What happens is the family, consisting of one husband who really doesn't care what's for dinner just as long as there is a dinner, a
10-year-old daughter who believes she should get what we pay for, a 9-year-old son who will eat the same three meals every single day of his life if allowed to do so, and I -- Queen of the House -- all get into the
mini-van and drive aimlessly looking for a restaurant that meets the needs of all household members. This will lead to conversations such as this: Him: "Where do you want to go?"
Me: "I don't know. What sounds good to you?"
Him: "I don't care. Anything."
Me: "OK. Just pick something."
Him: "No, you pick something."
Me: "OK, pull in here."
(Voices from back seat: "Yuck! Not here again!")
He pulls into the parking lot of a restaurant.
Me: "No. The parking lot is too crowded. We'll have to wait too long."
Him: "OK. (pulls back out into traffic) Where to?"
Me: "I don't know. Where do you want to go?"
Like The Never-Ending Story, we just sort of meander around looking for a place to eat
that meets all of our objectives, which are:
Mom: Has quality parking lot and is not too crowded.
Daughter: Has menu containing many large, expensive food items, all of which could bankrupt
parents.
Son: Has hamburger, fries and chocolate milk on menu.
Husband: Has food.
After driving around for several milleniums, we find a place to eat that fails to please
at least two of us. My daughter is unhappy if she can't order a whole lobster and a baked Alaska. At 10, she has subscribed to the Ivana Trump school of economics whereby the amount of happiness one has is in
direct proportion to the amount of money at one's disposal. Of course, she's right in that what makes her happy is a large juicy steak and steaks cost money. The down side is she's 10 and, since she's not a child star
or an heiress, she has no money. So she grits her teeth and spends ours. It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.
My son's needs are simple. He wants hamburgers and fries, unless it's lunch, in which case he
wants a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and chips, every single day of his life, Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving included. And with chocolate milk, of course. Menu planning's a breeze, just as long as I don't forget
the annual "Thanksgiving Hamburger". The woman he marries won't have to cook but their peanut butter budget will be pretty hefty. My spouse, of course, simply wants food.
Which leaves me. I don't like crowded
parking lots because that means I'm going to have to sit in the restaurant entrance on little, uncomfortable seats jammed up next to a lot of total strangers and listen to my children whine about how they haven't eaten
since Noah went to the store to buy lumber. So I encourage my mate to cruise the city looking for a less crowded parking lot. Of course, there are people who say a crowded parking lot means the food is good, but that
doesn't cut it with me.
The way I look at it, the annual bull run at Pamplona draws a pretty big crowd, too, but that doesn't mean I want to go there.
