Knuckledraggin posted this article, about some dolt who sued a restaurant for not having forks and knives. But then Wirecutter asked the question:
Besides, who eats fried chicken with a knife and fork anyways?
Hey, I do. Is that strange? Of course it is. That is one little bit of bon vivant that I enjoy. I don’t really know why. When I eat out I slice all kinds of things with a knife and pick it up with a fork. It is almost a game to see how well I can clean a chicken bone that way. Getting my hands on food when in public bothers me. Maybe it is because of the public. When at home, where it is cleaner, I pick up food with my hands all the time, especially fresh, homemade chocolate chip cookies. But only with my left hand, which would bother Muslims I’m sure. Maybe that is why none of them are ever around. The right hand is for the remote, of course. It is pristine.
I will also slice things like corn bread into little cubes, and the butter pats into little symmetric mini-pats. 4, 9, or 16, depending on how the corn bread turns out. Waitresses often ask why, especially when I cut the meat out of a burger and use the lettuce and tomato as a mini-salad. To short-circuit the conversation I will tell them “I was a Marine” as if that matters (I did this long before). They usually nod and are satisfied with that answer. If pressed, I also tell them I was born without a uvula, so I can’t get drunk. That is a great ice-breaker, and diverts attention nicely.
I like to keep a stash of plastic knives and forks in the car when I travel. This is one of the reasons I don’t fly, they won’t let me take my emergency stash with me.
Sporks are tools of the devil. No civilization has perished without first resorting to the spork, be they plastic or stone. More than a few people have backed away slowly after they’ve watched me strip a chicken breast from the bone with two or three sporks. This even works at Popeye’s, the lawyer’s victim in the original article. If I break the tines off, I can kind of use it like a shovel, or an ice cream scoop. Two such shovels makes a nice set of tongs. Or meat pliers. I do make them give me another of those little cardboard boats to put the detritus in, though.
In the field, there is always a stick somewhere I can split into tines. If I am forced to rough it at a restaurant, I’ll make little handles or gloves out of paper napkins. Lots and lots of napkins. And leave behind little piles of the uneaten tips of french fries turned-handles.