Dino's Grill

Does anyone around here remember RJA? You know, the guy with all the kids? Well, I thought he'd given up eating out, but thankfully he hasn't. Here's an updated review of one of Midtown's finest.

Dino’s Grill
645 N Mclean Blvd
(901) 278-9127

On a recent Saturday night, three out of four of our kids spent the night with their grandparents, leaving us with only one small child come Sunday morning. Anyone with four kids knows that having only one kid is just like having no kids at all. I’d been sick for a week and didn’t feel much better that morning, but I knew that this was an ideal opportunity for something we miss dearly in our hectic lives, a leisurely Sunday morning breakfast out. So I forced myself out of bed and into the shower and promised Kristy a Brother Juniper’s feast.

We’ve enjoyed Brother Juniper’s for years, though not as often as we like recently, it being more of a special occasion when we’re down to a manageable number of monkeys; Juniper’s is just a tad small for the six of us to descend upon. Driving by that morning, though, we saw what you always expect to see, but always hope to avoid: The Wait. There is no foyer, no lobby, in this tiny house-like structure, so all waiting for tables must be done outside. This morning the waiting was being done in the 40-degree temperature. I don’t know if it was my recent illness or just the fact that I’m getting older, but I just didn’t have any wait time in me. The Spanikopita Omelet is delicious, but it’s not that damn delicious.

So we debated where to go next and, it being nearly 11:00, and us wanting something familiar, we decided on Dino’s Grill. Not for breakfast, but for their regular Sunday turkey and dressing. What do you say about Dino’s? It’s so familiar to me that reviewing it is like reviewing my own dining room at home, and it’s only slightly cleaner. But Dino’s is not known for its … hygienic environs, it’s known for its tasty home cooking and such Italian staples as stuffed shells, lasagna, spaghetti and ravioli. Nevertheless, as we slid into a booth and fit my 19-month-old daughter snugly into one of those wooden platforms that restaurants call high chairs, she looked about her with an air of disdain. “Really? This is where you brought me to eat?” she said.

Me: What? It’s Dino’s, your mother and I have been coming here since before we were married.
GK: My God, how old is this place?
Me: I don’t know. Old. But the food has always been good. You’ll like it.
GK: Don’t you condescend to me, old man.
Me: All I’m saying is that they have good, home-cooked meals here. And some really good Italian cooking.
GK: I’m sure.
Me: Your mother used to work here in college.
GK: Does she work here now? Because I could use some saltines.
Me: Just be patient.
GK: You’ve already spilled something on your shirt.

And the conversation went on from there, but I won’t bore you with the details.

Nothing changes at 645 N. McLean, so Kristy and I ordered without the aid of a menu; turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes with gravy, corn and green beans for me; the same for her, no corn or beans, add turnip greens and black-eyed peas. One thing I always liked about Dino’s is that it’s a true meat and three, not a meat and two like most places, and the portions are heaping. The food came out fast and hot and I dug into it, the taste as familiar in my mouth as my own teeth. Kristy took time to portion out some lunch for GK, who smelled each item, taking a good long look at it, before begrudgingly shoving it into her face. And she liked it! Except for the greens, of course, because greens are disgusting. She spit those out into Kristy’s hand and I’m fairly certain Kristy wiped them on the underside of the booth.

For a sit down meal of vegetables or authentic pasta with your kids, there are few places better in Midtown. Rudy, the owner, knows most of his guests by name and is always quick with a laugh or a towel for that spill. And the price is right. The price is right, that is, if there are only between two and four of you. Stacey has implored us in recent months to take our monkeys out to dine and then write about it, but the truth is we just can’t afford it, not with five of us ordering off the menu. Yet this particular Sunday we made it out for only $17 and change. Seventeen dollars, that is, before GK calculated her standard 4% tip.

For another take on Dino's, click here.

Bosco's Squared

Below is a review done by the bulk of DWM's contributors after having a meal together, monkeys included. We call it Monkey Convergence 2: Electric Boogaloo


Boscos Squared
2120 Madison Avenue
432.2222

(Appetizer)
Stacey:
After a frenzy of emails, Monkey Convergence 2: Electric Boogaloo was on. I called Bosco's on a Friday at 4:45pm to see if I could make a 5:45pm reservation for sixteen on the patio. (Smartly, I decided not to inform them that nine of the sixteen were monkeys aging from 3 months to 8 years.) I was put on hold for a minute or two and then asked for my name. "Richard Alley," I said.

I called Warren at work to inform him of the plan and set off to pick the monkeys up from school. When I told them that we were going to a restaurant for dinner, they responded with cheers (Yay! Restaurant!) and then tried to talk me into driving straight to the restaurant without stopping at go to collect Daddy. "We're walking," I said. "Bosco's is just across the street from our house." Walking! "And guess what? C, JP, S, GK, Miss M, Connor, and Chloe are all coming with their mommies and daddies." No way! They couldn’t believe their luck.

I rushed them into the house and asked them both to wash their hands and faces since they were pretty much filthy. I briefly considered giving them a full wardrobe change, but decided against it. Once cleaned up, Satchel started collecting coloring book after coloring book, his markers, and his crayons. "These are for us to play with in case the waitress is slow," he said. That's my boy! (Normally I am opposed to props, but considering the adults were to be outnumbered, I kept my oppositions to myself.) Jiro, not one to miss his cue, grabbed the Leapster and stood next to the front door ready to bolt.

Warren pulled up and at 5:40 the four of us set out across the parking lot...where we soon ran into the Chockleys.

Stephanie:
When I heard there would be a Monkey Convergence on a Midtown patio in an hour or two, all I could think about were my pants. My office is usually below 60 degrees, so I don’t dress for the outside world. I dress for warmth, meaning that Friday I went to work in lined, wool, dry-clean-only pants. So in addition to knowing I would sweat like the proverbial whore, I also had to worry about nine children slinging ketchup in my direction. In the end I decided to risk it, because for some reason I have never really met the other DWM parents. Plus I have a cyber-crush on RJA, because his blog makes me laugh the most [say what!?—ed]. How could I pass up an opportunity to meet this group of Memphis-blogger rock stars, and to finally put names and faces to the Quartet and Miss M? To Bosco’s we go!

Warren:
Our arrival, with Team Chockley, was met with Boscos’ finest—a freshly clocked-in cadre of sharp dressed-in-black Generation Yers. We came not a moment too soon, just as Happy Hour was winding down, and Friday Night Out was gearing up. The hostess led us to our patio table, while her comrade assessed the high chair situation and from out of who knows what corner or closet, pulled out a dozen if not three or four clean high chairs. A clutch of brand new color crayons and shiny white paper [recycled beer menus—ed] for the monkeys appeared from thin air. The beer savant/wench recited the evening’s potation specials and took orders and then disappeared quicker than a hyperactive kid in a toy store. In no time most of us were getting our beer buzzes on. Within a span of ten minutes after our arrival, seating at the patio went from a few tables to a full deck.

