Lately, as I eat in restaurants, I've been finding myself channeling the spirit of my great-aunt Gertrude.
All together now: "Eh, this is okay, but I could make better at home."
I'm a fairly good cook, if I may be forgiven for saying so myself, and I'm very good at parsing out the flavours in food: the nuance of chervil, the hit of five-spice.
Part of me -- the scientist at heart -- relishes the challenge of creating the dishes we enjoy at restaurants in my own admittedly small kitchen. My wife encourages this behaviour because it means we spend less money eating out : if I can make it at home, then why spend the money to go out?
The other part of me, the rebellious young man, rails against this slippage into the realm of curmudgeonly antics : you are still young, do not behave like a crotchety old malcontent.
My questions to you are these : am I the only one with this dilemma, and should I take arms against it?