We try to find the most casual place on the street. A sports bar, naturally. For some reason, in the Midwest, “sports bar” is a term for the epitome of family dining. You know, crayons and the deluxe kids menus with stickers, giant sundaes that occasionally arrive upside down in the form of a crazed clown, football-shaped potatoes, that kind of thing.
This sports bar has the same friendly worn-down booths, the same wood high-chairs in the window, the same local wall decorations and out-of-season Christmas lights. But there’s a bouncer at the door. And he’s checking IDs.
A waitress walks by to change something on the sidewalk sign.
“Excuse me, can the baby eat here?”
She looks confused. “Yeah, of course! We have… highchairs… and really great chicken fingers. Or you could order him an appetizer…?”
So our two-year-old walks right past the bouncer while he scans our IDs and gives us solid once-overs and I try not to make jokes about printing holographic loons on hotel key cards just to get wasted in sports bars at 7 pm with toddlers. At least they accept our out-of-state IDs.
Two Years Before the Mass. 