Why I Took My Children to a Michelin-starred Restaurant

Four tiny squares of bluefin tuna topped with preserved lemon and caviar: $42. Watching my ramen-obsessed 7-year-old devour an entire octopus tentacle with complete and utter delight: priceless. The bill topped $600, and yes, my kids and I were dressed in secondhand fast fashion amid diners whose shoes alone likely cost more than our entire stay.

This was the scene on a recent trip to San Juan, Puerto Rico, when I took my kids—then ages 5 and 7—to Levant, a newly opened Eastern Mediterranean–inspired restaurant curated by chef Michael White, who opened Michelin-starred L’Impero, Alto, Convivio, and Marea. Levant delivers a one-of-a-kind culinary experience in a setting to match, housed inside La Concha Resort’s iconic shell-shaped oceanfront structure designed by internationally renowned architect Mario Salvatori in 1958. The room glowed with low amber light as plates arrived like small, edible sculptures, its servers treating my children like the fine diners they were. What surprised me wasn’t that my kids behaved—or that they loved the food—but that the experience felt less like indulgence and more like a casual introduction to another corner of our world.

Some people think indulging our children’s unexpectedly sophisticated tastes is financially reckless, socially absurd, or proof that parenting culture has lost the plot. A January 2026 Wall Street Journal article, “Parents Are Going Broke From Their Kids’ Sushi Obsession,” distilled the panic neatly, suggesting that parents are “paying a heavy price” for indulging their children’s palates and, worse, “turning them into tiny food snobs.”

When I share photos from our trips, I can sometimes sense an ambient hum of judgment beneath the compliments: a mix of disbelief, resentment, and concern masquerading as practicality. A family member once asked, kindly enough, “Isn’t that a little wasted on an 8-year-old?” Comments like these—they won’t remember it, they don’t appreciate it, it’s more than they need— say less about my children than they speak to class anxiety, parental guilt, and the strange moral pressure surrounding how—and where—we let kids take pleasure.

In fairness, for much of my life I might have said the same things myself. As a child, I watched with muted resentment as classmates returned from summer break with stories of cruises, plane rides, and aquamarine hotel pools overlooking the ocean— tales that landed in sharp contrast to my own sweaty Augusts, alone in my bedroom, counting down the days until school resumed. Growing up on boxed mac and cheese and frozen pot pies, and with “family vacations” a fantastical thing that only happened on TV, I internalized a quiet but persistent belief that certain experiences were for other people, and that wanting them revealed something unseemly about yourself.

Then I became a parent. And a writer. I veered into travel writing partly because I wanted to expose my children parts of the world they wouldn’t otherwise see, including places I once assumed were off-limits to people like us.

Take our stay at Chileno Bay Resort & Residences, a luxury property in Baja California, where my kids enjoyed a private viewing of their favorite movie projected onto a beachside screen under a full moon high in a star-filled sky, waves lapping behind the final credits. Earlier that same summer, we were treated to three nights at the Bote House at La Siesta Resort & Villas in Islamorada, Florida—a private two-bedroom villa with a butler who learned my children’s names before he learned mine. These experiences are undeniably extravagant—and also fleeting.

Our favorite place, by far, is San Juan. On our first trip, the groundskeepers at the family-friendly Caribe Hilton kindly looked the other way when my neurodivergent child climbed over a barricade to get a closer look at a snapping turtle. Parents of children with special needs often shy away from high-end spaces where their kids’ behavior might be on full display—but in my experience, the more luxurious the environment, the more patient, accommodating, and unflappable the staff tends to be.

This last time, we stayed at La Concha, the luxury resort in Condado, San Juan, had recently added an oceanfront spa and salon to its list of sophisticated offerings. Even with its decidedly more adult vibe, my kids felt immediately at home in our Tower Suite—a spacious one-bedroom space featuring chic minimalistic furnishings, an expansive bath, and a European-style kitchenette. They loved lunches from the poolside restaurant Solera, emerging from the deep end only when their plates arrived—unbothered by the gouda in the mac and cheese or the funky, unidentifiable bits sprinkled atop their parmesan-and-truffle fries.

And then there was Levant. Chef Michael White’s restaurants may have earned a total of six Michelin stars, but my youngest, Molly, declared it ought to be eight after one bite of her harissa chicken: “It’s spicy, but I like it!” Oscar was adamant that he wanted octopus—not the “ringy, breaded kind,” but “the kind with suckers.” He was thrilled with the pulpo a la plancha, a tender grilled octopus tentacle served with date salsa verde, Jimmy Nardello peppers, endive, lardo, and Marcona almonds. And he was absolutely gobsmacked by the presentation of the pomegranate merenga: a tart, silken fruit curd atop a crispy shortbread, covered in fluffy meringue and finished with a raspberry dusting and white chocolate swirl.

Every dish was an experience—fresh, inventive, and actually good. All in all, an enchanting evening—and a great reminder to not wait until the kids are all grown up to go all out.

Letting children into “grown-up” spaces while traveling isn’t about conspicuous consumption or status parenting; it’s about expanding their sense of belonging in the world. High-end restaurants, like museums or long-haul flights, are places many parents delay until kids are older or “easier.” But in practice, these shared experiences can build confidence, curiosity, and a family culture of adventure (without turning kids into entitled gourmands).

When my kids return to real life—shopping at Aldi, subsisting on “chicky nuggets,” sharing a bedroom—there’s no dissatisfaction, nor a sense that anything is beneath them. This, I think, is the fear beneath all the hand-wringing: that children who taste pleasure too early will become impossible to satisfy. But mine are genuinely grateful. They don’t flinch between worlds the way I once did.

Instead, they move easily from TV dinner trays to white tablecloths, from basic economy to front-row seats, from frozen fries to caviar—without attaching moral meaning to any of it. They feel at home wherever they are. To me, that isn’t indulgence—it’s freedom.