not so haute cuisine
by Burt Prelutsky
I heard that a restaurant owner in Chicago found himself in a peck of trouble for posting a sign that read: “Children of all ages have to behave and use their indoor voices.” It seems that a certain number of doting parents took umbrage at his policy, even though by including “of all ages,” I suspect he might have had those goofy parents, and not just their offspring, in mind.
Frankly, I think, if anything, the guy was far too lenient. So far as I’m concerned, if I owned the place, I’d post one of those signs they have at the amusement parks forbidding kids under a certain height from getting on rides.
I don’t know if you could legally keep children out of restaurants, unless of course they happened to be smokers, but I think forcing the parents of crying babies and squalling toddlers to pick up everybody’s check is only fair.
Frankly, I can’t even imagine why these people want to be seen in public with these annoying little creatures. I should have imagined that the whole point of eating in a restaurant surrounded by other grown-ups would be the opportunity to get away from the kiddies for a precious hour or two.
Understand, I like children. I also like horses, ducks and alpacas, but I don’t care to eat with them, either.
Lest you think that I am being unduly harsh where the tots are concerned, I have a whole list of adults I’d like to see the restaurant police cart off in cuffs. At the top of the list are those self-important idiots who spend the entire time calling or being called on their cell phones. I have even seen tables where two of the three people never got off the phone, while the third person sat alone being ignored. I would normally feel sorry for the odd wheel except I assume anybody who’d be friends with the other two is simply someone stuck with a cell phone that’s out of commission.
The other folks I’d love to have placed under house arrest are those people, usually middle-aged men, who pontificate loudly and incessantly to a table around which are seated four or five young, well-dressed, adults. My assumption is always that the loudmouth oaf is their employer, who, like far too many bosses, assumes that his captive audience is simply enthralled by his brilliance. Having eavesdropped more times than I care to remember -- as if anyone within 50 feet of their table has a choice in the matter -- I’m here to announce that brilliance is not the word that comes to mind.
The other tables any sane person will want to avoid sitting near are those at which four or more women are seated. When they really get going, and they will inevitably get going, the shrillness is enough to make me and most dogs start baying at the moon. And if, god forbid, one of them should say something rude about a husband or a boyfriend, the shrieks of laughter are enough to give a deaf person a migraine.
Even the arrival of their bill isn’t cause for celebration. That merely means that the rest of us are now in store for 20 minutes of noisy bickering over who had the iced tea and who ordered the latte.
We’re all familiar with the age-honored caveat: “No Shoes, No Shirts, No Service.” But this is a new age, and desperate times call for desperate measures. Speaking for myself and probably millions of others, I don’t really care if you’re barefoot, just so long as you let the rest of us eat in peace. And please do us all a favor and leave the kids at home. The money you won’t be wasting on the food they throw on the floor will more than pay for the babysitter.
As for the young folks who can’t get away from their boorish bosses even at lunch time, find another job. Life’s too short. You’ll thank me later.
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