I’ll have the miso black cod – hold the toddler.
My husband and I (though more me, truthfully) have always loved eating in restaurants. We long ago adopted the New Yorker lifestyle, even though we haven’t actually lived there, and preferred to eat out – three times a day, sometimes four when we lived in Montreal and everyone hits up one last steak frites around midnight before calling it a night. Maybe it’s the menus full of choices, each more mouth-watering than the next. Maybe it’s the waiter catering to your every whim. Maybe it’s the fact that I actually screwed up boiling corn just last night, and it wasn’t the first casualty of its kind. We love amazing, trendy sushi a la Hamasaku (thanks for the rec, GOOP!), and the Bazaar in LA is a current fave with its foie gras cotton candy and foam potato mousse, but we don’t discriminate. Some nights you simply want the Thai chicken pasta with a side of more pasta at the Cheesecake Factory, and we are not ashamed to admit it. And that, my friends, is where Little D comes in – one of the only places we go that Little D comes in. Because what you don’t want is your $23 piece of sashimi and $28 glass of champagne with a restless toddler on the side. Neither do those around you, including me, no matter how cute they may be. There is a time and place for my darling little offspring’s grinning face and dirty fingers, and Katsuya isn’t it, no matter how early, which night of the week, or which VIP I am rolling with. So Little D has become a really “good” restaurant baby in some really “not-so-good” restaurants. I consider it training ground, for those years ahead when she will call Pizzeria Mozza her own stomping ground, and she will, too, leave the baby and the binkies at home.