Steak

There’s no bore worse than a steak bore. Give them the chance, and they’ll bang on for days, with all the spittle-specked, bright-eyed enthusiasm of a Jehovah’s Witness going door-todoor. Eyes glaze over as they describe that hunk of 54-day-aged Belted Galloway they once ate in a steakhouse so exclusive that only the seventh son of a seventh son has a chance of being admitted through its hallowed doors. Or the sliver of sirloin chopped from a cow that was raised by virgins and that supped on the spring of eternal youth.