My First Meal at a Restaurant

When I was young, eight children in our home meant that we didn’t get invited out to dinner. It also meant that we couldn’t afford to go to a restaurant.

Some of the things kids take for granted now were foreign to me. I never had a piece of pizza until I was about 18. I was about 12 when I had my first jelly-filled donut.

Don’t get the crying towel out just yet. We didn’t lack in food. It was just homemade, that’s all, and there was plenty of it for all. And we had to eat it all up. If we didn’t, we would get the lecture about all the poor children in China.

The closest we got to a restaurant was going to the cafeteria in Eaton’s annex on Queen Street when we were buying our back-to-school clothes in August.

When I was 16, I got my first summer job. With my first paycheque, I told my mom not to bother to make supper. We were going out for Chinese food.

Even though the menu was in English, it might have well been in Mandarin. We really didn’t know what anything was, and, as we found out, we had no idea of the sizes of the portions. We ordered different things for each of us.

The food was scrumptious. My mother really enjoyed eating something that she didn’t have to cook. There was only one problem. We couldn’t eat it all.

The waiters made it worse by continually filling our water glasses, which we gulped down. The result was rice swelling like a helium balloon in our stomachs.

Well into the meal, we valiantly tried to shove food down our gullets. We sort of know what the geese that are force-fed to make pâté feel like. It was not pleasant, but my mother and I were determined to finish everything. I even said to my mom, “We have to eat all of this. Think of all the poor children in China.”

As our eyes turned into saucers, my mother finally gave up. She could eat no more, nor could I. By this time the waiters were smiling and still giving us more water. It was almost as if they were seeing if we could explode. Unfortunately, not one of them told us that we could take the food home in a doggie bag. We certainly didn’t know that the option was available. A good portion of the meal was left on the plates.

As I look back, I don’t know why the waiters hadn’t suggested that we could take the leftovers home. Actually, it was poor service on their part and ignorance on ours. However, this ignorance created a bit of justice. While they didn’t help us in our dilemma, I didn’t know anything about tipping. I paid the bill and pocketed all of the change, right to the penny.