My 3-year-old son knows restaurants. Knows them and loves them. This, in itself, is not a surprise. I love restaurants. My father loves restaurants. The Miller men historically prefer food prepared by people they do not know. My dad could come home from 15 hours of work, bleary-eyed and headachy and ostensibly hungry only for Channel 8 sports and a good night's sleep, and the first words out of his mouth would still be something like, You think we can get into Carlos Murphy's? If Carlos Murphy's—where, disturbingly, you could get corned beef and cabbage with a side of refried beans—were still around, I would not be shocked to hear my boy say the very same thing.
There is, though, one significant generational difference. Though my son loves restaurants, he has little interest in actually eating in them. He's not that cute-but-sort-of-gross kid you see in the next booth with bright orange barbecue sauce encircling his mouth like clown lips—he's the one two booths away drumming on the salt-and-pepper shakers with straws. What my son wants is not a heaping plate of fried everything, but a night on the town—the hum and clank of a busy place, the smile of a tired waitress, the audience.
This makes sense: For many American kids, especially in suburbia, restaurants are the first introduction to the carnival of public life. It's a chance to learn manners, sure, but it's also a chance to feel what it feels like to be seen, and to take your first measure—however inaccurate—of what the world sees when it sees you. Granted, there are those who would rather not see my son drum with straws at a restaurant. A friend once told me that he would never take a child to a restaurant until the child is absolutely ready. But what is ready, and when exactly does readiness arrive? In the early years, behavior alters not year-to-year but day-to-day, and then it alters back. I have seen 6-year-olds in restaurants uncork banshee-screams that would make my little drummer roll his eyes with dismay. I have also seen full-grown adults show up at restaurants in flip-flops, and my boy, sure as water is wet, would certainly never do that. Next to the sight of adult feet, a little boy's drumming can hardly rank as a disturbance. All my son wants is to entertain you. And, really, soda-straw percussion isn't so loud; when the beat's steady, it's almost soothing.
But if you ever end up next to us in an Asian restaurant, watch out. The kid can raise the roof with a pair of chopsticks.