Have you ever been in a restaurant with a group of friends, wondering what to order when someone suggests: let’s just order a bunch of different dishes and — SHARE.

Share. Even more than the conundrum of “no, you can’t order that, that’s what I am ordering!”. As if there is some rule against that. I mean, what’s the point of eating out if you can’t taste what your dining partner ordered. You know how it works, you’re digging into your plate when you ask your friend “you want to taste?” That’s code for “can *I* taste what you’re having?”

But sharing — my goodness that taps into some primal stuff. Yes, you see the sense of the share. Little bites of many things — particularly in some (but not all) ethnic restaurants. I mean, really, would you say that at a French restaurant? Excuse me, may I taste that sauce that’s on your fish?

Just the words “family-style”. Does that bring on a warm feeling? Recreating Christmas supper at Grandma’s with a bunch of friends?

Sometimes “shall we share” makes me want to scream NO and run out of the restaurant! No, dammit, I do not want my crazy cousin putting his grubby little mitts into my hollandaise. This is MINE! Mine, mine, mine. I want this all for myself. If you want to share, then go to a buffet and get your spoonfuls from the communal trough.

This is mine!

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