Last spring, my husband Pascal and I were celebrating a particular health milestone.
Among his myriad issues, he had undergone a ‘cardioversion’, an electric shock to the heart.
The procedure proved to be a success and he could finally walk unaided; previously he’d be out of breath walking more than 100 metres.
After three years of lurching from one health crisis to another, and never knowing if my husband was going to pull through, I was so relieved that this procedure had worked.
We celebrated by going away and dining at a rather fancy restaurant in Girona, just outside of Barcelona.
This was a huge deal for us. With Pascal’s health so compromised, for years we simply haven’t been able to socialise or even go out with friends.
The food was impressive, as was the three-figure bill. But it was worth it, quietly celebrating a positive step on his road to medical recovery. Yet there was one thing that made it a memorable evening for all the wrong reasons.
Just as we were finishing dessert, another party arrived. Fifteen diners swarmed in, plonking themselves down around our table – with five children. Immediately the noise levels ratcheted up, high chairs were installed, kids’ paraphernalia was littered across the linen tablecloth.
Samantha Brick says she loves children, but there is a time and a place for them
Within minutes, the boisterous gang had taken over our entire section of the restaurant. The magical atmosphere in the fairy light-lit courtyard, with low level music and whispered conversations, was pierced with impromptu shrieks and crying fits.
Moments after ordering, one child picked up a glass and jettisoned it onto the floor, smashing it into smithereens.
Five staff members took a good 15 minutes to clear up the shards of glass. When I saw another child hurl a glass two minutes later and the toddler sat beside him playing with a knife and fork, I hastily suggested we get the bill. The last thing I needed was to set my husband’s heart rate off.
What was a warm and relaxing evening was utterly ruined.
I had to admire the staff. They silently swooped in to clear and calm the situation. Meanwhile, the children’s nonchalant parents sat chatting and quaffing away, very much redefining the meaning of hands-off parenting.
If this had been at the start of our meal I would have seen red. Yes, I’m that woman who would have summoned the manager and requested to be seated elsewhere. I would have doubtless made sure the table knew exactly why we didn’t want to sit next to their uncontrollable little oiks.
And yes, I’m that woman who believes children should be banned from upmarket restaurants.
This debate has already been given a good prodding. First, former newsreader Jan Leeming took to social media to moan about her experience at a branch of The Pig restaurant – where bottles of wine cost up to £600 – when her meal was spoiled by ‘a screaming child’.
Her verdict? ‘If you can afford to eat there, get a babysitter!’ The truth hurts – right?
Former newsreader Jan Leeming took to social media to moan about her experience at a branch of The Pig restaurant – where bottles of wine cost up to £600 – when her meal was spoiled by ‘a screaming child’
Yet a couple of weeks ago, Mail columnist Nadine Dorries poked the bear again, writing about how her lunch was ruined when an actress complained about her granddaughter in a restaurant, saying: ‘Will someone please shut that child up!’
I say, bravo to that actress.
Is it really too much trouble in 2026 for parents to, you know, parent their children in public? Apparently so, hence why they should be banned from restaurants completely.
Cards on the table, I’m a childless woman. At 55, that boat sailed a long time ago. I love children, yet there is a time and a place for them.
Restaurants that serve beautifully presented high teas, fizz-fuelled bottomless brunches, exquisite house specialties that need to be ordered in advance; restaurants to dress up for, to budget for, to create occasions for life’s memory bank. These are the domain of adults only I’m afraid.
I don’t want to sit next to children when I eat, I don’t want to see nappy changing stations in Instagrammable ladies’ powder rooms and I really don’t want to risk having my clothes or handbag smeared in ketchup (which happened once while dining next to a family with four kids).
And there is zero guarantee that parents are going to rein their children in. Because let’s be clear: it’s never the children at fault, it’s their parents.
Where I live in the Dordogne in France is a tourist trap in summer. We don’t go to restaurants in any of my local villages for this reason – they suddenly turn into soft-play venues or gaming arcades.
Atmosphere? Zilch. That’s replaced with tables of kids wearing headphones, glued to their screens, or zooming around the table playing chase. What’s relaxing about that?
I know children need to learn social mores, but we’re raising a generation of self-entitled little emperors. Yet, inexplicably, their parents (and grandparents – sorry Nadine!) marvel at them as though they’re at the top of life’s pyramid when really that isn’t how our society works.
They need to understand how to integrate by respecting their elders and appreciating the environment they’re in.
Growing up in the 1970s, my generation just didn’t get to go to restaurants. Has it done my Gen X sisters any harm? Of course not. We’d get excited about a Friday fish ’n’ chip supper and that was our lot.
The tide is (thankfully) finally turning here in France. One local restaurant refuses to provide high chairs and, when a party with a baby asked to book a table, the owner curtly replied: ‘We’re a cheese and wine bar-eaterie, not a mother and baby restaurant.’
Santé to that!
