Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Playing Restaurant on a Rainy Afternoon

This weekend GoofGirl and 3C were playing restaurant and asked me to be the customer.  I was not keen on this, as the whole point of a playdate is so that I DON'T have to entertain my children.

But then GoofGirl said, "Daddy, you're going to like our restaurant, it's a brewpub."

OK - I'm in.

Clearly GoofGirl has been listening to MamaGoof and I discuss our favorite libation, she presented me with the sampler, but she was also very clear that I couldn't try to much beer, the restaurant had had to give another customer a ride home because they had had too much beer.

"Daddy, the first beer is a lager that is tangy and is made with cocoa.  The second beer is an IPA and the third one is a stout.  The last one isn't beer it's schnaps for after dinner.  Drink slowly and tell us which one is your favorite."

After I tried some beer they brought me soup.  Unfortunately it was Alpha-bet soup and I am incredibly allergic to the letter L.  Fortunately, they were prepared to provide me with emergency medical treatment that involved jumping on me - I guess to force the L out of my system.  Well, it worked.

One innovation of this restaurant is that the staff bellowed at me and each other with little plastic microphones.  I tried to convince them that this was not good customer service (and also that it might wake up MamaGoof who was taking a well-earned nap.)  But, without the microphones, 3C did not get to engage the customer and yelling at me was the fun part of the operation.

The main course was, of course, pizza.  But they put so many toppings that I got bloated.  I told GoofGirl she'd need to burp me.

"Daddy, waiters don't burp people!"

"Do you want a tip?"

"It's a pretend restaurant, there is no tip."

"C'mon, I burped you hundreds of times - you just have to burp me once!"

Finally, she agreed and 3C came by and pounded on my back for awhile (which was good because it meant she wasn't shouting at me through a surprisingly effective plastic microphone.

Then it was time for the bill.  Oddly, the girls insisted that I pay them in real money, an interesting gambit that I was not falling for.  So when I refused to pay, they made me "do the dishes," i.e. clean-up the thousands of little pretend food and kitchen items that they had used in their restaurant.

This may have been their plan all along.

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