We were eating Sunday lunch at our favorite Mexican joint, when my children noticed The Real Santa digging into a chicken quesadilla. (Who knew?) So, Carter asks to go over to him, but I announce that we've already seen The Mall Santa, and they probably don't have very good Mexican at the North Pole (just an assumption on my part), so let the man enjoy his salsa and spicy shrimp.
But Carter, like most little boys, wouldn't be turned away once the seed was planted. By God, that was Santa, The Real Santa, and that sort of opportunity simply can't be passed over without at least taking a shot at it.
My son finally outsmarted me by asking to go to the restroom and detoured around the restaurant to land right at Santa's table. He tugged gently on Santa's work shirt, and when he had the Jolly Old Elf's attention he whispered, "What kind of cookies do you really like us to leave out, Santa?"
Much to Santa's credit, he took the interruption all in stride. (I guess when you are The Real Santa, there are bound to be a few interruptions.) He leaned over to my child and whispered back through his frosty white beard, "Chocolate chip. Always chocolate chip." And he nodded and winked.
Carter made the Serious Face back at Santa, nodded and said, "I knew it. I just knew it." Then he marched straight back to our table and pointed at his daddy with an accusatory stare and finger point and said, "I TOLD you that Santa wanted chocolate chip cookies, NOT Reese's Cups."
Ahem.
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