To them, putting a pat of butter on a baked potato was a sign of weakness, and an immoral waste of time.
To watch Jack Caldwell cut into his steak was like watching a great building erected to the heavens, like watching a figure skater, after years of torturous practice, do what no one else could. His hands extended from his arms with delicate grace, and yet with all the passionate fury required to cut meat into bite size pieces. His knife hand and fork hand moved purposefully, as if their moves had been designed by a great choreographer. She watched him, and she knew he was the only worthy dining companion she'd ever know. All her life she had wondered why she seemed to be the only person in the world who was wholly competent and deserved to eat out. Here was someone who understood, someone who would order correctly, who would challenge her to chew her food with scientific precision, and someone who would never talk with his mouth full, or play the jukebox.
Marla sensed the piece of plain potato in her mouth. She felt as if the bland taste were the blandness of the ordinary people, who seemed somehow incensed when being trampled on by superior men, that she was consuming that blandness, overcoming it. The soft, moist texture was that of the average middle manager, a source of constant distraction to her. But now she was proving her superiority, her invincibility, and it felt, well, empty and emotionless.
"Pass the salt, Mar--". (Atlas Dined, an Ayn Rand spoof)