Four has opened a restaurant.
It is in my kitchen and it is called ‘The Fried Fruit Restaurant’
You can order anything you like as long as it’s fruit (including, as he is very quick to point out in a loud stage whisper, a TOMATO) and as long as it’s, wait for it.. fried
He doesn’t actually use a pan to fry his fruit, it’s all miraculously done in the oven with the interior light switch as the sole source of power. I think the unconventional fry-method is partly because he can’t reach the top of the stove without a chair but mostly because he’s very he’s very attached to my grubby British flag oven mitts which he calls the ‘You-know-Jack-glove’ (slightly creepy name, but as he’s a preschooler I let it pass).
Every evening after supper the family is invited to dine at Fried Fruit and I am commandeered to be the waiter. I am forced to wear a wilted tea towel across my arm, approach the table with a delicate combination of arrogance and obsequiousness and ask my husband, who finds it difficult to play childish games without buffoonery (and this is a deadly serious game), and seven year old daughter, who is old enough to feel superior and scornful of Fried Fruit, but young enough to want everyone to acknowledge her newfound status as not-one-of-the-babies, what they would like to order.
They are awkward customers.
It’s not made any easier on me by Four, who hovers directly behind me whispering the script and the evening’s menu while the diners are alternately overly jocular or drawlingly sarcastic.
Me: Welcome to Fried Fruit. My name is MTFF and I will be your waiter this evening.
Four (whispers loudly): Tell them I’m the chef!! Tell them!!
Me: Four is your celebrated chef who will prepare any fruit of your choice and fry it in the amazing, um, fabulous OVEN!
Four: Tell them they have to have FRIED FRUIT! By me! I’m the chef!
Me: I just did. What are the specials?
Four: The specials are…. FRIED FRUIT!
Me: Sir, may I tempt you with a delicious mixed plate of Fried Fruit?
Husband: I’ll have schnaxelberries, please
Four( falls on floor wailing): NO! NO! It has to be REAL PRETEND FRIED FRUIT!
Me: We don’t have those, Sir. How about a nice apple?
Husband: Surely you have schnaxelberries?
Four: He’s not PLAYING PROPERLY. Fried FRUIT! For REAL!
Seven: He isn’t even going to switch the oven on. Why do we have to do this?
Me: Shh! Be nice! Mademoiselle. May I interest you in a strawberry, fried?
Seven: No. Yuck.
Me: What about your favourite, passion fruit with pear? Fried?
Seven: No. I’m not playing
Four: But I’m the chef! I’m the chef! She’s mean! Wahhhhhhhh! Nobody’s coming to Fried Fruit.
Me: I would love a fried apple! With banana, please!
Four (bitterly): You can’t, you’re only a waiter.
Me: But I could be a customer now.
Four: No. You can’t. You’re not allowed anymore. The restaurant is closed.
Me: But, I thought..
At this point all three of them leave the room and only You-know-Jack and I are left to put away the imaginary dishes until the following night when Fried Fruit opens again.
Please email for reservations. I have many.
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