but in an Eater or Chef you were witnessing the outworking of a master–servant relationship as old as the Mesopotamians (but this time with air conditioning at selected outlets). By feting my naissance at an Eater, I would move up the dominance hierarchy from Boy Held Down and Farted On to International Sophisticate Laughing at Prior Subjugation with New-Found Friends. ‘Was this the boy whose head we used to flush down the toilet?’ my oppressors would ask. ‘This bon viveur so suavely swirling his Thousand Island dressing with a carrot baton?’
