lot, but enough. I’ve got a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in, and a meal on my plate.
My upbringing was lacking such that my former manager, who is British, felt compelled to teach me the right way to use a fork and knife. I’d grown up shoveling food into my mouth with a fork’s tines turned upward – like a scoop – and using the edge of the fork to cut food up into smaller bits. Who needs a knife?
Apparently, the British do. They would have you flip your fork over so that the tines face downward. My colleague used her knife to push food onto the fork. So, that’s how you strategically stab bits of food with a fork, huh?
When you’re done eating, you’re supposed to place your fork and knife in the shape of an X on the plate. Again with the tines facing downward, presumably so that no one accidentally gets impaled while the plate and silverware are being carried to the kitchen.
Whenever I go to a fancy restaurant, I see a big fork, a small fork, and a knife lined up next to my plate. I use the small fork to eat my salad. Afterward, I try to hide the small fork under my napkin – which is still sitting on the table, of course. Inevitably the server finds that fork and absconds with it, forcing me to eat my entree with a heavy, oversized fork clearly meant for a giant. I feel like I’ve got baby hands eating with that massive fork. I’m burning calories just lifting it.
This is how my imposter syndrome betrays me. Anyone who came from an upscale background can tell, just by sharing a meal with me, that I am nouveau riche. That I hail from the working class.
If I were to eat in front of my colleague – or anyone British – I would use the etiquette I was taught. But in the privacy of my home, where no one is the wiser, I choose to eat everything with a spoon, like you see in prison movies. This beats an upturned fork, being the closest thing to an actual shovel. It’s all about efficiency.
A Flick of the Pen 