When you make a reservation at The French Cafe, they send you an email straight away and, for the benefit of those of feeble memory (who, me?) or incapable of keeping a diary, they repeat it 24 hours before you are due to sit down.
It contains a couple of admonitions of the most exquisite restraint, the first of which suggests you dress up. The next mentions that "older children are welcome ... but if your child is under the age of 10, we ask you to contact the dining room for further discussion".
Don't you just love the very faintly menacing tone of that "further discussion?" Parents who do not actually regard their unrestrained offspring as providers of profound joy to the rest of the world, if only the rest of the world had the wit to see it, would immediately get the message. For the rest, I can only hope the further discussion is limited to the single word "No".
For as long as I can remember, and certainly since Simon Wright (in the kitchen) and Creghan Molloy-Wright (on the floor), took the helm about 20 years ago, The French Cafe has been the byword for fine dining in Auckland. Never mind that it's not a cafe and the food is not noticeably French: it regularly tops "best of Auckland" lists, such as the one that Metro put out saying Botswana Butchery was top-50, when it had been open long enough only to earn several such excoriating reviews that a fixit man had been helicoptered in from Queenstown to sort out what he told me was "a bloody disaster".