Dining Out with Dad

Louche seventies dad moves.

“Let’s go out to lunch, Babe,” my dad stated as we sauntered down Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley. Daddy, wearing dark shades, looked into the windows of three different cafes. What is he doing? The sun’s reflection on the windows blinded me and I couldn’t see in.

A breeze blew my braids into the air and ruffled the trim around my shorts. “This looks nice,” Daddy said, putting his hand behind my back and leading me through the door of a natural restaurant.

The menu looked pretty good, and I ordered a veggie melt. This was a very popular menu item in California in the 1970s: toast with vegetables on it, and cheese broiled on top. My favorite. Daddy ordered the chili bowl, and we were quite eager as the kaftan-wearing hippie woman placed our food on the wood-hewn table with a self-satisfied smile. Daddy continued talking about the history of art in the 20^th century, and how it related to jazz. He let me order a Coke, so I listened patiently. He was always telling me I couldn’t go wrong if I listened to my father. I suspended the Coke in my straw, sucking out the liquid strawful-by-strawful, savoring each fizzy pop. I cut into the veggie melt, its cheese stretching out in long strings with every bite. It was so yummy. I hardly ever ate at a restaurant. This was awesome.

We finished our gratifying meal. The hippie waitress picked up our plates and dropped our check. Daddy complimented her in a flirtatious way, and she giggled.

Daddy became silent. He looked all around the restaurant in a slow and subtle way. I asked him a question, and he shushed me. Then he said “Let’s go.” Before I noticed what was going on, Daddy was out the door. I saw him beat tracks past the window outside. I saw the hippie waitress at the register look agape as he passed. I got up and ran out too, before anyone could say anything.

On the sidewalk, I craned my neck around for Daddy. It was only a couple of seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Daddy was waiting behind a truck at the end of the block, and stepped into view, beckoning me. As I started to run toward him, I could see the waitress and another member of staff coming toward the door. I could see their mouths open, yelling something. Imagining my teeny self in police custody, I just kept running toward Daddy at the corner.

When I got to there, Daddy put his arm behind my back again and hustled me down the block. We turned and went down another block. We got into our parked van. Daddy looked around, backed out quickly, and drove out of the neighborhood toward the marina.

“That really scared me, Daddy,” I said after a while. “I thought we would get caught.”

Daddy rooted around in a paper bag while he was driving, found a joint, and lit it. He took a big drag. “We wouldn’t have been caught.”

“But we didn’t pay,” I said in a quiet, cautious way, looking at my hands folded in my lap.

“No need to get uptight. These restaurants make so much money, they just write it off,” he casually replied.

I looked out the window and saw Berkeley pass by. We were on University Avenue now, headed toward the bay. Daddy seemed to care less about what happened. He really didn’t seem to consider what would have happened if I got apprehended. Or if he got apprehended. Then what would have happened to me?

“Let me make it up to you,” Daddy said as we pulled into the Berkeley Marina parking lot and saw an ice cream stand. “Let me buy you an ice cream.”

I wanted ice cream so bad. I was practically drooling witnessing another girl in front of the truck, eating a chocolate cone. I glanced at Daddy, smiling at me behind his aviator shades.

“No thank you.” I looked out at the bay, wishing I could disappear.