Kristy:
Not long after I got home from work and the afternoon kiddie roundup, I called RJA to have the usual "what do you want for dinner" conversation, and he let me know there were rumblings of another monkey convergence underway. Being generally too foolish to know when I should be afraid, I said it sounded like fun, provided we could sit outside somewhere fairly close to home. A couple of hours later, we were all on our way to Bosco's. He dropped me off with all four kids to go "park the car," as if I didn't know that meant "make a break for it." I walked up toward the spacious deck with my brood in tow to the usual stares and expressions of incredulity that one medium-sizish woman can have this many kids. What, like it's hard? Anyway, we wound our way around through the restaurant and out onto the deck, where everyone else was already seated at the long table. I was a little bit confused by the chair distribution, since the remaining empty seats were scattered seemingly at random. It was like trying to get six seats together in a sold-out movie two minutes before the previews start. Nevertheless, I managed to get us all arranged with a spot left for Big Daddy (right next to Stephanie – see, maybe not so random? – Andria), who miraculously appeared a few minutes later. Sucker. I would have run for it.

RJA:
Who makes plans to eat for 16 – nine kids, mind you – 90 minutes before dinner time? Someone without kids, you say? Try again. Try someone with two monkeys of her own. How do you decline such an offer? How does one back out gracefully because there’s not enough time, not enough money, too many people, not enough energy or, still, enough money? You can’t. Once these things start, you can’t stop them. Dinner plans pack a force of their own and they won’t be stopped. And why wouldn’t you want to be part of a Monkey Convergence? To see what restaurants are made of, see just how much other diners will put up with. This Convergence promised to be bigger and better than the original.

I was told the reservations were for six o’clock. I was told wrong. After leaving work and collecting my family from home in record time we were called and chastised for being late. [My “chastisement went, “Hey, are y’all getting close?”--ed] It was just now six. As Overton Square continues its decline into ghost town status, Bosco’s is increasingly the place to eat and drink and be seen in Midtown. Because of this demand, the parking is out of control, so I dropped Kristy and The Quartet off at the door while I searched for a spot, which turned out to be in front of Oster Castle. As I walked back, I slowed. I considered. Kristy had the kids and I was just trusted to show up? There were going to be five other kids there besides mine, for God’s sake, why would I voluntarily show up for that? I was walking past the movie theater. Look, Little Miss Sunshine. I’d like to see that. It would be over about the time that raucous dinner is breaking up. They wouldn’t even miss me. I walked on. Paulette’s, isn’t there a bar in there? I could sit there, quietly, alone with my thoughts and a gin and tonic. Maybe I’ll even show up at the end of dinner to pay the tab. And yet I continued walking until I ended up right there on the patio of Bosco’s, passing through a field of pretty people as if in slow motion, heading for what appeared to be the lunchroom at any ordinary elementary school or daycare, with beer.

Warren:
In true ranger fashion, Satchel came with all the survival gear to outlast the foreseeable boredom in the event. Fortunately, our serviceperson Greg T. Bosco and his square-yet-hip-specs came to work needing to make some good tip money this night and was on a self-imposed tight schedule. The same cannot be said for the glacial arrival of the Alleys—one would presume a teacher and a business owner would know a thing or two about punctuality. Once the Alleys pulled into port, the convergence was complete, save for the noticeable absence of The Admiral, who was probably at the Salty Dog Saloon patting himself on the back for his ingenuity at getting out of this convergence.

As the seating arrangement worked out, I ended up anchoring down at the children’s corner, also referred to as Exile Island. I wasn’t complaining though—in our little corner I was the lord of the flies—besides, I could’ve been seated a few places down at the Korova Milk Bar with Steph’s and Kristy’s cute little droogs; or between Jiro and Stacey, who as soon as the beer came, gave Jiro a small taste of the beverage then for the rest of dinner, wrestled with him over it like two barflies over dregs in a Bukowski novel. I had to wear my freak blinders though, as I was seated across from the paraphagus twins Andria and Miss M—it was bad enough sitting next to them at Pete & Sam’s during the last convergence. Imagine my surprise and embarrassment when, ten minutes later, I learned they weren’t Siamese twins after Miss M “disjoined” from Andria to join S on Exile Island.

Andria:
As the last arrival at the first MC, I knew that I better be on time or face the not-so-silent wrath of the multi-breeders. It wasn’t really that big a deal, but the Alleys’ accidental and not all that noticeable delay did give us something to talk about while watching Stacey try to release her beer from Jiro. Man, does that kid love him some Flaming Stone! In a totally reasonable, non-authority-alarming amount, of course. Fortunately, the rest of the children seemed to be appeased by more age-appropriate diversions, like Satchel's backpack o' goodies (why Stacey is opposed to props, I have no earthly idea, but it’s probably related to her incomprehensible bias against portable DVD players on 12+ hour car rides).

Apparently I taunted the Monkey gods with my well-behaved child at the last convergence, so I was punished for my hubris with a seat in the pre-school section. There was an invisible yet clearly defined line right down the center of the table - on my right were the Chockleys and their almost disturbingly calm children, as well as the Alley adults and their laid-back bookends, C and GK.

But then on my left ... oh, my left. First, my own child, squeezed unwillingly into a high chair but willing to suffer the indignity if it meant she could sit next to S and devise their devious princess plots. Next to S were JP and Satchel, also united in some sort of covert fraternity of mayhem. Stacey and Warren were anchoring the corner opposite me, although I generally only saw the backs of their heads as they were turned around trying to detach Jiro from the deck's upper railing. Somewhere off in the distance, I could hear the sound of adult conversation, but the only words I could really pick out were Stacey's as she gently informed the waiter, "We're ready. To order. Now."

Kristy:
Being Stacey's [actually, Warren’s—ed] offspring, Satchel was well prepared for delays with a fun-filled bag of distractions. Being my offspring, S quickly insinuated herself in the middle of the fun end of the table and got to coloring. Why plan when other people do such a good job of it? She and JP stayed down at that end of the table, having a great time with Satchel and Miss M, and leaving me at the other end with only GK cradled serenely in her sling and C feeling and acting very grown up in the seat next to me. Only two kids! It was like a vacation.

Chip:
Stacey and I tried our best to keep Connor and Jiro occupied and happy while simultaneously maintaining some semblance of adult conversation. I think I heard the threatening words "you want to go home?" a few times. Didn't work though—Jiro just flashed that maniacal grin and continued his quest to stage dive off the patio onto the parking lot.

Connor kept saying, "Daddy, I want my brefast now." The kid has some kind of mental block about naming the meals of the day. Eventually, the food did arrive, and not a moment too soon—the parents' grip on keeping the monkeys happy was getting alarmingly precarious.

