(This is the Tantrum, in which Dadwagon’s writers debate one question over the course of a week. For previous Tantrums, click here.)

Given my sordid past—dragging Sasha around Italy and San Francisco, carrying her to filthy, seedy bars full of tattooed, puking people—you might think I’d be in favor of kids in restaurants. It only makes sense, right? Idiot yuppie-hipster dad just loooves to show off his pwecious cwotchfwuit in inappropriate settings.

The hell with that. Although Sasha was a perfect doll in restaurants at the age of 6 weeks—snuggled in her carrier, she didn’t want much—lately she’s a challenge. Now she wants to run, not snuggle; to play, not eat. On the increasingly rare occasions when we do go out for a meal, it’ll be lunch or brunch, somewhere family-friendly (highchairs, plenty of room), and we’ll bring enough books and toys to keep her occupied, and we’ll get in and out as fast as possible.

But somewhere nice? Are you kidding? Back when Sasha was around 4 or 5 months old, I brought her, on my own, to brunch with a friend visiting from Korea. (Hi, Dan!) The place: Char No. 4, a pretty decent Southern-ish restaurant in my neighborhood. At first, she was great, sitting patiently in the seat of her stroller, which I’d detached and placed next to me. But, inevitably, she began to cry, and nothing would console her—not milk, not nothing. By the time my food arrived, I was ready to flee—only I couldn’t properly unfold the base of the stroller. I was about ready to fling the whole thing across the restaurant when Dan stepped in, picked Sasha up and walked her around. Instantly, she calmed down. Oh, okay. I scarfed my meal, and we were outta there. Never again, I swore.

So, no. No. No. No. Somewhere nice? Really nice? Like, $400-per-person nice? Sasha’s not worth it—hell, I’m not worth it. (As an aside: I’m not sure this is how rich people think. Follow this link to see what I mean.) And even if I were to bring her to such a place—perhaps as a result of a traumatic brain injury—should the restaurant offer a kids’ menu? Would I ask for an adults’ menu at Chuck E. Cheese’s?

But you know what? Fuck restaurants in general. I’m tired of them. Very rarely do I eat anything at a restaurant that I can’t cook myself, better and cheaper. The whole range of upper-mid-level restaurants is a complete waste of time and money—gastronomical ambition tempered (and therefore neutered) by the need to serve a mass audience. If you’re making something that’s truly beyond my abilities—Taiwanese thin noodles, for example, or some exotic truffle-foam sous vide thing—I’m up for it. But if all you’re doing at your hip $29-entrée spot is roasting free-range hens or braising veal shanks, then thank you very much, but I can do that at home—and serve the leftovers to Sasha.