The Prime Table Restaurant

It was bound to happen someday. I just didn't think it would be today. The Gert hadn't been eating much--mostly a few bites of banana and handfuls of raisins (her favorite food). Applesauce, cheese, meat, veggies--she'd have none of these. B was getting nervous. But apparently I'm a Peterson through and through and have little to no sympathy for illness unless one's leg is being consumed by flesh-eating virus. "She's almost two," I said. "She'll start eating soon," I said. "Just keep her in her high chair until she eats," I said. B picked me up from campus and we started on our way to a restaurant for a celebratory early dinner. (We're celebrating the fact that if we eat out, we don't have to do dishes. We've been doing dishes non-stop for three days since we've had three meetings of various sizes at our house every day since Thursday.) Gert was asleep in her carseat by the time I made it to the car from my office. We decided to drive up to Niles, Michigan (about a 10 mile drive) to give her some nap time and us some talking time. But our favorite Niles restaurant was closed. As we pulled out from in front of the closed restaurant and started back toward Indiana, Greta woke up. We headed toward the nearest restaurant we could find. It was called the Prime Table Restaurant. It must have been built by the original settlers to the area because everything was freaking old looking. Yellowing. Moldy. Not a high class place. "You only live once," Brooke said as we got out of the car. We walked past at least a dozen cars with handicapped markers on their license plates. "Not a good omen," I said. We sat down in a booth and asked for a high chair. It was appropriately smoky and smelled like shoes and cigars the way a 1950s bowling alley does. I hoped that smell didn't come from the piles of vaguely brownish and grayish food we saw on all the plates of all the old, perhaps convalescing people. Our server was only 20 or so, bottle blonde, gum chewing--she really looked the part, whatever the part was supposed to be. "We're out of the special," she said. "Wow. It's only 5pm," B said. "Pork chops are popular here," said blonde server. "Do you serve breakfast all day?" inquired Brooke. "Yep..." and then, "Oh, she's spitting up," said the blonde server. "What?" asked B. "Oh shit," I said. Because I saw what the server saw. The vomit sprayed out from around the napkin B held near Greta's mouth, onto the tan menus, onto the tan Formica table, the tan carpet, the tan wallpaper, the tan placemats, Brooke's jacket, Greta's coat, my shoes. It was pale pink, the color of well-chewed strawberries--which is exactly what it consisted of. While B sprinted for the bathroom, clutching to G and dripping pink puke, I paid the three dollars for my coke, warmed up the car, balled up the vomit soaked coats and tossed them in the trunk. This marks the first official projectile vomit session of our toddler. It was well worth the wait. And speaking of marks, we left ours at the Prime Table tonight. I think this means we won't be returning anytime soon.