I love watching Connor cope with kids younger than he is trying to snatch his stuff. He turns on the "teacher mode," but in a real timid, uncomfortable way. This was the scene as Jiro was grabbing his crayons. And everything else in his vicinity. Connor said "Jiro... please don't hit me." I mean really, look out for Jiro when he gets a beer buzz on.

Stacey:
I’d like to interrupt the unbridled slandering of my second born to point out that despite my pleasant request to get the orders rolling, our waiter, Greg T. (according to the receipt), did an amazing job. No one wanted for water or beer or wine. Greg T. was on the ball. When it came to ordering, he didn’t need me making suggestions on how to keep it straight. He had his own system. Not once did I see him break a sweat, give us a dirty look, or do anything to imply that we were complete assholes for bringing a pack of wild monkeys to his very busy section. He even happily took a photo of us at my request. If he had a blog, he’d be the perfect man!

(Main Course)

Stephanie:
Let’s talk about the food at Bosco’s. This is a restaurant review, right? Well, let me just say how impressed I was with the children’s menu. Macaroni & cheese with fries? Fruit with fries? Brilliant! It’s like someone at Bosco’s came to my house and watched me feed my kid for a week. I was actually disappointed that the children’s pizzas weren’t offered with fries. In fact, what every restaurant should do is make a list of children’s food items and then let you pick the ones your child might eat on that particular day. “Ah, yes, we’d like the children’s plate with fries, noodles, and a cheese quesadilla. Extra ketchup, please! And M&Ms for dessert will be fine. Thank you very much.” Since I had already been informed that Connor would NOT be eating chicken nuggets this fine evening, we got the aforementioned mac & cheese and fruit plates. As you can guess, this means he had two orders of fries for dinner. I can’t really blame him, though. The fruit was all cantaloupe and honeydew. (Throw me a bone! Get an orange slice from the bar garnish tray or something- not melons only!) The macaroni was definitely, unmistakably Kraft. (Kind of disappointing when you’re paying $4 a plate.) Connor didn’t care, though. He was just happy to be at a restaurant, and excited to be around so many new people. (I think that’s what kept him calm—he gets a little overwhelmed when confronted with a new situation, and tends to sit back and take it all in before jumping in with both feet.)



Chip:
Yes, I guess I should mention something about my food. After all, I had the gall to get fish tacos at a brewpub/pizza joint. It was ahi tuna, with some sort of pico de gallo, with a smoky sour cream sauce. The "shell" was actually a crispy wonton. The tuna was very fresh, and the whole thing worked well. My questionable culinary choice was vindicated.

Kristy:
As Steph pointed out, the kids’ menu at Bosco's is sheer genius. I ordered the fruit-and-fries combo for S, and small cheese pizzas for each of the boys. GK still eats free at the 24-hour milk bar. I had the Pollo Diablo pizza, which was a little more diablo-ish than I expected, but was nevertheless very good. Its ability to be eaten one-handedly with little mess was also a plus. As we waited for our food and then ate, the Chockleys and I had a lovely conversation on such topics as old and mutual acquaintances, the lack of clearly defined tasks and sense of productivity inherent to the teaching profession, whether Vincent Van Gogh was an impressionist or something else (C's question), how funny it would have been if they had named their son Brock Lee ("Broccoli Chockley"), GK's crazy mohawk-prone hair, and more. This was accomplished by virtue of the fact that both Steph and I talk more than most of you ever imagined possible. That, and the fact that I left whatever adults happened to be nearest them to deal with any issues S and JP might be having way down at their end of the table.

Andria:
Oh, don’t worry about us! Everything’s fine down here! No problems at all! Hey, can I get a towel? No, a bigger one. Maybe two? Greg? Where’s Greg?

Stacey:
I had a hard time deciding what to order since I love so many things on the Bosco’s menu, especially the spinach and artichoke dip, fried chicken salad, ahi tuna salad, and the California pizza. When it was my turn to order (30 minutes after being seated thanks to RJA—a.k.a. “the funniest blogger ever”), I went with the special Jerk Chicken pizza. I don’t remember it being especially yummy, but I also don’t remember leaving any on my plate. Satchel said he wanted chicken tenders, but changed his order to pizza once he discovered that was what JP wanted. Jiro wanted pizza too, but I ordered him chicken tenders in an attempt to be one step ahead of the game when Satchel decided that he really did want chicken after all. (In the end, Jiro was perfectly content to eat French fries and a part of one tender and Satchel didn’t stop talking long enough to eat anything.)

Warren:
As an appreciator of fusion cuisine (the hybridization of Southern died & fried with Yankee savoir faire, a.k.a. hoi polloi-hoity toity cuisine), I ordered the Blackened Grouper Sandwich, described on the menu as “grouper filet dredged in Cajun spices & blackened, served on hoagie with shredded lettuce, tomato & remoulade sauce.” And despite 1) being on a low-cholesterol diet and 2) Greg T. being stumped by my question on what kind of oil they fried their fries in, I ordered the side of fries instead of the health conscious side of fruit. What the hell and who am I kidding—for the extra 75-cents I went for the garlic and parmesan-smothered fries. There would be no rocking the rafters at Oster Castle tonight.

Satchel switched his order from the chicken tenders to the pepperoni pizza after his dinner date, JP, ordered the cheese pizza. While waiting for the food to arrive, the monkeys (Satchel, JP, Miss M, and S) colored and chatted away. Satchel and JP discussed their Halloween plans while coloring in an X-men coloring book (JP will be borrowing Satchel’s Spiderman suit), and post-dinner playground plans (Satchel red cobra ninja and JP green cobra ninja will be taking over the playground by climbing up the top of the tunnel slide and shooting fire down it). I was casually informed by the cobra ninjas that JP would be riding with us to the playground in Mommy’s car and would be needing the extra booster chair from my vehicle. Meanwhile, Jiro would take the occasional break from beating on…err playing with…Connor, and vault over to the corner to grab crayons, or whatever object some other monkey was playing with, or to spill someone else’s water, or to try and confiscate my beer. We had just come up with the secret cobra ninja handshake when the arrival of the meal was announced…

Satchel’s pepperoni pizza was literally a pepperoni pizza: a 6-inch pie with a 4-inch bologna-size slice of pepperoni with puddles of red grease on top. Fresh out of the oven, it was too hot to eat. While it cooled, always eager to expand the children’s gustatory vocabulary, I offered my posse a taste of my pungent fries. “Satchel, JP…would you like some garlic fries?” (Satchel is more into the idea of garlic, rather than the actual eating of it.) He interrupts JP’s cheese pizza with a garlic fry in his face, “Hey J, Hey J, Hey J, when you eat garlic you can kill vampires by spitting poison ivy in their eyes.”

