Chokes down words. Sir, you can't bring your own food in here. Yes, I understand that, but you see, they don't like yours. But I'd like to order dinner. Short battle of wills ensues.
Manager stands ground.
Dad stands ground. Manager none too politely relents. Feeling guilty, Dad over-orders, hoping to pad the tab and make us look like something other than grifters. Unfortunately, it is early, and the kids, after two bites, decide they're not really hungry and commence transformation into aboriginal pygmy terrorists well before Dad's meal arrives. The steak is about 4 ounces of fat crisped to resemble bacon, the lobster is broiled into blackened rubber, the baked potato is cold and perfectly raw, the asparagus is cooked into green strings of mush, and the hollandaise sauce has chunks of ice in it.