My daughter is 11; tall, shy, quiet, observant, mysterious like a mountain cat. My son is five; open, enthusiastic, loving and happy as a circus clown. These are great children, of course I would say that; after all they are mine.
Last Saturday, my daughter said, “Papa, why don’t we have lunch at Mama Rocks?” I looked at her.
“How did you know about Mama Rocks?”
“My friends in school,” she said. (Did I mention that she is 11?) So we go, the Nairobi’s Argwings Kodhek branch.
Only when we get there I find out that it’s also a bar of sorts and chaps are drinking while also eating burgers because this is a burger place.
We sit on the high table, my son sandwiched between us, opposite us a man and woman drinking what looks like a cocktail sour or something. Next to us a man in training gear is having a beer.
“Can I drink like him?” my son points at the man’s beer. My daughter smiles bashfully, which means she already knows what a beer is. I say, “that tastes terrible.” (Yes, beer tastes terrible). He says he wants it. I give him a dirty look, which stops the whining. (Fatherhood 101).
The music is great, the mood is wonderful and all the while as we eat, I’m thinking, this is no place for children, that it’s irresponsible to take children where alcohol is sold — because then they might want a cold beer and you have to explain why beer is not good for them.
Mama Rocks sells decent burgers, but surprisingly the space also happens to be a cool bar where you can have a quick beer after your meal as you get your weekend bearing.
Just don’t go with children. I never thought my children would make me “discover” a new “bar.” I don’t know what that means for their future if they have started discovering bars before they can even spell the word “aperitif”.