1. Dining Out With No Kids
Location:
Fancy French Bistro downtown.
Atomosphere:
Peaceful. Dark and candlelit, tastefully decorated, elegant. The service is responsive yet unobtrusive, the jazz piano wafting up from the tiny stage in the corner is delightful but non-invasive, and the aromas are delightful.
Food:
Six-course tasting menu. Each course is exceptional, with a particular highlight being the wasabi-panko-encrusted rack of lamb with chocolate mint relish.
Beverage:
Sommelier-recommended wine pairings with each course, building to a beautiful crescendo with a bold, complex 2006 Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon and concluding with cognac and espresso with fresh lemon.
Volume Level:
Pure tranquility.
Conversation Topics:
Picasso, sexual equality, Brazilian cinema, European vacation planning, purbred dogs, Sigur Ros.
Overall Experience:
Blissful.
2. Dining Out With One Kid
Location:
Generic casual dining chain restaurant in your suburb. It has kids’ meals on the menu and high chairs but also a decent wine list and a grown-up atmosphere.
Atomosphere:
Jovial. A handful of tables with kids but also plenty of hip young couples to remind you that hey! you’re not that old and lame! you can still stay out late (on weekends) and you totally knew who The Arcade Fire were even before the Grammies!
Food:
Pizza, ribs, chicken fingers, 16 ramekins of ketchup.
Beverage:
Draft beer on special.
Volume Level:
Elevated but still enjoyable.
Conversation Topics:
Daycare, second children, Canadian vacation planning, SUVs, cats.
Overall Experience:
Thoroughly enjoyable despite cleaning up a spilled glass of water, changing a dirty diaper on the sink in the bathroom and having to apologize to the table next to you for the spoon that was thrown in the general direction of their penne primavera.
3. Dining Out With 2 Kids
Location:
Fast-food restaurant with plastic booths, a playland with balls and slides, the smell of trans fats in the air and a thin layer of despair.
Atomosphere:
Cola-fueled children run top-speed around the room, bouncing off of walls and one another like uranium atoms in a nuclear reactor while exhausted parents look on, drowning their sorrows in honey mustard sauce.
Food:
Enough McNuggets to spark a pretty serious interest in vegetarianism.
Beverage:
Medium Coke with a coupon, two straws.
Volume Level:
WHAT!?? SORRY?? I didn’t catch that. Was that a happy scream or a bleeding scream?
Conversation Topics:
Hamsters, Barney and Band-Aids, followed by a 90 minute logistical planning session on how to get to both jobs, daycare, kindergarten, soccer, gymnastics, t-ball, ballet and 2 playdates with just one car.
Overall Experience:
I don’t know. Give Daddy some space. I’ll let you know when I have a minute to think about it.
4. Dining Out With More Than Three Kids
Location:
The backyard. You set up a folding table with a tablecloth to make it seem more interesting, like a picnic, but really your only interest is in keeping juice, food and various bodily functions on the grass, where they can be dealt with using a hose.
Atomosphere:
The serene beauty of nature, the gentle chirping of birds and the peaceful evening sky are all ripped to shreds by screaming, crying, fighting and shrieking, creating a scene not entirely different from that particularly gory scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom with the chanting and the fire and the insects and the blood . . . so much blood.
Food:
Squeeze cheese, Pringles, slightly-past-expiry feed-grade tuna.
Beverage:
Sippy cups full of juice for the kids, Jagrmeister.
Volume Level:
Ever worked in a steel crushing mill when something goes wrong and 80 ton iron plates start shearing off one another at 3,500 rpm, and then a pack of hundreds of rabid elephants storms through the factory, trumpeting madly, and they all have huge stereos strapped to their backs and they’re all blasting out-of-sync sound effects from the movie Armageddon? Yeah, sort of like that.
Conversation Topics:
Life choices, adoption, out-of-town colleges.
Overall Experience:
Not to be revealed until years later, in therapy, when kids have moved away and post-traumatic stress disorder is finally diagnosed.
