When my Dad, a good ol' boy from the South, visited me in Manhattan, I treated him to dinner at an elegant French restaurant. Since he was out of his element, I ordered for him, choosing the beef bourguignonne with a side of polenta, which he loved. That night, I overheard him on the phone with my stepmother.
"Dinner was great", he raved, "but you won't believe how much they charge here for pot roast and grits!"