Icing on the Cake, or Cake Icing

Yesterday, my children and I are sitting quietly in the airport hotel restaurant reading the menu, when a German woman, her three young sons, and a Peruvian-looking woman are seated at the table next to us. Instantly, the atmosphere in the restaurant changes. Where previously there was a sedate, cool, even muffled end-of-the-day feeling, all of a sudden the stage lights are turned on, the temperature in the room rises, and everyone’s attention is drawn to this party’s table.

The attractive, in her early-thirties, expensively coiffed and dressed woman, is obviously accustomed to people hovering over her, staring at her while she does the most mundane of activities. Look, as I sit here with my three adorable boys, as I order some drinks for us all, spend a rather long period of time choosing the right wine for myself, and order a meal tailored to each of my children’s and my particular taste palettes. The Peruvian-looking woman accompanying them is the boys’ nanny. The mother is a flurry of noise, while the nanny quietly questions and commands the troops. She is the only one who actually orders something from the menu.

Admittedly, at the beginning, I do stare and listen with curiosity at this theatrical production. The mother speaks German to the waitress and boys, Spanish to the nanny, and throws in a smattering of English for anyone else who is listening. I find it all rather exotic: the mixture of languages, the play acting, the (very) loud conversation, and the chic attire. I imagine her to be the young wife of a rich middle-aged German business executive, living in Lima, visiting her family in July, going off to Paris with a friend in the fall, skiing at Whistler in winter…

Then the boys begin to fight over the content of the bread basket. The middle boy wants black bread. He shouts this request to the waitress. No please or thank you. The nanny tries to placate him with some white bread. The mother snaps at the nanny to just give the boys what they want. She manages speak harshly to the nanny through smiling lips.

I begin to tire of their obtrusive company, almost feel nauseous. It is as if I have over-indulged with a sweet dessert. No substance. Just elaborate icing.

I gaze over at my children and I am struck at how little limelight they need to order and eat a meal in a public place. They have excellent manners, kind dispositions, and appreciate good food, and so, even at such a young age, they are usually treated well. The rest is just icing, isn’t it?