There are many things I want from a restaurant; love is not one of them. I do not expect restaurants or their staff to love me, either in that Hallmark greeting-card sense or that moist adult way. Usually this is fine. I have a number of defining qualities; lovability has never been close to the top of the list. When eating in the US, however, nobody seems to notice. There, almost every chef and waiter will announce that the food being served has been prepared "with love". What? You had congress with my enchiladas? You personally dressed my cobb salad? Say it ain't so. It brings to mind the thing the narrator does to a slab of raw liver, destined for the family's dinner, in Philip Roth's novel, Portnoy's Complaint. If you've read it you know. If you haven't – oh, just work it out.