Jiro’s chicken strips and fries, ordered off the kids’ menu, was enough to feed a grown-up Jiro. I’m sure if he had an ice cold beer to wash it all down with, he could have managed to make a happy plate. Hmmm I wonder if Bosco’s has non-alcoholic beer on the menu?

Andria:
I have a feeling that giving Jiro near-beer would result in the same unplanned glass emptying (“spill” is such a blamey word) that happened to his water, made just a teence more bothersome by the open iron-work of the patio tables (glad I was in a skirt and $18 shoes). [I thought the grate was awesome. It prevented the water from rolling all over the numerous coloring books and electronic devices!--ed] Out of self-preserving habit, I consumed my California pizza in 14 seconds and prepared myself to start the “please, please eat your dinner” song and dance for Miss M, but she was actually eating her grilled cheese and fries with surprising speed and enthusiasm. So I was left alone with my empty plate, trying in vain to jump into the adult conversation swirling to my right while still keeping a vigilant eye on the refueled monkeys. S and Miss M started playing Blue’s Clues with ripped-out pages of my date book, although I don’t remember our good friend Steve ever darting out in front of busy servers in order to find clues.

RJA:
The advantage to adding families to the Monkey Convergence is that the table gets longer, thus increasing the chances that you will be distanced from your progeny…or Jiro. I didn’t plan the seating arrangement and I don’t know that it was planned, but I was seated at the far end from the Kids Corner, between Mrs. Chockleyblog, whom I’d never met before, and Kristy. Now, Kristy can talk, there’s no debate, so to speak, there. It’s like an Olympic event for her. This is no surprise. It’s no great shock to her that I’m writing this here. In the 19 years we’ve been together I’ve actually heard about 14 years worth of what she’s said simply because my brain couldn’t hold the rest. And I’ve never met anyone who could match her devotion to the spoken word. That is, until I met Mrs. Chockleyblog (who was wearing wool pants in the 90-degree heat for some reason). So these two talked…and talked…and talked, and the kids, the noisy ones anyway, were at the opposite end of the table. I was left to enjoy my beer, the food and the occasional conversational snippets with Mr. Chockleyblog when our wives were taking in air. (Turns out he’s as big a fan as I am of Harry’s cooking over at Elliot’s Restaurant on South Second downtown – try it for lunch!) I had something Italian-like for supper this evening. It was deemed Italian due to the presence of red sauce, some pasta and a pound or more of cheese melted on top. The beer was good, though. Some sort of lager. I wish I’d ordered one of the pizzas. They looked good.

The scene at the other end of the table was entertaining, being that it was at the other end of the table. And with the way I was wedged in between the table and the patio railing there is no way anyone – other parents, diners or, ultimately the State of Tennessee – could hold me responsible for stopping anyone from getting hurt or from injuring anyone else. It looked like arts and crafts hour at Camp Oster-Greenberg-Cline down there with all the crayons and paper. Jiro got so close to a prison break by going over the railing a couple of times that I actually started rooting for the little guy. I don’t think he would have had a hard time out there in the real world on his own, he was almost within sight of his own house and Yosemite Sam’s is right next door, I hear they’re good with kids. Andria’s placement at the kid’s table should teach her for the next convergence what happens when you don’t pressure your spouse into coming along, and when you insist on only having one child. Next time, perhaps, I’ll volunteer to sit with the kids, to conduct the coloring and handle the ordering and expected spills. But, more than likely, I’ll drop my family off and go see that movie instead.

(Dessert)

Andria:
There’s a reason the monkey convergences come together less than two hours before mealtime. We all know that’s the most dangerous time of the day – we’re hungry, tired, and lacking creative cooking ideas. Plus the kids are operating on some alien plane, and the tiny voice in our head says, “Hey, maybe they’ll act better around other kids. Or at least no one will notice mine specifically.” In that brief period of the day, we’re desperate enough to slog out to a public place and risk massive humiliation and/or property damage, just for the chance to talk to some other adults and maybe, just maybe, eat a full meal in one sitting. And because all parents are gamblers at heart, we couldn’t just quit after the stunning success of the first convergence. Now that we know it’s possible for ludicrously large numbers of children and substantially outnumbered parents to enjoy an evening together, we’re hooked. And we want you to be, too. Don’t be afraid, people. Get out there and converge! And when you do, be sure to stare at the quiet, childless people with a look of barely contained disgust – I mean, who do they think they are, making the wait staff run all over for their tiny little orders? Isn’t that what Hot Pockets are for?

Ahem. Anyway. On to the dramatic conclusion of Monkey Convergence Part Deux …

Warren:
Towards the end of the convergence, things quickly began to discombobulate. Though their bellies seemed full, the monkeys were still hungry for adventure. For most of the monkeys this involved climbing the deck railing (my backrest) and leaning out over the hard asphalt several feet below. For Jiro, the time was right to make his escape, and he rushed to find a way out, dodging in between other tables and using other diners on the patio as human shields to block the grasp of his embarrassed daddy. Of course I would tell these bemused diners (all the while pointing in the direction of RJA and Chip), I was only the uncle and that I was appalled at Jiro’s behavior.

Stephanie:
I can’t let this review end without pointing out that Warren sat at one corner of the table, RJA at the opposite corner, and Andria in the middle, yet they all complained about being in the kids section. There were nine of them and seven of us. It was all the kids’ section! (Much to the delight of everyone on the patio, I’m sure.) There’s a chance this meal reinforced our decision to stop after two kids. I would be scared to live in a house where the adults are always outnumbered and every meal is a monkey convergence.

Team Chockley was honored to be a part of MC2: Electric Boogaloo. It was fun to be around other adults, and the extra kids kept Connor occupied enough that he didn’t bolt out of his chair, continually interrupt if I dared speak to someone besides him, or even ask to go pee. [Not a single one of the nine monkeys ever once went to the bathroom! (Except maybe GK, but that doesn’t count.) How is that possible? –ed] I’m so looking forward to MC Episode III- Revenge of the Monkeys that I came to work today in machine-washable pants and a casual shirt, just in case. Anybody free tonight? Central Barbeque has a great patio. . .

Chip:
So yes, we proclaim Bosco’s to be a kid-friendly restaurant. This is evidenced by a separate kid’s menu, where all items are served with a side of fries (except the pizzas) and a willingness to accept otherwise socially unacceptable behavior. It’s adult-friendly too, due to the great beer, good food, and cool patio.
Did we really just spend more time writing about this dining experience than it took to actually live it?

