The Problem of Choice

For us Brits, ordering food at restaurants is an activity fraught with danger. It’s no good just placing your order – oh no, that’s not the end of it; first there’s the obligatory request to repeat the order because the wait staff hasn’t got a clue what to make of the accent. Then come the decisions: do I want tomatoes, onions, skinny milk, soy milk, cinnamon, salad, sprinkles, ice cream, whipped cream, no cream with that?

The thing is, I’m just not used to choice. I order something from a menu and eat whatever is placed before me; a nice, simple procedure involving very little brainwork for all concerned. All this business of ordering food exactly according to my own taste just gives me palpitations and heart failure. I mean, I really have to think what I want and how it should be prepared. No, just give me what I ask for, and hold the questions. Otherwise, I’ll only have myself to blame if I don’t like it.