Talking to a friend, a divorced dad with a teenage daughter, who he takes out for lunch every Saturday. He’s a foodie so he takes her to nice places, this time the latest rave in restaurants.
His teenage daughter groaned. Where do you want to go then? He asked.
I’d love a fry up… she said.
He took her to a greasy spoon. “I’ve never seen anyone enjoy their food so much”, he said of his daughter. “She loved the sausages, beans, toast, fried eggs. Her mum won’t let her eat fry ups.”
My girl, the teen, said “Well duh. Who wants to go to posh restaurants? All that experimental food. Plus we have a limited diet, us teenagers, we don’t want to eat interesting food.”
“What about posh restaurants that aren’t experimental?” I ask.
“That’s why I like The Gilbert Scott. That’s where I want to go for my 18th. It’s great. It’s simple. You don’t have to think about the food. You don’t have to look at it. No droplets.”
She walks off, to listen to Radio 6 (“6 music!”), to serve herself another plate of pasta, to add another post to Tumblr.
His teenage daughter groaned. Where do you want to go then? He asked.
I’d love a fry up… she said.
He took her to a greasy spoon. “I’ve never seen anyone enjoy their food so much”, he said of his daughter. “She loved the sausages, beans, toast, fried eggs. Her mum won’t let her eat fry ups.”
My girl, the teen, said “Well duh. Who wants to go to posh restaurants? All that experimental food. Plus we have a limited diet, us teenagers, we don’t want to eat interesting food.”
“What about posh restaurants that aren’t experimental?” I ask.
“That’s why I like The Gilbert Scott. That’s where I want to go for my 18th. It’s great. It’s simple. You don’t have to think about the food. You don’t have to look at it. No droplets.”
She walks off, to listen to Radio 6 (“6 music!”), to serve herself another plate of pasta, to add another post to Tumblr.
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