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Restaurant A La Mode: Dining Lessons With Your Kids

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Your kids may be the perfect little angels at home, but at a fine dining establishment, all bets are off.

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By MIKE WINTER

The Tampa Tribune

Published: December 16, 2008

Dining out.

I admit we do too much of it in my family. These days, the prudent course is to make healthy, inexpensive meals at home and bond with our loved ones over the dinning room table while engaging in stimulating discussions on current affairs, politics and the future of free market economies in Latin America.

"Marxism is not an inevitable precursor to shifting monetary demands within an agriculturally based micro-commodities cooperative, darn it!"

"There you go with your crazy, post-Keynesian theories again!"

That, or shoveling reheated Tuna-Noona down our gullets while watching "Entertainment Tonight" on the sofa. They're both good.

But the temptation of a hassle-free eating experience with no cooking, no cleanup and no hurt feelings (Honey, just because junior has been secretly feeding your pot roast surprise to the dog doesn't mean he thinks it's an unpalatable conglomeration of overcooked meat swimming in a stew of mystery vegetables and globs of semi-congealed fat), is strong indeed.

Let's not forget the learning opportunities that dining out can provide for impressionable young minds. A restaurant is a microcosm of society. It has its own laws, written and unwritten. It has its own social hierarchy. It has individuals and groups competing for limited resources in an environment of ever-shifting priorities. And sometimes it has a bicycle bolted to the ceiling next to a pair of skis and a mailbox spilling wooden dolls into a washtub. If you can't nudge a child toward insights into the human condition in such an atmosphere, you're not trying.

Take, for example, the time spent waiting for a table to become available. You're wedged onto a bench or jammed against the foyer wall with a dozen fellow expectant diners clutching electronic coasters with the hope that sometime between now and when your stomach consumes itself in a final fit of desperation (about 12.4 minutes) the lights will flash, the plastic will buzz and an angel with a seating chart will usher you into the promised land.

You can use that interval to either perfect your child's "malnourished waif" routine ("Suck in those cheeks, let's see those big, glassy eyes and don't forget to limp!") in an attempt to garner sympathy and skip to the front of the line. Or you could take the opportunity to instill in Junior an appreciation for patience, fairness and the subtle yet considerable pleasures of delayed gratification ("The breadsticks will taste even better once we've earned our right to sit down.")

When considered in this context, the correct course becomes obvious. I recommend a few smears of dark eye shadow across the jaw. It'll make your poor, underfed urchin look like he or she didn't have time to clean up after a long day sweeping chimneys.

Once seated, of course, the real lessons begin. Children need to know what is and isn't acceptable behavior when dining in a public place.

Acceptable behavior includes treating the waiter or waitress with respect, using one's "inside voice" at all times, refraining from blowing one's nose in the cloth napkins and chewing with one's mouth closed.

Unacceptable behavior includes repeated demands for crayons in colors not provided by the restaurant, abusing the Parmesan privilege by refusing to wave off the grater until every square inch of spaghetti is buried under 3 inches of white fluff, and crawling under the table with a butter knife to harvest decades-old gum wads for a sculpture best described as "post-impressionistic Disney implosion."

Dessert can be, quite literally, the icing on the cake. Or it can be a humiliating debacle rife with accusations, tears, finger-pointing and betrayal.

Sometimes it can be both.

When all goes well, the family (except for Mom, who is watching what she eats because the mirror at Macy's made her neck look fat) enjoys a sweet conclusion to a pleasant dining experience. Mouths are wiped, generous gratuities are left and everyone waddles out the door in a state of chocolate-induced bliss.

When things go badly, your daughter accuses you of swiping the cherry off her hot fudge sundae while her back was turned because she was looking for the leprechaun you insisted was right behind her, inducing her to slam her fist down on the edge of her plate and send a scoop of vanilla ice cream catapulting over her shoulder to splash-land in a stranger's bowl of French onion soup.

Which is why Saturday nights are now meatloaf-in-front-of-the-television nights for our family.

At least until the restraining order is lifted.

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