“So where do you go to eat out as a family? I’m really curious.”
We were having dinner with Toronto Star food writer, Corey Mintz, who invited us to discuss Ed’s new book for his Fed column.
“Oh. Um. Er.”
We were sputtering.
“The Eaton Centre food court, now that it’s been renovated is nice,” I finally answered.
“The food court?!”
“Well, it’s fast and we can be loud and I can have Amaya and my son can have pizza.”
“The kids like to go to Licks and, really, they like a lot of fast food,” Ed said. “There’s a place we like for brunch in Etobicoke.”
“And there are local brunch places too,” I say quietly.
I was mentally flipping through all the places we’d eaten as a family in the past year or so and it was a sad, sad list. There was a time when Ed and I spent almost all of our spending money on eating out. New clothes, fancy vacations, home decor and things like a car were all sacrificed in the name of not having to cook trying all kinds of restaurants. I worked in the restaurant industry for almost a decade, after all. We met working at a restaurant. Our schedules were out of sync too, for the longest time, and cooking for one person kind of sucks.
Even after Colum was born, eating out was a big part of what we did for fun. I think kids belong in restaurants as much as anybody else as long as they are well behaved. It’s never easy, per se, to contain a toddler during a protracted meal time but when it’s two-on-one it’s certainly possible.
I guess there was a gradual decline from there. A second baby meant there were double the children to manage and the bigger the kids got, the more expensive the whole ordeal, ahem, outing, became. It seems like the third baby really tipped the scales from “Let’s go out!” to “How are we going to feed these guys now that we’re out?” “McDonalds!” “No, I’m not talking to you, kids!”
Then, yesterday, we were visiting family in the afternoon and started talking about a new, nicer, pizza restaurant opening up in our end of town. My sister-in-law said that a similar restaurant in their old neighbourhood was a great place to take kids. Good to know, I thought.
Then, all the way home, I couldn’t stop thinking about sitting down in a nice-ish restaurant and ordering a simple meal. Our kids are good. I’m an expert on how to manage kids in restaurants. I could write a freaking article on the topic. (Mental note: pitch an article on the topic.) We could do this. Let’s do this!
We pulled up in front of Vesuvios and tried to rouse Irene from her car nap. “I don’t want to eat anything! No! No! No!” We were off to a great start.
I immediately had to run to the bathroom because apparently this is going to keep happening every month for another solid decade or two. Of course Irene had to go with me and of course she didn’t want to go into her own stall because she was too scared. So I had use the toilet myself and then stand around and watch her pee and then stand around and watch her wash her hands all by herself.
By the time we returned to the table Colum had read the entire menu and settled on one of the most expensive pizza choices — one with anchovies. (The kid won’t eat cold cereal or delicious maple-flavoured quinoa, but he just has to try anchovies on his pizza.) I had been planning on ordering one pizza for the table and some salad and maybe some calamari. Instead, squinting at the “personal size” pizzas listed on the dine in menu (as opposed to the take out menu we usually order from), I realize that we’re going to need two pizzas and that my salad and calamari are going to push us over what I can justify spending on a spontaneous! no reason! meal for the family.
“Pepperoniiiiiiiiiiiii! Pepperoniiiiiiii! I don’t want anchovies! Yucky, yucky, yucky.”
“Irene. Relax. We’re getting pepperoni, no matter what,” I said.
“Are you sure you want to order that pizza?” I asked Ed, “He’s not going to like those anchovies and it’s four dollars more expensive than just pepperoni.”
“Dino Dan’s mom loves anchovies on pizza,” Colum was beaming. Thanks a lot, Alana Harkin.
“Ewww! I DON’T WANT ANCHOVIES!!”
“Irene,” I hissed, “Be quiet. You are getting pepperoni.”
We place our order: two personal pizzas and water all around. Big spenders.
Ed and Colum took their turn at the bathroom and I plied the girls with bread and butter until they got back. Then Ed took a perfectly happy and content Mary for a walk around the restaurant and brought back a pissed off toddler who wanted nothing to do with getting back into that highchair. There was an aborted attempt at “I Spy,” a fair amount of begging Irene to keep her boots off the upholstered banquet, half a dozen dropped napkins and a whole lot of quiet yelling at Colum to stop rolling around under the table for god sake how old are you anyway.
Then the food came.
Two piping hot, straight from the oven, pizzas were placed on the table. We served Colum and Irene a slice each. “Here’s your pizza. Don’t touch it! Too hot!” That was fun for them. I cut up some smaller slices for Mary and waited for them to cool as well. By the time it was finally time to eat all Irene wanted to do was pick the pepperoni off her pizza and Mary methodically picked up one small piece after another and threw them on the ground. Next up was the back-arching toddler trick in which she tried to flip herself out of her high chair. She ended up on my lap and alternated between sticking her hand down my shirt and trying to nurse and making grabs for everybody else’s water.
The thing that ruined the meal most for everyone, though, was my own incessant whining. “This is horrible. We should never have come. What was I thinking. We’re just paying three times as much for the same food we could have ordered to go.” And so on. Holy shit, I’m pretty sure no kid was ever that intent on making the worst out of a situation. It’s the three “e”s, man: effort, energy and expense. I should know better by now, but trying to feed children can bring out the worst in me. It was bad enough that the meal was almost entirely bereft of any vegetable matter, but my two daughters barely ate anything at all.
As for the anchovy pizza, Colum loved it. He had two slices and Ed polished up the rest. That right there is the silver lining.
We’ll try this again when the toddler grows up a bit and hope for the best.