Once, while in London, a British partner, Bill B., invited me to have supper with him and some of the local managers with whom I was working. But first, he wanted to know where I preferred to eat. My answer was instantaneous. My favorite London restaurant was about a block from Trafalgar Square and was named McDonald's. My answer was not facetious. I am and will always be a country boy at heart. A meat and potato man, I am almost always unhappy with fare considered by many to be gourmet. To me, chefs ruin the delicious taste of meats by changing them with foul-tasting spices. In my travels around the world, in the McDonald restaurants in which I have eaten, the fare is almost the same as in the Geneva, Illinois golden arches establishment. Undaunted by my shocking preference for McDonald's, Bill insisted we eat at a posh restaurant in the theater district. No skin off his nose or pounds from his wallet, because entertaining me would be deemed work and charged to a business account. Dutifully and manfully I downed the meal that didn't come close to being as good as any meal cooked by my BW (beauteous wife). Unfortunately, I was frank in answering when Bill asked how I liked the meal. I could have stopped when I told him it was good, but went on to say that I still would have preferred McDonald's. I am confident that Bill forgave me. We were long-time friends and co-workers in places as disparate as London, St. Petersburg, Russia, Capetown, South Africa and Bled, Yugoslavia.