The same scenario has repeated itself multiple times in multiple countries. The Reitemeyer family goes out to eat at a German-speaking restaurant. I’m in the front and I ask for a table for nine. I speak in German, because I can.
“Is a menu in German ok?” the waiter asks, and I say it is. And then I think to myself, “Oh. I wonder if they have an English option?” But it’s too late. I’ve committed to a German menu.
Now instead of one illiterate child, I have seven. Only unlike George, to whom I can say: “chicken, spaghetti, or pizza,” these other kids know that there is lot more than that on those five pages. So, I spend the next ten minutes translating “pickle,” “onion,” and saying things like, “this sandwich has some sort of meat and some sort of cheese…are you feeling adventurous?” They never are.
Finally, everybody figures out something to eat, and we manage to order it with my kids opting to point more than attempting to pronounce the words.
Shortly thereafter, never before, somebody else walks in to the restaurant. The same waiter, speaking in impeccable English, asks if they would like a menu in English. And then all the kids who happened to overhear this turn and give me that look instinctive to all teenagers conveying shock and betrayal. Yes, they suspected I was a cruel and evil person, but now they have proof!