Takeaway night

On a Thursday evening in London, something extraordinary happened.

Not dragons.

Not pirates.

Not aliens.

Far more shocking than any of those things.

Mr and Mrs Brand opened the fridge and discovered there was absolutely nothing to eat.

Well, technically there was half a lemon, three olives, a jar of mustard, and something in a plastic container that might once have been lasagne but now looked like a science experiment.

Mrs Brand stared into the fridge.

Mr Brand stared into the fridge.

The fridge stared back.

“We appear,” said Mr Brand, “to have forgotten to go shopping.”

“Again,” said Mrs Brand.

This was not entirely surprising. Both parents worked very hard. They spent their days answering emails, joining meetings, leaving meetings, scheduling meetings about meetings, and occasionally remembering they had children.

Meanwhile, those children were busy in the living room.

Seven-year-old Alfie was reading a book about volcanoes.

Four-year-old Barry was attempting to see whether a toy dinosaur could survive being launched from the top of the stairs inside a washing-up bowl.

His best friend Marmaduke was helping.

Or, more accurately, watching.

Marmaduke was the sort of friend who never said, “This is a terrible idea.”

He usually said, “Do you think it’ll go faster if we add wheels?”

The dinosaur had just completed its sixth flight when Mrs Brand appeared.

“Good news,” she announced.

“Did the dinosaur survive?” asked Barry.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“We’re ordering Chinese takeaway.”

Barry cheered.

Marmaduke cheered.

Alfie looked up from his book.

“What are we having?”

“No idea,” said Mr Brand. “We’re clicking random things.”

This should have worried everyone.

Instead, it excited Barry tremendously.

Twenty-five minutes later the doorbell rang.

The takeaway arrived in enough containers to feed a small army.

Or two hungry parents and three ravenous children.

The food was spread across the table.

There were noodles.

Rice.

Mysterious golden things.

Tiny red things.

Large brown things.

Something green.

Something shiny.

Something that appeared to be looking back.

Barry poked at one suspicious item.

“What is this?”

Mr Brand squinted.

“Chicken?”

Mrs Brand squinted.

“Maybe mushroom?”

Alfie squinted.

“I don’t think it’s either.”

Nobody ate that one.

Then Mrs Brand smiled brightly.

“This is a wonderful opportunity.”

Mr Brand immediately became suspicious.

“What sort of opportunity?”

“A learning opportunity.”

Those were dangerous words.

Parents loved learning opportunities.

Children almost never did.

Mrs Brand produced five pairs of chopsticks.

“Tonight,” she declared, “we shall learn to use chopsticks.”

Alfie nodded sensibly.

“That sounds educational.”

Barry looked horrified.

“Why?”

“Because it’s good to learn new skills.”

“I already know loads of skills.”

“Such as?”

Barry thought carefully.

“I can make fart noises with my elbow.”

Mrs Brand sighed.

“Chopsticks.”

Everybody picked up their pair.

Alfie held his correctly within about ten seconds.

Of course he did.

Alfie approached all new experiences as though he were training to become Prime Minister – possibly better than the current administration?

Marmaduke copied Alfie.

Barry copied nobody.

He held both sticks in one fist like a caveman who had just discovered technology.

“Excellent,” said Mr Brand. “No.”

Barry attempted to pick up a noodle.

The noodle escaped.

He tried again.

The noodle escaped again.

He chased it around his plate.

The noodle fled for its life.

Eventually it launched itself onto the table.

Barry pointed.

“It’s fighting back.”

Marmaduke nodded. “I saw it move.”

Meanwhile Alfie had already eaten half his rice.

“You’re holding them wrong.”

Barry frowned.

“Maybe the rice is holding itself wrong.”

“That’s not how rice works.”

Barry wasn’t convinced.

After several minutes of struggle, he finally managed to grab something.

Unfortunately it was not food.

It was Mr Brand’s sleeve.

“Barry.”

“Yes?”

“Please stop eating me.”

Barry released him.

Then he spotted a bright red piece of chicken.

“Ooh.”

He grabbed it.

Success!

The chopsticks held.

The chicken remained captured.

Barry grinned.

“I’ve done it!”

He shoved it into his mouth.

There was a pause.

A very small pause.

Then his eyes widened.

His ears turned pink.

His eyebrows attempted to leave his face.

“WATER!”

Everybody jumped.

“WATER!”

Mrs Brand pushed a glass towards him.

Barry drank it.

This made things worse.

“MORE WATER!”

He drank another.

Then another.

Then another.

Marmaduke stared.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s spicy!”

Marmaduke looked impressed.

“Really spicy?”

“The spiciest thing in the history of Earth.”

Alfie examined the container.

“That’s sweet chilli chicken.”

Barry pointed accusingly.