RJA:
Dining With Monkeys has become more than just going out with our children and writing about the funny things that they do. It’s about going out with friends, and writing about the funny things they do. Like Chip, for instance. After dinner we all decided to meet up at Peabody Park so the monkeys could run wild and get themselves hungry enough for whatever food they may demand be prepared for them at bedtime. Chip, however, went to the wrong park. Or he claimed to, but I still maintain he got caught trying to escape. Apparently the Chockleyblogs travel in different vehicles, much like the President and Vice President. We would do that, but I would probably insist Kristy take The Cabinet (or, Quartet) with her. At the park the kids ran and ran and swung and argued over the ball that Andria was hogging. We stayed until it was too dark to see and, for fear of the homeless who come out of the woods at night and eat little monkeys, we called it a night. The Quartet was good and tired and (mostly) ready for bed when we got home. It was a fun night had by all and I’m looking forward to the next Monkey Convergence. I propose Warren, Chip and I ride to the restaurant together. We’ll meet the rest of the group there. I promise.

Stacey:
That’s right, folks, a one hour meal only took the seven of us seven days (and counting) to review. But, to me, that’s all part of the fun.

Every few months, it seems I find this blog in a new state. I started it off to complain freely about poor service. Then when going out to eat became fun again, I used it to record the mayhem my monkeys caused. Now it seems I use this blog to build community—a community of like-minded, hungry, and adventurous breeders.

McAllister's

After numerous threats of bodily harm, RJA has come through with another hilarious review.

McAllister’s
Poplar Plaza

Normally I wouldn’t even take the time to review a place like McAllister’s. It’s akin to reviewing an Applebee’s or Friday’s or Burger King, as far as I’m concerned. I’m a firm believer in supporting the small business. As a small business owner myself, it’s something I wish others took to heart as much as I. There are times I think I may go overboard, because when we go to the Ma & Pa restaurants, at some point during the evening, The Quartet will start playing with napkins or straws or toothpicks, and it’s then that they get my lecture on how everything in there costs somebody money. “Even though they’re free to you, doesn’t mean they were free to the owner of this business. Now put that napkin down and wipe your mouth on your brother’s shirt, it’s his turn.” And I normally wouldn’t even choose to eat at a McAllister’s as I find the food incredibly mediocre and don’t understand all the fuss about the sweet tea, but McAllister whispered those three little words to me that everyone wants to hear, every parent of four, anyway: Kids Eat Free. Or don’t eat, as far as my kids are concerned, what the hell do I care? I didn’t pay for it.

Kristy had to work that evening so I had The Quartet all to myself. Because you can’t discern inflection over the internet, let me clarify that I’m not saying that in the tone of “I had the TV all to myself” but more like “I had the stomach flu all to myself.” These kids are good up to a point, and apparently that point is about 6:15, while standing in line at a McAllister’s to order dinner. Since Admiral Jeff had to work as well, Andria and M joined us for an impromptu playdate. Either that or it was the most poorly planned extramarital affair ever.

It all began while in line to order, and it all began with JP. JP. Where did we go wrong? This child used to be my quiet one. He could sit still, quietly taking in everything going on around him without even a peep. He’s gone through some sort of change, though, and the reason is hard to discern. Flying too close to the yellow sun of Earth? Not likely. Gamma rays? Hardly. All the sugar he’s consumed daily over the last five years finally catching up to him? Possibly. All I know is he’s uncontrollable with his gleeful screams and his herky-jerky, Tourette’s-like movements. And there it was, on full display for all of McAllister’s to see. So I held GK, still quiet and still in her car seat/carrier-thing, while holding JP by one hand and trying to take drink orders and simultaneously give our order for dinner. The bright side is I think the teenager behind the counter took pity on me and gave me three kids’ meals free instead of the stated two-per-paying-adult limit. At least I think that was pity in her eyes. It could have been fear. Either way they were all free and it should keep that young lady in the practice of safe sex. One thing about the Poplar Plaza McAllister’s is that, even though there’s no real service in the sense of waitresses or bartenders, the help there is very helpful. I had assistance carrying our drinks to the table (the help I brought with me was decidedly unhelpful) and she was quick to point out the high chairs.

Once on the patio, S immediately refused to eat her turkey sandwich. And then she ate her turkey sandwich. JP ate his PB&J between fits and ticks and jubilant screams. C ate a turkey & cheese sandwich. They then decided it was time to play school. I have never seen these children play school. Why would they decide to organize playtime like this while on the patio of a restaurant? To make my head explode, that’s why. They rearranged their chairs to more of a schoolroom feel, not realizing (or caring) that they included two adjacent diners into their classroom. They took turns being the teacher, which meant standing up on the ledge of the giant front window and yelling out instructions to the others. Apparently these instructions included running to the other side of the patio and, for JP anyway, doing some sort of frenetic modern dance.

M looked on in awe. I’ve heard M can terrorize a Gus’s Fried Chicken or a Pei-Wei well enough in her own right, but she watched The Quartet like a Mormon at her first Rolling Stones concert – a little admiration and a little bit of fear. Andria ate her dinner, completely unaware of the mischief at hand, the words playing over and over in her head inaudible, yet completely readable on her face: “Not my kids. Not my kids. Not my kids.”

As usual, dinner ended with me vowing never to return…until next Tuesday, because, after all, kids do eat free.

Andria also reviewed McAllister's awhile back. Read her review here.

Elliot's

Looks as though RJA's kids might be monkeys after all.

Elliot’s
16 South Second Street
525.4895

Kristy went back to work yesterday and the three older kids start school next week, which means I’m stuck with them this week. But you can read more about that disaster over at Urf! I’m here to tell you about the mistake of taking them to work with me yesterday and inflicting them on the unsuspecting patrons of Elliot’s Restaurant in beautiful Downtown Memphis. I’m not really going to spend a lot of time on the food at Elliot’s because Elliot’s is what it is – a hamburger joint. Don’t get me wrong, it’s the best hamburger joint Downtown and, yes, I’ve been to McHuey’s plenty of times. Elliot’s is consistent and Harry, who many of you may remember from the Kwik-Chek on Madison (yes, that Harry) is a friend of mine who will occasionally prepare items for me that aren’t on the menu, like crab rangoon, or grilled chicken sandwiches with a special New Mexico chile sauce that another customer brought him, or a burger on Texas toast with same chile sauce. He also has some sandwiches on his menu reminiscent of the Kwik-Chek, like my favorite, the Santa Fe (I always get it with an Orange Crush) wrap, and the Miss Dixie chicken sandwich or the Rigonati, though I forget now what’s on that or how to even spell it. It’s all delicious, so support Harry, won’t you? He’s good people.

Anyway, this day I got a smoked cheddar cheeseburger with everything on it, though I forgot to ask for everything on it, so I got a cheeseburger and had to dress it myself, which isn’t a big deal. C got a burger with nothing on it because that’s as fancy as C gets. For JP and S, fries. Just French fries, though they were the big steak fries, if that improves my poor parenting at all. Aunt Elizabeth went with us and I’m pretty sure she got a cheeseburger as well. Beverages: Orange Crush, lemonade, Sprite, apple juice, Diet Coke.

