I regard myself as a seasoned eater – I’ve been doing it all my life.

When it comes to getting food into my mouth I’m well practised.

I’m a veteran scoffer, a fervent foodie. And, due to a combination of working near plentiful restaurants and my laziness, much of my food consumption takes place away from home.

I love going out to eat. It saves me microwaving something and I never have to resort to drinking those mini-bottles of cooking wine because the rack is empty. Plus I don’t have to load the dishwasher.

Though, as we’ve already had cereal and crisp-sandwich cafes, we’re probably just a hipster pop-up away from washing up our own plates.

Like most Wharfers, I’m familiar with how eateries work. Which is why I get eye-twitchy when waiters choose to “explain” a menu.

You’re probably familiar with this teeth-clenching experience. You sit down to eat in a reasonably nice bistro.

This is not the poshest nosh you’ve ever scoffed, but it’s the kind of place that has cloth napkins.

Then the waiter approaches and mansplains the menu to you: “Here are the starters, these are the mains, and here are desserts.” Suddenly you’ve lost your appetite.

I’m not including specials, genuine recommendations, or explanations of complex cuts in this roll call of shame.

They are all valid things a member of wait staff may wish to convey to the customer.

But most people who have asked to see a menu can probably read. They can see the sections for starters, mains, and the sodding snack olives.

We are not children. You are not the waiter in Pretty Woman helping an out-of-her-depth Julia Roberts.

I won’t be coming back again.

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