There’s a Fork in the Canal: A Brief History of the Fork

Dedicated to Gavin DeGraw

The fork, as it turns out, is one of those things I’ve never properly questioned, which is odd considering I spend a fair portion of my life either eating or thinking about eating, or more often thinking about eating while doing something else entirely unproductive. It just… exists. Like gravity. Or mild disappointment.

And also, a question that no one has ever thought about until they sit down at a dinner table with Gavin DeGraw.

And yet, at some point, someone looked at a perfectly serviceable hand, five built-in, flexible, washable prongs, and thought, “No, this won’t do. I need a smaller, worse version of this made out of metal.” Which I say, fully aware in the notion that I, without hesitation, eat a burger with a knife and fork. Not out of necessity. Just... preference. Control. A quiet belief that I can outsmart the burger, which still remains to be seen.

Anyway. The origin story.

Before forks were forks, they were essentially glorified sticks with ambition. In ancient places like Egypt, Greece, and Rome (not that these aren't modern places too, they just been around longer than forks), people used two-pronged implements, but not for eating in the way we’d recognise. These were implements of cooking. Big, sturdy things designed to stab meat, turn it, lift it out of fires… the sort of object you’d trust in a crisis, not something you’d delicately introduce to a pea.

So, at this stage, humanity is still largely eating with hands, knives, and the occasional bit of bread acting as an edible shovel, which, if I’m honest, still feels like a system with a lot going for it. Efficient. Low washing up. Emotionally satisfying.

The Byzantines, who, and I say this with admiration, clearly had more time on their hands than the rest of us, had decide that perhaps food should be approached with a bit more… ceremony. Somewhere around the 7th century, small two-pronged forks start appearing at the table, mainly among the wealthy, because of course they do. Nothing says “I’m doing quite well, thank you” like refusing to touch your own dinner.

Now, this is where things get slightly ridiculous.

There’s a story, possibly true, possibly the medieval equivalent of gossip in the group chat, about a Byzantine princess who marries into Venetian society and insists on using a golden fork. Which sounds impressive until you realise she’s essentially waving a tiny trident around at dinner like a well-dressed Poseidon. At which point you have to wonder whether the fork didn’t evolve from practicality at all, but from someone wanting to feel just a bit more powerful over a plate of parsnips. The locals, meanwhile, are horrified. Absolutely scandalised. Not because she’s using gold, no, that’s fine, but because she’s not using her hands like a normal person.

Some even claim it’s sinful. Which is a bold accusation to level at cutlery, but then again, this is a period where people thought comets were personal attacks, so perhaps we give them a bit of leeway.

Italy, however, leans into it. Hard. And you can see why, pasta enters the chat, and suddenly the limitations of hands become glaringly obvious. Try eating spaghetti with your fingers and you very quickly find yourself questioning your life choices, your upbringing, and possibly your place in society. The fork, at this point, stops being a luxury and becomes a survival tool for dignity.

France picks it up next, naturally adding a layer of elegance and probably a lecture on posture, and then eventually, dragging its feet like a stubborn child, England gets involved.

Now, this is the part where I feel a deep, ancestral cringe.

The English reaction to forks was, for a long time, essentially: “Absolutely not.” Why would we need a fork? We have knives. And hands. And a sort of chaotic confidence that suggests things will probably work out. Which, to be fair, is how we’ve approached most of history.

Enter Thomas Coryate, a man who goes to Italy, sees people eating like civilised humans, and returns home thinking he’s about to revolutionise British dining. He writes about forks with genuine enthusiasm, bless him, and is promptly mocked into the ground. Which feels unfair, but also very on-brand. He’s basically the first bloke to come back from holiday saying, “They do it better over there,” and everyone else going, “Yeah, well, they would, wouldn’t they?”

There’s also something deeply English about rejecting the fork on principle. We’ll happily endure mild inconvenience for centuries if it means not admitting someone else had a better idea first.

We’re still doing it now, just with different objects and slightly more paperwork.

Still, the idea sticks. Slowly. Painfully slowly. Like trying to introduce a new system at work where everyone nods politely and then carries on exactly as before.

Over time, forks evolve. Two prongs become three, then four, presumably after someone lost a particularly stubborn potato and decided enough was enough. And by the 18th century, the fork is no longer controversial. It’s just… there. Quietly doing its job. No longer sinful. No longer fancy. Just a small metal compromise between chaos and control.

And that’s the bit I quite like.

Because the fork isn’t really about food, it’s about us trying, in our slightly clumsy way, to improve things. To refine. To civilise. To pretend we’re not just animals in nicer clothes trying to eat spaghetti without wearing it.

Although, speaking from experience, and this is where any illusion of authority quietly packs its bags, raises it's arm and shouts "TAXI", I was sitting with my son, some years ago now, by the Grand Canal in Venice, at a restaurant, overlooking a scene from a postcard.

The table we had occupied was on the canal edge, slightly unstable on the uneven terrain, tiny, and full to the brim with pizza, as every 9 year old would have it. Being the most English I could possible be, I'd always knife and forked my pizza. With every mouthfull I place my fork down, just as nana had slapped into me. The fork it would appear, sensing eyes were no longer upon it, would do some kind of disappearing act. One fork. Then another. Just… gone. Straight into the canal. No drama. No ceremony. Just a quiet plop and that was that.

And I remember thinking, not even particularly surprised, that there must be thousands of them down there. Centuries of small, polite failures. Generations of people losing control of their dinner, one fork at a time.

Which feels oddly fitting, really. The fork, this great symbol of civilisation, just sitting at the bottom of a canal because someone nudged the table slightly too hard.

So even with centuries of innovation, the fork isn’t foolproof. It’s more like a polite suggestion. A gentle nudge towards civilisation that we can, and often do, completely ignore.

And perhaps that’s the real origin story, not just where the fork came from, but what it represents. This ongoing, slightly chaotic attempt to make life a bit neater, a bit more controlled… while quietly accepting that we’re still the sort of people who drop forks into a canals, stare at it for a second, and then just… carry on eating.