“Then why isn’t it called WARNING CHICKEN?”

Nobody had a good answer.

Marmaduke became curious.

This was dangerous.

Marmaduke’s curiosity was heavily influenced by Barry’s curiosity.

The difference was that Barry usually had ideas.

Marmaduke usually joined in.

“Can I try it?”

asked Marmaduke.

Alfie said, “No.”

Barry said, “Yes.”

Guess which one Marmaduke listened to.

Three seconds later Marmaduke was also demanding water.

The two boys sat red-faced and panting.

“I can feel my tongue.”

“You’re supposed to feel your tongue.”

“Not this much.”

Mr Brand tried not to laugh.

Mrs Brand failed.

Soon peace returned.

Everyone continued eating.

Or trying to.

Barry had discovered a shortcut.

Instead of using chopsticks to move food into his mouth, he used chopsticks to move food onto a spoon.

Then he used the spoon.

Mrs Brand noticed.

“That’s cheating.”

Barry shrugged.

“It’s innovation.”

Unfortunately, innovation gave him another idea.

Ideas were rarely good news.

“What if,” Barry said slowly, “we use chopsticks for something else?”

Alfie looked worried immediately.

“What something else?”

Barry held up two chopsticks.

“Drumsticks.”

Before anybody could object, Barry began drumming on the table.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

Marmaduke joined in.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

Soon they were performing what sounded like an angry herd of woodpeckers.

Mr Brand rubbed his forehead.

Mrs Brand checked her watch.

Alfie tried to continue eating with the expression of a man enduring a very long train delay.

Then Barry spotted the empty takeaway containers.

Another idea arrived.

This one was even worse.

“We could make a Chinese restaurant.”

“No,” said Alfie.

“We could.”

“No.”

“We definitely could.”

“No.”

Five minutes later they had.

Barry was the chef.

Marmaduke was the waiter.

Alfie had been appointed manager against his will.

Mr and Mrs Brand became customers.

“Welcome to Barry’s Restaurant,” announced Barry.

“What do you serve?” asked Mrs Brand.

Barry looked around.

“Everything.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nobody knows.”

Marmaduke approached carrying a container.

“What would you like?”

Mr Brand pointed.

“What is that?”

Marmaduke examined it.

“I don’t know.”

“Then why are you serving it?”

“Chef says it’s food.”

Barry nodded confidently.

“It might be.”

Alfie buried his face in his hands.

Things got worse.

Barry decided every restaurant needed entertainment.

His entertainment was balancing chopsticks on his upper lip.

Marmaduke copied him.

Soon they were both wandering around pretending to be walruses.

Then one chopstick fell into a bowl of noodles.

Then Barry tried rescuing it.

Then he accidentally flicked noodles into the air.

One landed on his head.

One landed on Marmaduke.

One landed on Mr Brand.

One somehow wrapped itself around the lampshade.

The room fell silent.

Everyone stared upward.

A single noodle dangled from the light fitting.

Alfie finally spoke.

“How?”

Barry considered.

“I think it wanted a better view.”

Even Mrs Brand laughed at that.

Dinner slowly came to an end.

The spicy food was avoided.

The mysterious food remained mysterious.

Nobody touched the suspicious shiny thing.

The noodle stayed on the lampshade.

At this point it had earned the right.

Eventually everyone settled on the sofa.

The boys felt sleepy.

The parents looked relieved.

Alfie read quietly.

Marmaduke yawned. He was staying tonight as his mum, Marjory was working a late shift at the local hospital.

Barry curled up beside him.

“Today was fun.”

“It was.”

“We learned chopsticks.”

“Sort of.”

“We learned spicy food.”

“Definitely.”

Barry thought for a moment.

Then he smiled.

“I think being grown-up looks difficult.”

Mrs Brand laughed.

“It can be.”

“Because you have jobs.”

“Yes.”

“And meetings.”

“Yes.”

“And emails.”

“So many emails.”

“And then you forget food.”

Mr Brand nodded.

“That does happen.”

Barry considered this carefully.

Then he delivered his verdict.

“When I’m grown up, I’m just going to eat biscuits.”

The adults exchanged a glance.

“That’s not really a plan,” said Alfie.

“It is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It definitely is.”

Alfie sighed the deep sigh of an older brother who had been correcting Barry since the day Barry learned to walk.

“You’re impossible.”

Barry grinned.

“Maybe.”

Marmaduke grinned too.

“Definitely.”

The parents smiled.

Alfie tried not to smile.

Failed.

And above them all, hanging proudly from the lampshade like a tiny noodle flag, remained the final survivor of the Great Chopstick Battle.

A reminder that some family dinners are nutritious.

Some are educational.

And some are complete chaos.

The chaotic ones are usually more memorable.