How a Food Writer Raises a Restaurant-Loving Kid in Atlanta
Six years ago, when I became a mom, I knew absolutely nothing about parenting. One thing I was certain about, however, was that I wanted my daughter, Abby, to love food as much as I do. I hoped to instill in her my sense of culinary adventure.
The past decade has seen Atlanta grow into a dynamic dining city, with restaurants garnering James Beard Awards and Michelin stars. But it’s not just the great food that makes this a parent-friendly place — it’s the warm hospitality. Unless a restaurant explicitly says otherwise, most welcome kids in their dining rooms and put parents at ease. Children are part of the fabric of Atlanta’s culinary scene. I rarely feel awkward about bringing my daughter along, even to a fine dining restaurant. At Avize, the Alpine-inspired spot in West Midtown, my husband and I were relieved when Abby was greeted warmly — and delighted when she was served the richest, creamiest butter noodles (that anyone can order). She hasn’t looked at my home version the same since.
Something you learn early on as a parent is that you actually have very little say in what your child will like. I can’t ask my now-departed mother what she did to encourage my adventurous palate, but the truth is, there was probably very little beyond offering me different cuisines and dishes from a young age. I grew up in diverse South Florida, in a Jewish-Argentinian household where my grandmother’s empanadas were a weekly treat.
Maybe that’s why I feel so compelled to take advantage of Atlanta’s multicultural dining options with Abby, too. At our earliest outings, she mostly munched on Cheerios while the adults ate. Over time, she started sampling bites — sometimes chicken korma, sometimes an expertly prepared French pastry. When she was younger, getting her to try a bite didn’t take much convincing because she would eat whatever I put in front of her. As she’s gotten older and a little more skeptical, I remind her that all she has to do is try one bite, which takes the pressure off of her. She doesn’t have to like it, just try it.
I swelled with pride when, at two years old, she happily chewed on a cinnamon-sugar-crusted doughnut from the now-closed Buttery. “My kid appreciates the good stuff,” I thought.
Her taste buds have evolved over the years, and her willingness to try new things has expanded. Much of this has to do with the fact that I choose restaurants based on what I want to eat, not a place that strictly caters to kids. Sometimes it’s more convenient to go to a place with a reliable kids’ menu, but I knew if I wanted to stretch her interests, that I’d have to at least try taking her along for the ride. This often works out because she has no other option but to try something new. On a recent visit to Momonoki, I ordered a rice bowl laden with diced salmon sashimi, sweet shiitake mushrooms, seaweed, and cucumbers. I hadn’t planned on sharing, but she took a bite of the salmon, and then another, and another. Before I knew it, the bowl was hers, and I was thrilled to see her appreciating the buttery fish accented by the salty seaweed and sweet mushrooms.
Don’t be fooled, though: Abby’s palate is still a work in progress. Even with my efforts to expose her to foods beyond the typical American kids’ repertoire, she is still just a six-year-old. It’s not unusual for her to prefer a cheese pizza over chanterelle-studded pasta. The point is, however, that she has the opportunity to try these dishes, and she sees her parents enjoying them too. (Modeling plays a key role in shaping a child’s eating habits.) My motto has always been “just one bite,” when we dine out or if I cook something new at home. I don’t expect her to love something (that’s a fool’s game, anyway), but she does have to try it. She’s surprised herself with this rule, like when I took her to the food court at H Mart in Doraville – which I like for its casual ambiance and proximity to other treat destinations like Meet Fresh – and ordered us a heaping plate of japchae, loaded with mushrooms, and veggie kimbap. She hesitantly took a bite of the kimbap, skeptically eyeing the spongy egg inside, and then proceeded to have three more pieces. She enjoyed the japchae too, happily picking up more bites with her chopsticks.
When we travel, I start to see glimmers of a budding food lover. In Asheville, she threw back oysters garnished with ramp mignonette at the Market Place, and at the Southern-inspired Italian restaurant Luminosa, she topped crackers with heavy scoops of paté on the charcuterie board. We’re headed to Paris in November, and I wonder what her food memory will be. But the truth is, it may very well be formed in Atlanta — when we giggly share a mountainous bingsu at Meet Fresh, dip into guacamole at Communidad, or have a heart-to-heart over the deep dish pancakes at Hen Mother Cookhouse. Paris will be great, but Atlanta is what shaped her.