These kids were an anomaly in Elliot’s with its suited clientele from Guardsmark, First Tennessee and Sun Trust Bank. The atmosphere is in no way fancy, more of a very large diner, so maybe the suited ones are the anomalies. Nevertheless, my kids did not disappoint and used the booth and brass handrail that runs the length of the space, and sections off the ordering line, as their very own playground. They pinched and pulled, punched and yelled, all the while diving underneath the table and the handrail. I, as usual, implored them to stop and eat, because, naturally, I’m concerned for their nutrition. My entreaties fell on deaf ears. Finally, to get her attention, I poked (I did not stab) S with a plastic (not a metal) fork to get her attention. What I expected was a surprised, wide-eyed stare that would give me enough of a window of silence to ask her to behave. What I got was a scream: “You poked me with a fork!” And then I crossed what may have been another moral line and blamed it on her brother. But then Harry brought out some fried peaches (not on the menu), which Elizabeth and I shared, and which we both agreed could have been really good coming from another grill, but as it was they tasted like burger.

I rounded up the kids and marched them back up Second Street and across Madison (Elizabeth scooped up S as a trolley was approaching. Who let her wear flip-flops Downtown?) and back to work, where they had chocolate milk and cookies to complement their fries.

Pete & Sam's

Here's RJA's review for your reading pleasure.

Pete & Sam's Restaurant
3886 Park Avenue
458-0694

Monkey Convergence was on. It was on like a dare, like a double-dog dare. “You don’t want any part of my kids in a restaurant.”
“Your kids don’t scare me. Have you met my kids?”
“Your kids? Have you met my savages?”
“My kids bite and are very likely rabid.”

And so on.

But where to go? My sister and brother-in-law, for years, have come over to our house for dinner on Thursday nights…well, not last week…or the week before now that I think about it. Okay, they used to come over for dinner regularly, and it was inevitable that the first half hour to 45 minutes would be spent in this sort of conversation:

“What do you want to eat?”
“I don’t know, what do you want?”
“I don’t care, I’ll eat anything.”
“Sandwiches?”
“Nah.”

And so on.

So add another couple into that mix, along with seven kids, and all the time in the world to plan the thing. Or so we thought. We’d agreed on last Friday night as the night, but at 5:30 we were still bouncing E-mails all over Memphis trying to agree on where exactly to eat. We almost went to Jasmine, in Cooper-Young. Even got so far as a reservation. But then a last-minute objection by Kristy put us at our alternate location, Pete & Sam’s. And I’m glad it did (as are the good people at Jasmine, no doubt).

We all met at Pete & Sam’s – Stacey & Warren with Satchel & Jiro, Kristy & me with The Quartet, yet somehow Guest Blogger Andria & Admiral Jeff got away without bringing a kid. Let me say this before any sort of review begins – you’ve all been reading Dining With Monkeys since way back in December ’05, but how many of you actually get the chance to dine with The Monkeys? Well, let me tell you then, it’s all true. Everything you’ve read. These kids are out of control, they’re under the table, they’re on top of the table, they’re hanging from light fixtures and using the potted plants for toilets. Meanwhile, their parents just laugh at each other’s filthy jokes, oblivious to everything except their tumblers full of Tom Collinses.

I’m joking, of course. The Monkeys are delightful, as were all the children present (why didn’t Guest Blogger Andria and The Admiral bring a kid?), they were just curious and friendly and a bit overzealous about things like bread and butter and digital cameras. This evening was a sort of competition, and I don’t mean to find out whose children are the most well-behaved, but just the opposite, a more twisted contest like who’s got the ugliest dog or the fattest girlfriend. Stacey insists Satchel & Jiro are truly simian and that my spawn are directly descended from the von Trapps. Dining With Monkeys is a lot more entertaining if the kids are a bit on the wild side, it’s true, and none of them disappointed this time. Jiro was the evening’s photographer, not necessarily because he’s good at it, but because he turns into the Hulk when he’s not allowed to play with the camera. And do you remember how annoying it is as a kid when your classmate across the lunch table starts copying you?

“I love Jungle Juice.”
“I love Jungle Juice.”
“Are you copying me?”
“Are you copying me?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop it.”

And so on.

C and JP started this little game up just after we were seated, but this time it was mutual. C would do something and then JP would ape him and it was all in my peripheral vision, all of this herky-jerky movement. It was the most irritating thing that happened all day for some reason. At one point C was eating bread off his plate without his hands and, naturally, JP followed. S spent a lot of time under the table when she wasn’t walking from one end of it to the other like some sort of midget food sentry.

The food was good. I ate the veal scallopini with a side of ravioli and spinach and, for some reason, I was the only one drinking beer. Curious. I thought the veal was very tender and tasty and I was really surprised by how good the gravy was. I have a habit, which is probably irritating in its own right, of comparing all Italian food to my own family’s, and this was very good. I let C taste some ravioli and he thought it toothsome as well, though he did say that ours is better. That’s my boy. Speaking of C, he went with the cheese pizza, as did JP, if you can imagine that. S ignored a side of ravioli – there was just too much going on under the table and at the other end of it, apparently. GK slept the evening away, lulled by the shadowy, paneled interior, and the sultry sounds of Dean Martin wafting throughout this old-world family restaurant.

Family restaurant is just how Pete & Sam’s should be described. It’s family-owned and there were obviously a lot of families gathered this evening. What I really liked about it is that as we were sitting there with our friends and their kids, and our kids, it reminded me of dinner at my great-grandparents’ house when I was young. The Zanones could put on a dinner like nobody else. It wasn’t just the food, though, which was exemplary, but the atmosphere of generations coming together for one common purpose – to eat. I realized something else at this dinner, as well, and that is that my hesitancy to take The Quartet out to eat is not so much about what they do that might disrupt the restaurant and piss off nearby patrons, but what they do that irritates me. So what I learned about myself is that I need to understand that kids will be kids and I can’t expect them to stop their games and impulsive movements just because we’re in a different location. As long as no one is throwing cutlery or actually using the potted plant as a toilet, then it’s cool. I should be cool.

Eating with these people, with our family by proxy, was more than just fun and entertaining, it was a night of realization for me. The final one came at the end of the dinner, just as we were passing around checks, collecting Hot Wheels cars and discussing whether or not there was time for a trip to Peabody Park, when across the table what did I see but two little eyes peering over the edge of the table from Guest Blogger Andria’s lap. Apparently they had their very own kid the whole time.

See more Pete & Sam's Monkey Convergence reviews by Andria, Kristy, and Stacey.

Old Venice

RJA took his crew to Old Venice, a restaurant that was suggested to me by a coworker who read an article that said it was "family friendly." Warren and I actually tried to eat there, but once we peered in the window and saw the extreme fanciness, we put the monkeys back in their carseats and drove away as fast as we could. I was glad to see that RJA also hesitated when he saw the interior, but as you will see, he is braver than me. (Probably because his kids are a lot better behaved than the monkeys.)

