Where I grew up, one unsurprising mark of affluence was to have a large kitchen table. Clearly, that signaled ownership of a kitchen large enough in which to fit it. But a subtler aspect of kitchen table semiotics in 1970s England was how you used the things. Essentially, once you acquired your oversize table, you piled it with stuff, most commonly pieces of newspaper, homework, crayons, half-finished knitting or LEGO constructions, a fruit bowl, perhaps, and books. Always books. Thanks to your table's enormity, you could heap all that stuff on there and still have room to eat a meal at it, which you did frequently. For the already well-to-do, refectory-style kitchen tables marked a deliberate move away from the fantasy that their meals really ought to be eaten in a dining room and towards a Terrance Conran/Elizabeth David inspired adoption of European bohemianism. It went with the duvets from Habitat, the new popularity of brie, un-sliced loafs and wooden salad servers. Beyond the aspirational semiotics, though, the large, book-strewn kitchen table had a more concrete utility for families. It put reading at the very heart of family life. I was reminded of this when I noticed the state of my own (not especially refrectory-sized) kitchen table on Saturday morning.
Kitchen tables, I realized, still fill that role.