Here's a question I still haven't quite learned to answer like a grown-up:
"So, uh, what're you into?"
Imagine going to the fanciest restaurant in the world. A single meal costs $1000 and you have to wait months for a reservation, but everyone swears that enjoyed properly it's worth every penny. You get there and find there's no menu, just a waiter asking "So, what'll it be?"
Except that they can't make everything, and they might laugh at you if you order something gauche, and might kick you out if you order something that really offends the chef. Other things they'll make but will be bad or mediocre. Some dishes are the best in the world. You don't know what ingredients they've got, what they're good at, or what cuisines they scoff at. There are some almost-safe bets--they've gotta do a decent steak, right?--but absolutely no sureties.
If your answer is "Well, what do you like to cook?", you look like a total dork and they just ask you again.
Order! QUICK! And sound sexy while you're doing it!
By the time I've dealt with the pressure and the risk-reward trade-offs and the urge to weasel-word them until they give me a clue, I've completely forgotten what kind of food I actually like.