I'd also like to add that RJA's sister (a.k.a. Moxie Dynamite") is on my Roller Derby team and missed their regularly scheduled family dinner at home due to a meeting I scheduled. It was a win-win situation for me since I got to hang with RJA's cool sister and get a restaurant review!

Without further ado, here it is:

Old Venice
368 Perkins Ext.
767-6872

Every Thursday night, for many years now, has been dinner night with my sister and her husband. We all look forward to it, especially The Quartet, but sometimes they cancel on us, as they did tonight. I suggested we go out somewhere and Kristy offered up Dino’s Southwestern Grill, where we’ve been eating for about 15 years. The kids love Dino’s and were very excited, none more than JP, who doesn’t even really like food. After 15 years of eating at the same place you’d think we’d remember that they close the week of July 4th for vacation, EVERY year. We drove by, saw the closed sign, and just kept on going. We had talked about going to Davis-Kidd Booksellers after dinner, so I suggested Old Venice, which is across the street. This was all very last minute for the kids, but the promise of pizza soothed their apprehension and we drove way out to East Memphis.

Imagine the horror on my face when we walked into this place we’d never been before only to see white tablecloths. The pre-teen girls working as hostesses had the same look of horror on their faces as if to say, “Why have you brought these four little people into our restaurant to eat off of our pristine, white tablecloths?” On the way to our table I scanned the room for any sign of casualness, relieved finally to see people in T-shirts, shorts, flip-flops and even baseball caps. Apparently this place was more casual than was first threatened. We were seated in a far back corner at a round table that wouldn’t fit in our kitchen even if we took the leaf out, assuming there was a leaf under the pristine, white tablecloth. With the kids sitting across the table, we had to shout to be heard, which we would have done anyway just out of habit. Several things happened all at once after being seated: First, we noticed how very cold it was in the restaurant. That is, the kids noticed, and let us know many times just how cold it was. C and JP sat in their seats with their bare legs pulled up into their T-shirts. S just sat there saying, “It’s cold. It’s cold. It’s cold.” Kristy suggested asking to be moved to a table on the patio – the intimate, quiet patio – but I really don’t like moving once seated. I don’t want other diners thinking we’re the pain-in-the-ass table, no matter how true it may be. After S’s medley of It’s colds, she started in with “What can I eat? What can I eat? What can I eat?” while Kristy and I tackled the extensive menu to find just what we could all eat. The other thing that happened just after being seated was I noticed a table across the room with kids as well, and then one of these kids fell out of his chair and the chair fell over, and I was happy to see it. I don’t want to see any child hurt, and he didn’t seem to be, but I wanted to shout, “My kid didn’t fall out of a chair! My kids are all still in their seats! It wasn’t mine!”

I ordered the Shrimp Pesto Calzone, Kristy had the personal Mona Lisa Pizza, JP and C had a cheese pizza and S had chicken fingers and fries. While we waited on the food to arrive the kids discovered crayons and commenced drawing on the pristine, white tablecloth that, thankfully, was covered with a giant sheet of butcher paper. C drew a particularly gory picture of one dinosaur eating the head off another, which put us in the mood for marinara. Then the food came. I thought the calzone was just okay, Kristy was unimpressed with her pizza, C and JP eat pizza six nights a week anyway, and S never had any intention of eating her dinner. As the food was placed on the table S announced she had to pee and, once she and Kristy left the table, GK woke up in her nightly foul mood. The kids finished their food in record time and implored us to leave. S decided that, instead of waiting for us to finish at the table, it would be better for her to wait three feet away, where she stood, waiting. JP, wielding silverware like a samurai, stood up on his chair until he was reminded that we were not at a playground. C hacked at his pizza with a spatula like Norman Bates. Then we left, and as I’ve written this I wished I’d taken notes, because it is that much of an unmemorable restaurant.

Eating at Old Venice was completely unplanned and, while I don’t mind being spontaneous in the least, I wasn’t prepared to spend as much as we ended up spending. And while I was in the mood for Dino’s spaghetti and ravioli, I was not in the mood for a calzone. Another unexpected event was when the woman who had been sitting at the table next to us went to leave but stopped first to tell us that our children were adorable and that she and her party had enjoyed watching them because they were so good. I had noticed her husband when we’d first been seated and how he kept stealing glances at the kids. I, paranoid, took it to mean he disapproved of us interrupting his white tablecloth, East Memphis dinner, and I was ready to put my fork in his eyeball if he kept staring at us. I guess I was wrong. Who knew?

Brother Juniper's

Guest blogger RJA seems to be establishing a pattern of taking his children who behave better than mine to restaurants and then writing better reviews of said restaurants than me. (Exhibit A, Exhibit B). That's fine, but until his children start eating more sugar or start acting crazy on their own accord, please do not refer to them as monkeys. They are on probation!

Brother Juniper’s College Inn
3519 Walker Avenue
324.0144

This weekend we found ourselves in the odd position of having only two of The Quartet with the other two spending the night at their grandparents’ house. So we decided to take JP and GK to a place we’d never taken kids before, Brother Juniper’s College Inn. Brother Juniper’s always seemed like a place that was not kid-friendly what with their mixture of older, childless neighborhood denizens and post-coital college students. In fact, I don’t recall ever having seen a kid there before. Kristy and I used to go before we had any kids and we’ve been a few times recently when we’ve both had mornings off and the kids were at school, but it has long been one of our favorite breakfast haunts.

I didn’t know what to expect as this was the first dining out experience for GK (at only two weeks old) and with Juniper’s being famous for their wait list. It was a Sunday, though, and I don’t know that we’d ever been there since they began opening on Sundays. This morning’s wait was no exception, however, and we had to stand outside for 10 minutes or so. A hostess/waitress offered us a table outside, where they have a beautiful garden, but it was already 90 degrees and I don’t eat eggs and drink coffee out in 90-degree weather. When we were finally seated, it was in the back room. Sitting in The Back Room of Brother Juniper’s feels like being relegated to the kids’ table at my great-grandmother’s house. It’s like waiting on a limo but a cab shows up instead. It’s like expecting the Rat Pack but getting just Peter Lawford. I just knew the front room was full of cool people, all laughing at those of us in The Back Room. It was all very high-school-cafeteria feeling. But one thing I did notice on our humiliating walk to The Back Room was all of the kids. They were everywhere, even in The Back Room.

The waiter, who has been there forever, and who I always imagine is a philosophy major at the University and, therefore, will always be a waiter at Brother Juniper’s, asked if we wanted to turn a high chair over to set GK’s car seat/carrier in. It’s nice when a waiter automatically knows this trick. He was quick to bring us waters, though with no lid on JP’s, and to get our drink orders, too. I drink my coffee the way coffee is meant to be drunk, black, which is also how I order it, yet he brought a mug with a spoon already in it. This is something small that bothers me, but it gives the appearance of the mug having been picked up off a table that was only recently vacated and not bussed.

