Another gem for the Griswald's Eating Out Diaries



Seaforth Beach


It was a perfect evening, Mr G had decided to treat us all and take advantage of the calamari eat-as-much-as-you-like special at a local restaurant. Luckily, when taking the booking, the restaurant didn't realize it would be running at a loss during our visit.

We got a prime table outside on the deck with a view to take your breath away. Cape Town really is the jewel on the tip of Africa's crown. And best of all, no wind!

The Boy ate a lion's share of his generous kiddies fish and chips satisfying his parents that they hadn't wasted their money by ordering a meal specially for him. How many of us have had to ask for doggie bags for their childling's leftover fayre and then had to scoff it later with their mother's words of  "You can't waste good food..!" and disturbing images of pot bellied Ethiopian children reverberating in their heads? Yes, well, maybe its just me then.

Our calamari was divine, tender and just right, portions were generous and The Husband ordered another bowl. I could finish half that portion and that was it for me, I'd eaten all the calamari I could eat.
The Husband was enjoying himself so much that he ordered yet another bowl.

The Boy had quietly slid under the table to view the world through table legs and bronzed calves and, of course, get his hands dirty as usual.

The Husband and I were chatting nicely and finshing the third bowl of seafood when I decided to check on the Boy. He grinned up at me with that "I'm not crapping in my pants" look and an angelic smile. He patted his bum to invite me to check his statement. And I did. And came away with a suspiciously soggy hand. Damn.
I had to get The Boy out of the dining area fast before the stench put the other diners off their dinners, so I frog-marched him through the restaurant and all the while he is walking like John Wayne Jnr.

Escaping to the ladies loos I assess the damages. Bad, very bad. Especially because I didn't have any spare undies or shorts for him. (He is potty trained after all.) All I had was a spare nappy stuck away in my handbag.

Earlier The Boy had delighted the conscientuous health Mama in me by eating 4 apples, one after the other.
It seemed that his young bowels could not handle all the fruit goodness and had exploded into his tiny scants.

Cleaning up was lovely. Trying to avoid getting bum smears on the loo stall walls was challenging as the Boy kept bending over and trying to "help Mama" rinse his underpants in the flushing loo. I had considered abandoning them in a waste basket but pitied the cleaning lady whose plight it was to find them.
I tried keeping it light as there was another person in the adjoining stall, listening (and sniggering), no doubt. I think "Yay for wet wipes!" may have been uttered by myself.

Finally, the Boy's derriere was all cleaned up and he danced through the restaurant in his nappy and Jack & Jill sandals much to the amusement of the patrons. Being a respectable local business owner The Husband had quietly slipped on his sun glasses and was admiring the view. Paying the bill and making our exit commenced soon afterwards.

The Griswalds strike again.