Giving Them the Chicken Finger

Although restaurants have apparently been around a long time, and all indicators suggest that a goodly number of them are owned by people who have children, nobody seems to have found a workable setup when it comes to our miniature diners.

Oh, sure! I've encountered a few that make valiant efforts to accommodate the smaller set, but somehow they always seem to fall short of my family's personal needs (such as advanced noise cancellation electronics, and chewable tranquilizers featured on the appetizer list.)

I understand that it's not all that practical to hire an entire wait-staff from the child owning demographic. But in any case, servers should definitely be required to attend a training class that takes place in a day-care center. That way (for starters), they wouldn't set brimming glasses of milk 2 inches from the edge of the table, and within easy lurch/flail/reach of my heathen children. She may as well just save herself some time and pour it out in a sweeping semicircular motion, while she's right there with her towel.

The drink conundrum has yet to be solved. Short of an IV drip, I'm not sure how you hydrate the younger set, while avoiding these inevitable ("set your watch" variety of) spills. It wouldn't have NEAR the disastrous potential if I could count on my darlings to spill stuff only on themselves. But though they have lots of trouble sharing the crayons or the salt, they seem to have no trouble sharing wayward liquids.

Appropriately trained wait-staff would bring us TWO sets of crayons, and emergency backup coloring sheets for my fast little scribblers. Under penalty of death, they would never bring markers, or little plastic swords. Even when they skewer healthy-looking pieces of fruit (read: projectiles.) And they'd abscond with the sugar packets the minute they saw us coming. At my table, you'd have to undergo a rigorous personal interview, with dental lights, to get access to sugar packets.

They wouldn't call them "Chicken Fingers." At least not if they wanted to preserve my eardrums, in time for me to hear the specials. I really get tired of trying to explain THAT one to my 3-year-old daughter. Remember, my kids are in the BUSINESS of judging food on sight. Or even before, if it's got a funny name.

If restaurateurs really considered the problem: how to draw in the parental bucks while providing an atmosphere that has the greatest subduing capacity per square inch, the first major change we'd see is SEAT BELTS. Five-point restraint having the best chance of success, if you study the automobile manufacturer's statistics (which I do. But remember, I really need to get a life.) In a pinch, duct tape works, but you get a lot of rude glares.

I, personally, appreciate a scary-looking waitress. Under no circumstances do I want my children viewing the restaurant staff as allies. We need some handy threats to fling around, and any waitress who LOOKS like she'd actually make them stand in a corner or wash some dishes is a waitress who's earning a BIG TIP with minimum effort.

All the better if, when asked where the restrooms might be, she snipes, "You should have thought of that before you left home!" This may seem coldhearted, until one spends the entrée portion of every professionally prepared dinner in a bathroom stall with a toddler, trying not to pass out from the noxious fumes. I would imagine.

In theory, the restaurant experience ought to be a pleasant one, even with kids in tow. But in my experience, even though I don't have to cook or clean up, somehow it manages to be just as much (and sometimes more) work. You'd think that in a hotbed of capitalism like the U.S., somebody would have figured out a way to solve this problem. I mean, we put men on the MOON, for goodness sake!

But then I notice that children were conspicuously absent on those trips…