It happens, yes. When I and the Italians from Alenia in Turin were working on the Yak-130, they went around to watch me eat their pasta. Because I took a plate, and under boiling water, I washed the sauce from the bowl; then I poured sugar and so I sat down. Well, you will not explain to them about the garrison childhood of the 80s; when the father - after a day on the belt, the mother on daily duty in the hospital; and at home from food - pasta and tea with sugar. And tomatoes, pasta sauce, ketchup, and in general all the tomatoes I still hate, because on the holidays at my grandmother in Krasnodar every morning I had to collect from tomato bushes a bowl of striped bushes, which I then melted in petroleum.