(Mis)adventures in Dining (Parts one and two)

 "Animal crackers, and cocoa to drink,/That is the finest of suppers, I think;/When I’m grown up and can have what I please/I think I shall always insist upon these.”—“Animal Crackers,” Chimneysmoke, Christopher Marley

                                              Part One

“Conversation” with Cliff in the car the other day:

Me:  “Cliff, we’re going into this restaurant, but we’re not eating there. It’s not time for dinner yet. Okay?”

Cliff: “Yeah”.

Me: “We have to meet the man who is doing the music at your birthday party. It’s not time to eat. Do you understand?”

Cliff: “Yeah”.

Once in the restaurant, Cliff proceeds to take off his coat and get really happy. He is ready to be shown to his table.  Crap.

Me: “Cliff, remember what I said. We’re not eating here. We’ll do it some other time.”
Cliff: “No!” (Translation: What?! You did NOT say we couldn't eat here!)
Apparently, the only words he heard in my preparatory warnings were “restaurant”, “eating” and “dinner”.
Once we’re in the meeting room, the chair he chooses to sit on is ten feet away from mine. His facial expression is the exact opposite of the yellow smiley face guy. L  

After all, we are in a restaurant. In his mind, there is no purpose to being there except to sit down, order food and then eat it. I do understand how he feels. It’s like how I feel when I walk into Nordstrom. I ask you, would I walk out of there without buying that really cute jacket that makes me look awesome?

I think not.

We spend the next 20 minutes (during which the DJ forgot to show) glaring at each other.

The time period between in- the- car and in- the- restaurant (about 30 seconds) served as a frustrating, but familiar, segue from my warning (two) and an affirmation (two) of that warning, to complete denial of that warning.

 The next night, I did meet with a very apologetic DJ. Guess who I didn’t bring with me. (Three guesses, the last two don’t count.)

                                    (Mis)Adventures in Dining  (Part two)

Eating with Cliff is truly an experience not to be missed. There is always a story to tell afterwards.

First of all to look at him, your initial observation would be that he has Down syndrome, he’s on the short side, and he has a great smile. Besides that, most people would agree Cliff is also a young man who appears to be at least twenty-something. This is why it confounds my husband and me when we are asked the following questions upon entering a restaurant:

Ken: “A table for three, please.”

Hostess: “Sure. Would you like a children’s menu?” (I fake - look around and behind me and testily reply, “Well, since there aren’t any children with us that would be a no.”)

Well-meaning waitress #1: “Do you want me to bring a top for his Sprite?”

Well-meaning waitress #2:”Would you like me to put his drink in a children’s cup?”

Well-meaning waitress #3: “Hi there! Would you like some crayons and a coloring book?”

Same waitress: “Or we have some plain paper and colored pencils. How about those?”

Same waitress: “Ok, well, I can bring a pack of cards to play with while you’re waiting. Would you like me to bring them over?” (She is so sweetly eager to please, I keep my composure, smile, and tell her he’s not a fan of any of those activities.)

This penchant for restaurant staff to treat my grown son like a child is both infuriating and incomprehensible. If you work in a restaurant, I am hereby instructing you to say nothing but hello, how many, and are you ready to order. If someone wants their grown son or daughter to choose from a children’s menu or color, they will make that request.

Anyone who has eaten with him becomes aware quite quickly that Cliff is not a fan of forks or napkins either. Why bother with them when one’s fingers and shirts/pants work perfectly well for the purposes of eating and wiping? It seems the more we ask him to please use a fork, the more he puts down said fork when we’re not looking. Last weekend at lunch in Newport, I handed him a napkin and he promptly balled it up and threw it at Ken’s head. We probably shouldn’t have laughed, but it was hilarious at the time. At least it wasn’t a utensil.

But here is the true reward for bringing Cliff out to eat—it’s his sheer joy when it’s time for dessert. At the mere mention of lemon meringue pie, his joy is uncontained. When the pie then shows up, the reaction is not unlike telling someone they’ve just inherited a million dollars, a mansion and a yacht. What’s more, we have redeemed ourselves after annoying him with our insistence upon manners.

Just goes to show you, it’s Cliff’s world and we just live in it.