Children for Dinner

“Check on!” I shouted to the chief in his white coat as I handed over the order slip. “And that needs ketchup and mayonnaise as side orders.”
“You got kids for dinner Basil?” “How do you want them cooked, fried or boiled?” came his reply. Actually I usually eat the children once they’ve braised for hours, but I am also given to making pie from them now too.

Having children for dinner can be a test of the best wills in the world, but it can be made easier if mein host and the staff try a lot. For example, by engaging the rug rats right away is a starter. I hand them menus, introduce myself and normally ask a silly question, once ‘on-board’ the rest can be plain sailing but only rarely is. We always sit ankle biters with a view in to the restaurant so they can see what’s going on. We never give them crayons to graffiti the Egyptian cotton tablecloths; they can do their colouring in the bar or in the pub down the road.

When you take the order it is advisable to ask the parents how they want the meal experience managed. Kids main courses can come with the adult’s starters and we often serve their pudding with mum and dads main course. Oh, the best laid plans of the meek and the feeble!

At times we need to employ the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang as the behaviour of the modern day sprog from hell is impossible to manage without a net and a lollipop. Often the parents ignore their offspring in the hope that the staff or Basil copes with their antics, despite the chance they may end up in my stew. It is not entirely the fault of the children; mum and dad rarely set the right example.

“Mayonnaise for your boulangère potatoes young lady, and some ketchup for the young mans dauphinoise… “Oh and lest I forget the mint sauce for dads Pomme puree (in this case a grain mustard mash potato).

The next sight is dad jettisoning his knife and swapping his fork to his right hand, I watch as he starts mashing up the food and shovelling it in just like an American.

What chance to the youngsters have at such an example, at times like these you wish that the family had dined in the bar earlier. Then one of the children farts loudly and the whole family laugh. The Major sitting at the next table, suited, booted and wearing his poppy of remembrance is starting to feel as uncomfortable as Basil now is, being deaf he thinks his dinner smells off. I’ll get Polly to appease him.

Children for Dinner…The continental Europeans seem to manage it so why can’t most Brits. Is it the children or the parents that are incapable and intolerable? Or then again is it Basil who is in the stew.