I'm reading Mimi Sheraton's new memior Eating My Words, in which she recounts her career in food writing in general and restaurant criticism in general. For those of us outside the industry but who still enjoy a well put-together meal the book is a revelation. One part in particular that I read just before bed last night has been swirling around my head today. In it, Ms. Sheraton describes the complicated calculus, financial as well as psychological, that goes into menu writing and the setting of prices. This, as I serve my son buttered noodles and broccoli and try to convince my daughter to snack on a plain rice cake, has me ruminating on some of the more expensive meals of my life - as well as some of the cheapest.

According to Ms. Sheraton, when you sit down to a meal in a restaurant you are not actually buying food but rather real estate. That is why your appetizers, entrees and desserts come one on top of the other in your average low-range chain place - your Olive Gardens, Chili's and Red Lobsters. I swear I've eaten in some of these establishments and you simply cannot move for all the bread baskets, salad plates, empty soda glasses, paper napkin wrapper thingies and the rest of the flotsam and jetsam that makes up a mass-market dinner out. Your food comes fast because they need you in and out in order to turn over your table for the next $40 check.

Maybe this is why I'm increasingly willing to eat out less but pay more at nicer places when I do go out. So that I can rent that small piece of real estate for an ever-so-slightly longer period of time - life is complicated and moves fast and every now and again I'd like a meal that's better than what I can produce at home and is actually more relaxing. Sitting around a crowded table with my two kids and husband trying to grab someone's attention to take away the empty glasses before the baby knocks them over is not my idea of a good time and the last time we went to a national chain place a kid from a neighboring table amused himself by throwing tortilla chips at my husband.

On the other hand, one of my more concrete parenting goals is to make sure my children grow up suitable for polite society - that they know have to make dinner conversation, use a fork and knife and have diverse enough palates to eat just about anything that's served to them (or at least be able to fake it well). This goal is very often in complete opposition with my desire for a well-crafted, well-paced and pleasant meal in soothing/interesting (depending upon my mood) surroundings. Restaurants that offer these attributes generally aren't thrilled when customers show up with a small box of crayons and a request for a high chair.

Coincidentally, my husband sent me an article yesterday describing the new welcome that families are receiving in many new, upscale, suburban restaurants. One of those featured, a place called Christopher's, is among our favorites and is a place we get back to everytime we're in Philly and cruising down the Main Line. Their kids' menu treats children as if they have taste buds and the adult menu is nothing short of great. We get a good dinner with a glass of wine or two, our son gets either a "real" pizza (no frozen immitation here) or some pasta with housemade marinara and parmesan and the check comes to about $75. Spendy, perhaps, for your average suburban family dinner check but no one throws chips at you and nothing has been frozen or portion packed prior to its arrival at your table.

In this vein I can't wait to try Georges Perrier's new Georges'. That Georges Perrier has developed a restaurant that is 1) anything approaching casual and 2) includes a childrens' menu is something that simply astonishes me. Perrier is primarily known as the chef-proprieter of Philadelphia's Le Bec Fin, once regarded as one of the best restaurants in the country and still Philly's dream restaurant, although one with an increasingly hidebound reputation (its sister restaurant Brasserie seems to be aging better). Anyway, in his e-mail to me about the article in which Georges' is discussed, my husband stated, "Let me guess. There are Freedom Fries in my future at Georges'."

You betcha, cherie. And I won't forget the crayons.