It never ceases to amaze me why families ever bother to dine out. Everyone arrives jubilant with the prospect of having a fun meal together, a well-deserved treat. Smiles are passed all around as each family member squeezes into the booth, a high chair pulled up for the toddler, menus cordially handed out and a chorus of "thank you” offered up. Hunger seeming to have obliterated the lengthy history of hellish dine-outs.
"I'm starving," the four-year-old daughter professes, clapping her hands together. The nine-year old son sits with a newly slumped face, realization kicking in of being ripped from his friend's house to be dragged along on some masochistic family fun-time at the Stuff Your Face For A Buck Emporium.
Eyes glued on the menus, the husband and wife scan the choices while the son and daughter fight over sharing the third menu. The toddler commences dropping things, pointing at them and shrieking for their immediate and constant return. Drop, scream, grasp at thin air, return. Drop, scream, grasp at thin air, return…
"This is a nice treat," the wife offers as ballast, wanting to ward off that faint barely-perceptible greyness that has begun to creep in over the festivities. The four-year-old daughter stands in her seat, then sits, stands again.
"Sit down, now, sweetheart," the husband instructs off-handedly, one eye still on the list of menu choices, the other bobbing to the girl's movements.
To everyone's delight, helium balloons are delivered. One tied onto the high chair, the other handed to the daughter who loses it immediately, watching it rise up to rest beside all the other pathetic, forlorn balloons scientifically stuck against the high ceiling, while the son complains about not getting a balloon in the first place.
"You're too old for that," the husband assures him, sensing a slight tick-- one he thought had left him days ago-- begin to make itself obvious above his left cheek, doing weird things to the smile he attempts to hold steady.
The four-year-old stands and grabs the string of the toddler's balloon, reels it in, squeaks it while the baby shrieks and the balloon squeaks and the baby shrieks... The husband loudly wonders to himself what Hannibal Lecter of a sick scientist fuck invented the balloon.
In the booth behind this humble family, a lovely little boy pops his head up and shouts lovely little yelps into the husband's ear. The husband feels his nerves contract slightly, but he tries to keep things in perspective. He is hungry after all. He assures himself that he is hungry, that's all. Hungry, and, and, yes, of course, he loves his family.
The waitress arrives and the children plead for colas instead of milk.
"Sure, why not," the husband agrees magnanimously, the tick flinching even more as the wife decides to order separate plates for all of the children, rather than feeding the toddler off one of the adults portions.
The husband astutely carries out mental math, calculating the prices. How much will the meal cost? The great financial saboteur finally rearing its ugly head to cast a sickly pallor over the forthcoming meal.
"What're you having?" the wife asks.
"There's too much choice," the husband blurts out.
"I can give you a few more minutes," the waitress offers.
"No, no," the husband insists, knowing-- at this point-- how bad things can turn if faces are not fed in the absolutely immediate future. He scrambles to place his order, a bowl of soup, not what he really ever wanted, but close enough. After all, this is a sacrifice. It has become that-- a treat. A sacrifice. Things must be sacrificed to raise a happy family. A family night out. A nice time. A sacrifice to be happy.
"Nice time," the husband mutters.
"What was that?" the wife enquires.
"Did I say something?" He sets a finger to his cheek and feels the erratic beat, his nerves shrinking and winding tighter like the cellophane wrapped around trays of leftovers.
More balloons are presented by the pleasantly sadistic waitress. She is young, new to the game, her naivety adding fuel to the nerve fire.
The toddler wails, wanting the new balloon that the other two fight over. Movements are made by the wife to comfort the toddler and-- subsequently-- a large glass of water is overturned, the fluid running into the lap of the daughter.
"Ha, ha," calls the lovely little boy behind the husband, poking up his lovely little head and pointing, his index finger brushing the husband’s ear. "Ha, ha. Ha, ha..."
The four year old needs her pants changed. She whines, protesting the stickiness and pulling at the fabric until the pants are removed and she sits in her underwear. She insists on pulling off her underwear too but it's there the husband draws the line.
All the while, the wife stares out the plate glass window at the parking lot, eyeing the car. Another family saunters across the parking lot toward the entrance, still smiling, still deluded by thoughts of a good time, not yet niggled by the maggots of hunger.
The husband watches his wife watch the new family enter, a sad warning in her eyes.
Plates arrive and everyone struggles to cram the food into their mouths as fast as possible. The children gobble up french fries, but ignore the pizza, nuggets and hamburgers. The husband sips his thin soup.
At once, the children are full, but they could eat a little desert. The husband places a finger to his twitch and-- morosely studying the children's half-filled plates-- decides that he must eat the children’s food as well because he'll be damned if he'll pay good money for good food and have that good food go to waste.
"I'll be damned," he mutters, shoving nuggets in one side of his mouth, pizza in the other, filling up his cheeks like a chipmunk.
The children eat dessert. They eat all the dessert. It seems it might be all the dessert in the restaurant. As is always the case, there is no dessert left for him to finish off.
"Ready?" the wife questions. The husband nods while woofing down half a kiddie hamburger and motioning to the waitress to bring the check.
“All on one bill?” she asks.
“What other way?” The husband asks.
The waitress looks confused.
“How else do you see this playing out?”
The bill is delivered. The credit card tapped. Done paying the price, the husband stands, popping the hasp on his jeans and feeling so bloated that only four gaviscons, and four hours on the couch will mend his tortured guts.
As the children scream and race around the open spaces, the husband and wife each grab a mint, then the husband grabs a handful of mints and stuffs them in his pocket. They are free after all. Pay back. He grabs another handful and stuffs the other pocket, suddenly struck by a realization. He understands exactly why those mints are offered in every grub joint from here to Timbuktu. The mints are spiked with some sort of amnesia drug that wipes out the cataclysmic emotional debris resulting from the family dining experience.
Because sooner or later the entire family will be back again. They will be chipper, hungry, seating themselves neatly in their booth and commenting brightly on how nice it is to be eating out together. What a treat! What fun! Why don't we think of this more often? And then the balloons will be delivered, never enough for everyone.
An earlier version of this article appeared in The Telegraph-Journal
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