I thought vegan babies were supposed to die or at least turn into invalids. Alas, today’s outing proved that just not to be the case. There’s a new Manhattan brand of vegan child that thrives on tofutti.
I was suffering through another interminable Friday hang-over, so I decided to detox and dragged myself to macrobiotic palace Souen in SOHO. I expected steamed veggies, a little buttery tahini, and, at worst, some yoga music and obnoxious new age conversation.
Five minutes into my miso soup, a gaggle of strollers and anxious moms–all carrying ‘This Is Not A Plastic Bag’ bags–burst into the restaurant. They immediatly took over the table next to me which they had reserved for their outing.
The vegan babies would not sit still or shut up. How do I know these babies were vegan? Because as the little brats tore through the restaurant and got their jam hands way too close to me, the mommies quizzed the waitstaff about each ingredient in every dish.
Enticed back to the table with promises of strawberry tofu icecream with carob, a little vegan boy started to draw on the glass with some crayons. At last, he grabbed some scissors (why parents bring scissors to lunch I just don’t know) asked to and was allowed to cut his mothers finger nails. Boundries, vegan mommies, boundries. If you won’t allow your children to eat any normal food, why oh why do you let them behave like monsters.