Deciding what to eat often feels heavy because food carries emotional weight—we are not only choosing a dish but trying to avoid getting it wrong for ourselves and others. That responsibility shows up at home when hosting, at restaurants when menus hand you dozens of options, and in the quiet pressure of ordering for a table.
One of the things I've always found fascinating is how much emotional weight we attach to food.
Think about the last time you invited people over. Chances are, deciding what to cook took longer than deciding when everyone should come over. There were messages exchanged, opinions sought, dietary restrictions remembered, and at least one moment where someone suggested ordering in because it felt easier than making the decision.
If you're curious about who seeks out that kind of relief at the table, read our piece on who actually goes to supper clubs.
Why does hosting turn food into the gathering?
Growing up in a Gujarati household, I thought this was simply how hosting worked. Food wasn't just another part of having people over. It was the gathering. The conversation around what to cook often began days before anyone arrived, not because we lacked ideas, but because everyone wanted the meal to feel right.
Looking back, I don't think we were really deciding what to cook. We were trying to avoid getting it wrong.
I don't think we were really deciding what to cook. We were trying to avoid getting it wrong.
The more I paid attention, the more I realised that this feeling doesn't stay at home. It quietly follows us into restaurants.
What happens when restaurants promise choice?
Restaurants promise us choice, and we've been taught to believe that's a good thing. The bigger the menu, the more likely it is that everyone will find something they like.
In reality, it often looks very different:
- Someone is trying to read six pages while everyone else has already decided
- Someone asks the waiter what the restaurant is known for
- One person wants to share everything, another wants their own plate
- Someone inevitably says, "I'm okay with anything," while secretly hoping the group doesn't order the one cuisine they don't enjoy
Then there's the person who gets nominated to order for the table.
Why does ordering for the table feel like a burden?
I've been that person more times than I can count, and every time it comes with a strange sense of responsibility. Not because I mind choosing, but because if the food turns out to be exceptional, everyone enjoyed my decision. If it doesn't, I can't help but wonder whether I should have ordered differently.
It's an odd burden for something that's supposed to be enjoyable.
As we explore in feeling out of place at a supper club, at a restaurant, you manage the evening. You read, you order, you decide what comes next. The menu doesn't just offer options—it quietly hands over responsibility.
Is enjoying a menu the same as enjoying choice?
What's funny is that I'm probably the wrong person to complain about menus. I genuinely enjoy them. I read every section, including the ones I know I won't order from. I compare ingredients, notice pricing, ask questions about unfamiliar dishes, and even when I revisit a restaurant, I still ask for the menu because I enjoy seeing what's changed.
Over time, though, I've realised that what I enjoy is curiosity, not choice.
For many people, reading a menu isn't an enjoyable ritual. It's simply a task that has to be completed before dinner can begin. The menu doesn't just offer options. It quietly hands over responsibility. Responsibility to choose well, to choose enough, to choose within budget, to choose something everyone else will enjoy, and to avoid the disappointment of watching another table's food arrive and immediately wishing you'd ordered that instead.
I don't think we talk enough about how much mental energy goes into those tiny decisions.
What disappears first at a supper club?
Hosting supper clubs made me notice this more clearly than anything else.
One of the first things that disappears at a supper club isn't the menu. It's the responsibility of choosing.
- Nobody is wondering whether they've ordered the right dish
- Nobody is debating whether to get another appetiser or skip dessert
- Nobody is trying to estimate how hungry everyone is before committing to one more round of food
Instead, conversations begin sooner.
People introduce themselves. They ask about the food because it's already in front of them, not because they're deciding whether it's worth ordering. The first twenty minutes become about the people around the table rather than the decisions that have to be made before the evening can properly begin.
That shift surprised me.
It made me realise that perhaps what people appreciate isn't simply being served. It's being relieved, even briefly, of the responsibility to curate the evening themselves.
For a fuller picture of the format, read what a supper club is.
Is more choice always more freedom?
This isn't an argument against restaurants. I love restaurants, and I suspect I always will. Some evenings call for discovering a new menu, comparing notes across the table, and ordering exactly what you've been craving all week.
But I also think we've become so accustomed to equating choice with freedom that we've stopped asking whether every decision actually makes an experience better.
Sometimes it does. Sometimes, having someone else thoughtfully curate the evening is the greater luxury.
Not because you couldn't have chosen well. But because, for a little while, you didn't have to.
Perhaps the greatest luxury isn't having hundreds of options. Perhaps it's sitting down at a table where someone has already done the choosing with care.
If hosting that kind of evening appeals to you, our guide on how to start a supper club is a practical place to begin.