Eating Out

The practice of eating out is to be part of a social conspiracy; you connive with the waiter by exchanging recondite tit-bits about the wine or the source of the vanilla, you resist asking for your steak to be well done in order not to be chased out of the restaurant by a cleaver-wielding chef and (if you are a heterosexual man) you calmly and with faux casualness over-contribute to the bill in order to look in control, whilst watching the hen party at another table who are arguing about who had the prawn cocktail.
Of course, by mentioning the prawn cocktail, I have immediately given away the kind of restaurant I frequent. Fail. I'll get me coat. (Which, by the way, has cuff buttons that can be undone.)