Saturday, 16 June 2007
Bring me the Finest Wines known to Humanity! And a Kids' menu....
Major excitement in the house of The Flying Martinis last night as Meeester M takes possession of his new car.
Yes, Reader, why you ARE right to mention that not that long ago I was blogging about getting a new car. Yes, yes, I know, it DOES seem a little weird that I am still driving the same hunk-a-junk and Meeester has a shiny new beast of a thing. No, I haven’t got my Mini yet, but thanks for asking anyway.
Anyway, let’s move on, for he reads this…
Anyway, we went out in Meeester’s new toy last night to “ooh!” and “aah!” and be shouted at when we brought dirt into the car, played with the sat nav or electric windows. Feeling that we shouldn’t randomly waste diesel on a destination-less journey, I suggested we eat out. I got dressed up and everything! Just look at the pic below if you don't believe me!
My kids are used to eating in restaurants, as we travel with them quite a bit. In other countries. Where they don’t hate children.
Eating out with kids in countries such as Greece, Italy or Thailand is a stress free situation. Yet over here, you are corralled into so called kid friendly emporiums of burgers, beans and ball pits (note to any kids reading, tell Mummy and Daddy if you see a brown ball immediately. ) I hate these places and like to avoid them. The deal is that your kids can go daft and it's OK, as there are always worse behaved kids there to make yours look not so bad in comparison. You can see the appeal.
This is not because parents are implanted with a chip that takes away your free will and zombie-like you are driven to these urine stained, nugget-touting eateries of Satan. There is no law that we can’t take our kids to real restaurants; there’s just bitter experience of parents dealing with other diners in this country. It just isn’t expected that families go to anywhere decent. So most people just don’t.
I remember that my parents used to take us to an Italian Restaurant in this town when we first moved here from Glasgow in the late nineteenth century. They didn’t know many folk, had left all their willing babysitters behind in God’s Country. What to do? Take the kids with you of course! We always got sat either next to the toilets or near the kitchens. We would get hidden from other diners by the restaurant staff.
There are a few exceptions in this fair town, and I feel I to name check the fantastic “La Stella” Restaurant who are, not only a lovely bunch of folk but they welcome your children. The food is also great and there’s not a ball pit or a chicken nugget in sight.
I also have to name check the fantastic “Meditaranneo” Italian restaurant which is run by REAL ITALIANS who make the best lasagne this side of Milano and who last night welcomed the Martinis with open arms.
So it’s not all restaurants that are gits. But I’m afraid it’s the other diners. Junior Misssy is a bit shrill and she likes a bit of a laugh. She is four. She also likes to go to the toilet for a wee look occasionally. She is not badly behaved, she doesn’t scream the place down, run about or go over and annoy other customers.
However last night it seemed like every time she opened her mouth other customers would turn round and look at us. I found myself feeling inhibited and shushing her quite a lot. Meeester told me to stop, “Let them look, she’s just talking”. He’s right, I stop shushing her, we have as much right to be here as that work’s party struggling to make conversation and that couple who are clearly on a first date and a bit skittish.
Junior Misssy: “Mummy, I need to go to the toilet!”
Misssy: “You’ve just been. Sit round and eat your dinner.”
Junior Misssy: “But I ne-e-e-ed!”
Misssy: “You don’t. This is a nonsense. You just want to go and play in the toilet. Now sit round! You’ve already been!”
People are now looking over. It is a small restaurant, not much bigger than a decent sized living room really.
Junior Misssy: “But that was for a wee-wee”
Misssy: “Junior Misssy, no! Sit down!”
Junior Misssy: (with a degree of urgency, volume and annoyance): “BUT IT’S A JOBBY AND IT’S COMING OUT OF MY BUM!”