It’s a caveat I really don’t understand. Particularly in pubs, where the serving size options are usually on the larger side of hearty, and you run the risk of throwing out perfectly good food that you can’t finish. While some pubs seemingly don’t mind which menu you choose from, others take the matter seriously, to the point of wanting to see kids before they accept an order.
Loading
At that pub in Port Augusta, the kid’s spag bol cost $12, while a chicken parmigiana from the adult menu would set you back $32. That cost is, you would assume, related to portion size and the cost to create the dish. After all, kid’s menu meals are generally cheaper to make, given the limited ingredients and size. A parma, on the other hand, requires a lot more ingredients and kitchen time, and is a bigger portion.
But if that is the determining factor for price, why does the age of the mouth this food enters matter? Why are we punishing adults with, on occasion, the palate or cravings of a 10-year-old?
I really wanted this spaghetti bolognese. After 15 minutes of pep-talking myself (“There’s no shame in asking the question”), I walked confidently to the pub counter, ready to order off the kid’s menu. My resolve instantly dissipated when I was face-to-face with the gruff publican. “What’ll it be?” he grunted, arms braced against the bar, his no-nonsense demeanour reducing my confidence to a puddle.
I couldn’t do it. My mind conjured up visions of me meekly asking if I could order the kid’s meal, only to be met with braying laughter and “Hey, Graham! This lady wants to ignore your award-winning steaks for a kid’s spaghetti!” The entire pub would take notice. All eyes on me, fingers pointing, laughter echoing out the doors. I’d probably be kicked out. I’d be blacklisted. Nationally. Fear gripping my heart, I order the steak.
Once, I managed to luck out at a bowling club. When the Margherita pizza arrived, pint-sized with just two toppings, I could feel eyes on me as the waitstaff clocked the distinct lack of children in sight, but chose not to say anything.
I endured good-natured but relentless roasting from my friends as I furtively ate my small triangles of dough. But the joke was on them when we went to pay for our meals and mine set me back a total of $10.
I understand that a dining revolution where we all opt for the kid’s menu over adult meals would cripple the hospitality industry (and our tastebuds). But sometimes, especially when you’re days into eating similar-but-not-the-same fare, you find yourself not that hungry but needing to eat, and the simplest fare on the menu hits the brief.
When the urge hits to eat dinosaur-shaped pasta topped with bottled sauce, let me enjoy it without a side of age shaming.
Melissa Mason is a freelance writer based in Sydney.
