it could be so much worse
We went to our favorite restaurant last night: Chevy's. I know. But they get the margaritas and chips to your table within 10 minutes, they have a balloon animal guy and La Machina, the tortilla machine, TJ can demolish a plate of rice and beans to her heart's content, and no one looks askance at us because half of her food ends up on the floor. And just when Lucy is about to lose it, they deliver her an ice cream cone that buys us another 10 minutes of fajitas and margaritas.
We go every weekend. I have been a regular customer at many places in my life -- coffee carts, bagel shops, bars, clubs -- somehow I never really thought I would be a regular at Chevy's. Still, I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that our weekly trip to the Quesadilla Store, as it is known around here, is the high point of the week for everyone in our family. Ice cream for Lucy, pounds of rice and beans for TJ, and booze for us. Everyone wins.
Most times, it's great. Everyone, even the grumpiest baby on the block (TJ) is usually busy enough eating that there is no time for meltdowns or misbehavior. Last night, things were bad for some reason. It had been a long day -- neighborhood pet parade in the morning, water park in the afternoon, lots of sun for everyone. My margarita had no salt. TJ's food didn't come out with everybody else's dinner, and then it came out hot enough to burn her tongue. She reached for what she thought was a french fry off my plate, but it turned out to be a sizzling fajita onion.
TJ was justifiably pissed off. She was standing up in her high chair, covered in beans, throwing food. Lucy was begging for ice cream, whining about how "treaty" she was (what she says when she wants a treat.) When the ice cream came, the ice cream fell off the cone and landed in her hand and all over her dress.
In short, it was kind of a disaster. It still wasn't that bad, because it is Chevy's and unless you puke up Zima in the bathroom your freshman year of college on the night Zima is released to the public (true story) you can't really embarrass yourself there.
In the middle of the chaos at our table, my husband caught my eye and looked over at a table a few feet away. It was a family having dinner, two parents, a grandmother, and a clearly autistic boy who was probably about 12 years old. The boy was eating in a high chair, because, as his dad said when they were checking in at the hostess booth, he didn't want to spend his whole meal chasing his son around the restaurant. They probably go to Chevy's for most of the same reasons we do, now that I think about it.
My husband looked at me, as TJ was flinging guacamole, and Lucy was covered in ice cream. I don't even know what he was going to say. But I just nodded, and said "I know."
Poor Lucy. When I was around her age a waitress tried to hand me an ice cream sundae. It was big and I was small and it landed in my lap, and I cried. My father told me the waitress was wrong to hand it to me, she was supposed to put it down on the table. I have never ever taken a dish from waitstaff since.
I hope Lucy got a new ice cream cone.
And, just a little, very quietly, "You dropped your ice cream! And now you can't get none!..." Okay, enough. But hee hee hee.
I loved this post.
We're also regulars at Chevy's -- aka "The Place With The Best Tortillas In The World." Every time we go, my husband says, "We are never going back there. Ever again."
If he would just order a margarita instead of beer, I know he'd be totally on board with it.