Yesterday morning I rode up to Snoqualmie Pass and back. Much to my chagrin, my average speed was even lower than it was in April. I’ve looked at the data closely and think it was from the headwinds coming back down. It appears I was about 0.5 mph faster going up the hill, but several mph slower coming back down. From a workout point of view, that’s good since it’s a lot harder going up than down.



Regardless, I was pretty tired when I got home. My spouse, who had spent most of they day cleaning up the house in anticipation of her mom’s visit *, was also wiped. Neither of us had the energy to cook, so we took a rare family night out to Cucina Cucina, a small chain of Italian restaurants.




Cucina Cucina is middle-tier: good food, the daily chef’s name on the door, thematic decor. It’s family friendly, with about 10db less ambient chaos than Red Robin. We expect to drop $60 for dinner (without drinks). For us, this is pretty upscale, and thus something we partake in only once or twice a year.


The first sign something was screwy was no one gave the kids balls of dough to play with. Dough balls are something the kids look forward to, and probably the main reason they insist they want to come here. The dough is tactile entertainment. They can squish and mold it when they’re bored making masterpieces on the paper table covers with the supplied cup of random, broken crayons. (The other thing the kids love: balloons. What kid wouldn’t like a colorful helium balloon after enduring a meal with the ‘rents?)


The person who led us to the table said they needed to photocopy child menus. For those of you without kids, a child menu is a vastly simplified — and cheaper — menu that the kids can decorate. For example, Red Robin has puzzles on theirs, and the meals include a box of crayons, a special drink cup, and a toy prize. Kids dig it.


The waiter came to take our drink order. It takes a lot of effort to persuade a four year old to stop doodling on the table long enough to make a decision about something as vitally important as a dinner beverage. The conversation went something like this:

Spouse: Would you like milk or water?

6 year old: milk.

Spouse: [Youngest], would you like milk or water?

4 year old: (still doodling)

Spouse: [Youngest], would you like milk or water?

4 year old: (still doodling)

Me, impatient: She’ll have a milk.
4 year old, looks up with dad-defying smirk: I want water.
Waiter, trying to be helpful: We also have lemonade.
6 year old: I want lemonade.

Spouse: [Youngest], would you like milk or lemonade?

4 year old: lemonade.

That’s the accelerated version. While my spouse made a few iterations with the four year old, I asked the waiter what the specials were. To my astonishment, there were none. I almost burst out with a sarcastic “What? No opportunity to charge me $22 for fancy-sounding meal like “Truffle thumped Chilean sea bass encrusted with Corinthian bread crumbs?” I ordered an appetizer salad.



Drinks came: two waters, one milk and one lemonade. The waiter took our main order. Meanwhile, the kids realized one received the wrong beverage. Luckily, my fickle four year old decided she didn’t like the lemonade and preferred milk. Problem solved! (But Dad gets no credit for this one.)


Five minutes later, all of our entrees came. Five minutes. I was puzzled and made a comment that we wouldn’t be needing the appetizer anymore. Three levels of people apologized for our missed appetizer, and the manager gave us the option of a free appetizer or a coupon for one in the future. (Moral: if they don’t offer one, ask for a spiff.)



The meals were certainly tasty. It’s certainly possible they just happened to finish making a big batch of lasagna and canneloni as we walked in, but five minutes from order to meal is too fast for a $60 sit-down restaurant. I wasn’t particularly enthralled with the idea of buying desserts ($5 a pop) there, and suggested we go to Trader Joe’s for a quart of ice cream.


This place has gone downhill, and my intuition tells me that this restaurant will probably be gone in one year.