What does it mean to have a favourite dish? Is it a forever love? Does it mean we can eat it anytime?

As a child, I found caramel custard disgusting. Eggy, rubbery, heartless, powdery. As if the milk had split while cooking. No surprise, considering I had eaten this archaeological-sounding item mostly in fading post-colonial air force messes and pre-liberalisation 'continental' restaurants befitting an assistant director's salary.