Chez Arjun, Table for Two

My nine-year-old son opened a restaurant this summer. It was in our dining room. It was open on Saturday nights only, and my wife and I were the only customers.

He made menus by hand, with prices like "pasta, $3" and "secret dessert, $50 (worth it)." He dressed in my old white shirt with a towel over his arm and a mustache he'd drawn on with eyeliner. He called himself "Chef Arjun" and spoke in what he believed was a French accent.

The food was mostly cereal, toast and microwave noodles, presented with tremendous ceremony. One week, he made a salad entirely out of grapes. The secret dessert was always ice cream with sprinkles.

Every Saturday, my wife and I dressed up. We held hands at the table. We left him a tip in quarters and a review on a sticky note, which he hung on the fridge. "Five stars. Excellent service. Chef very handsome."