I was in the mood for something light, something with fruit, but this is scarce at Juniper’s. Or I thought it was until after I ordered my Veggie Delight Omelet (chocked full of roasted red peppers, green onions and mushrooms) and noticed a Specials board promoting a Belgian waffle topped with fresh fruit. Next time I’ll get over my Back Room funk quickly enough to look around for things such as this. Kristy ordered the #3 – scrambled eggs with pesto, roasted red peppers and mozzarella – and enjoyed it immensely as she always does. For JP, bacon. GK is still on the breast. My omelet was a little flavorless, even with all of those ingredients, so I added some chipotle powder which was on the table and that helped to brighten it up. The home fries were good and crunchy, though Juniper’s is one of those restaurants that offers only the generic Red Gold catsup. The straun toast, as always, was delightful.

I said that I never suspected Juniper’s to be kid-friendly, but it turns out it is in spades, which probably shouldn’t be a surprise considering the owners, the Koplins, are parents themselves and their kids have grown up working around, and hanging out in, the restaurant. I don’t mean that they have a playland or anything, but I did see a waitress putting Legos off a table back into a bucket full of other toys. We didn’t get into the toy bucket but while Kristy and I ate (this next part is for Stacey) JP played happily with his utensils after eating his breakfast and GK slept peacefully the whole time, bored by her first restaurant experience. It’s good to know, however, that those toys are there.

Our favorite family breakfast place has always been Café Francisco in The Pinch District downtown, but I now have the courage – I think – to try taking The Quartet to Brother Juniper’s for a nice change. I only wish we could call ahead for reservations, or to warn them we’re all coming, anyway.

Don't forget to read my Brother Juniper's review

Cafe Ole

Another fine review, compliments of guest blogger RJA.

Cafe Ole
2127 Young Avenue
274-1504

Yesterday being Mother’s Day, it was Kristy’s choice of where to eat. It being in the low 70s and sunny, it only made sense to sit on a patio someplace. She chose Café Ole and what must be the nicest patio in all of Midtown. In the early 90s, when Café Ole first opened, and before we had kids, we would go with the express purpose of trying to empty that frozen margarita machine. We never did empty it, not that I remember anyway. Now that we have our little monkeys, dining there is a whole different dynamic.

Eating outside with kids is always a safe bet because there are things like birds and bugs to keep them entertained and no one is really worried about spillage. We began with drinks and sat around waiting while S decided what she would have – the waitress ended up going for everyone else’s drinks and coming back for the little princess’s beverage order. I had a couple of margaritas because I was the only one who was over 21 and not pregnant. They were every bit as good as I remember. The menu at Café Ole has not changed at all in the 15 or so years I’ve been going there, which is unfortunate. Not that the food is bad, but I’ve had EVERYTHING on the menu. We started with white cheese dip which S and C dug into until it was all gone; JP loves the chips, but with no dip. I went with the Monterey, a vegetarian dish, which was good in the way that all of the other menu items are good. Much like Taco Bell, no matter what I order, it all tastes the same to me. Kristy had the Acapulco, which she devoured, later complaining of being overstuffed. S didn’t eat a soft taco, so C ate his and hers. JP, in typical fashion, had a basket of fries.

The Trio, for the most part, behaved themselves. Whether it was some sort of subtle Mother’s Day gift, or whether the tequila consumed those many years ago by their parents at this very establishment has worked its way into their bloodstreams, mellowing them out on pleasant Sundays such as this, I just don’t know. Only S refused her food and one out of three ain’t bad at all. The boys did start to get antsy there towards the end of lunch and since they were outside already it only seemed natural to get up and start exploring the area around our table and testing its usefulness as a jungle gym. But by then it was time to go and the whole experience had been a good one instead of its usual tolerable one. The waitress was very good and very patient as she waited for S to make decisions and dodged the boys. All kids’ drinks were brought out in Styrofoam cups with lids without asking, and she wished Kristy a Happy Mother’s Day as we were leaving.

Café Ole has really done a nice job with the patio, adding a raised deck at one end with a pergola covering it and sturdier plastic chairs than I remember from the last time. There are several large shade trees so I can see this being a regular stop this summer, even with our Memphis heat. And with the summer heat and humidity, maybe I’ll be able to make a dent in that frozen margarita machine.

Soul Fish Cafe

Last week, I put a shout out for guest bloggers to help me add to the frequency of posts on this site since I only have the (strength and) money to dine with my monkeys about once a week.

Within hours, RJA, who authors Urf!, came forward with an entertaining story about ordering pizza for his wife and trio of monkeys. He lamented that the only restaurant he had been to of late was the Soul Fish Cafe, which had already been reviewed here. I told him that I didn't mind getting another perspective, and I'm glad I did.

Here's RJA's review:

Soul Fish Café
862 S. Cooper
725-0722

Soul Fish Café may be the loudest dinner experience I’ve ever had, and I once took a bag full of Taco Bell to a show at The Antenna Club. This restaurant is a concrete bunker on Cooper Avenue in the Cooper-Young neighborhood. We’ve ordered out from here on a couple of occasions but this was my first experience on the inside. We all went—me, Kristy and our three monkeys—with my sister and her husband, so we had a couple of tables pulled together to make one large one near the bar. We got in early enough that the crowd was still sparse, but halfway through the meal it filled up so that there was a wait. And it filled up with kids. It looked like a daycare in there. And it was loud. Did I say it was loud?

I had the Memphis Po Boy which is a pulled pork sandwich with bacon and barbecue sauce. Vegetables were an option for a side, but when you’re eating a sandwich consisting of pork…with more pork on top…why bother? The fries seemed light by comparison. Kristy, Elizabeth and Toby all had something fried between bread, I think. They were at the opposite end of the table and may have told me what they were having, but it was so loud I couldn’t hear them. Did I mention the volume in the place?

From the kids’ menu, C had a basket of fried fish and fries that he refused to eat once he saw JP’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which he coveted as he pouted the rest of the way through dinner. In case you didn’t catch that – JP had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I went to a restaurant and paid over $3 for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I will say that he ate all of it, and it was a big sandwich, which is unusual for him. S ignored a ham and cheese sandwich as she tried in vain to trip the waitresses as they scurried by our table to the kitchen. She did manage later to fall off a barstool, though.

The wait staff was good with all of the kids in the place and I saw plenty of cups with lids being carried to and fro. There was also someone walking around who looked like a manager or owner, greeting people and checking on tables, which is a nice touch. Soul Fish seems to have caught on in the neighborhood in a very short period of time and by the looks of it, and the median age of 9-years-old of the patrons, they will enjoy success for a very long time. I said, FOR A VERY LONG TIME!

RJA is the father of three, soon to be four, monkeys. Read his blog!