9 things boomers find genuinely offensive about modern restaurants that younger people don't even notice — the QR code menu is just the beginning

Last week, I watched a couple in their seventies stand at the entrance of a trendy new bistro, staring at a QR code taped to the hostess stand like it was written in ancient Sanskrit.

The woman fumbled for her reading glasses while her husband pulled out a flip phone—yes, they still exist—and they both looked at each other with that particular mix of confusion and defeat I've been seeing more and more lately.

Having spent 35 years in the restaurant business before transitioning to writing, I knew exactly what they were feeling. They just wanted dinner, not a technology seminar.

The disconnect between what my generation expects from dining out and what modern restaurants deliver has become a canyon.

And while younger folks navigate these new norms like they were born to them (which, let's face it, they were), those of us with a few more miles on the odometer find ourselves increasingly alienated by an industry that once felt like home.

1) The death of physical menus

After decades in the restaurant business, nothing makes me cringe more than watching a 70-year-old couple squint at a phone screen, trying to navigate a QR code menu while their reading glasses fog up.

I spent years perfecting the weight and feel of our menus—heavy enough to feel substantial, but not so heavy they tired your wrists. The texture mattered. The font size mattered. Now we hand people a piece of paper with a pixelated square and tell them to figure it out.

My generation grew up with menus you could touch, annotate, share across the table. We'd point at dishes, fold corners to mark possibilities. Now you're scrolling through a PDF on a 5-inch screen, zooming in and out like you're examining evidence at a crime scene.

The intimacy is gone. The ritual is gone. And when the WiFi doesn't work? Forget about eating.

2) The assault of background music

I once had to let go of a DJ we'd hired for our restaurant's anniversary because he couldn't understand that conversation should be possible without shouting.

Today's restaurants seem designed by people who've never had to lean in to hear their dinner companion's story about their grandchildren. The music isn't background anymore—it's foreground, middleground, and everything in between.

My generation doesn't need a soundtrack to our salmon. We came to talk, to connect, to hear each other's voices without competing with someone's Spotify playlist.

When I ran my restaurant, we kept the music at a level where you knew it was there but forgot about it within minutes.

Now I watch older couples give up on conversation entirely, eating in defeated silence because the bass line from whatever's trending is literally vibrating their wine glasses.

3) The disappearance of proper lighting

You know what we used to call it when you couldn't see your food properly? A power outage. Now it's "ambiance."

I watch my peers pull out their phone flashlights just to read the bill, squinting at their plates like archaeologists examining artifacts. We spent good money on beautiful food presentation, only to serve it in what amounts to a cave.

There's romantic lighting, and then there's the kind of darkness that makes you wonder if you're eating the salmon or the chicken. My generation wants to see the face of the person we're dining with, not just their silhouette.

We want to appreciate the color of the wine, the char on the vegetables, the artistic swirl of sauce. Not guess at shadows.

4) The cult of tiny portions

I learned to cook from my grandmother, who believed that sending someone away hungry was a moral failing.

Now I watch servers deliver plates with three brussels sprouts artfully arranged around a piece of fish the size of a business card, priced like it was flown in first-class.

My generation grew up understanding value—not gluttony, but the simple equation of satisfaction per dollar. We don't need mountains of food, but we need enough to not stop for a burger on the way home.

The "small plates" revolution feels like a conspiracy against anyone who worked a physical job and understands actual hunger. When did eating become an endurance sport where you need seven courses to approach fullness?

5) The loss of professional service

The server who approaches our table, doesn't make eye contact, mumbles their name while looking at their shoes, then disappears for 20 minutes—this breaks my heart.

I trained hundreds of servers over the decades. We taught them to read a table, to understand the difference between a business dinner and an anniversary, to know when to engage and when to fade into the background.

Now servers seem either completely absent or performatively friendly in that hollow way that screams "I'm working for tips but I'd rather be anywhere else."

My generation doesn't need our server to be our best friend, but we'd like them to know what they're serving. We'd like water glasses refilled without having to flag someone down like we're hailing a cab.

6) The commodification of experiences

Every meal now needs to be an "experience"—dry ice, tableside theatrics, drinks that arrive on fire. Whatever happened to the experience of just good food and good company?

My generation doesn't need dinner to be a Broadway show. We don't want to document our meal; we want to enjoy it.

The constant pressure to make everything Instagram-worthy has replaced the simple pleasure of a well-cooked meal. I watch younger tables spend the first ten minutes photographing their food from every angle while it gets cold.

Meanwhile, my peers just want their soup hot, their salad crisp, and their steak cooked properly. The experience we're after is satisfaction, not spectacle.

7) The epidemic of noise overflow

Open kitchens were supposed to add energy and transparency. Instead, they've added chaos.

The crash of dishes, the shouting of orders, the hiss of grills—all competing with the too-loud music and the echoes off the exposed brick walls and concrete floors that someone decided was "industrial chic."

My generation can't hear each other think, let alone talk. We spend entire meals saying "What?" and "Pardon?" until we give up and just nod along.

I watch older couples who've been married forty years reduced to pointing and gesturing like they're in a foreign country. My restaurant had carpeting, upholstered seats, and acoustic panels hidden in the ceiling. We understood that conversation was the point, not the enemy.

8) The dehumanization of ordering

Tablets at tables. Apps for ordering. Kiosks instead of hosts. We've removed the human element from hospitality, and my generation feels it acutely.

I built my career on reading people—knowing when the shy couple needed encouragement to try something new, when the regular needed their usual without being asked, when someone needed extra kindness with their coffee.

Now we tap screens and hope for the best. There's no one to ask about ingredients, no one to gauge if you're celebrating or commiserating, no one to remember that you always liked your dressing on the side.

My generation valued the relationship, the recognition, the small talk that made us feel like more than just transaction number 4,847.

9) The abandonment of inclusive design

The bathroom is down a narrow flight of stairs. The tables are crammed so close together you need to be a contortionist to reach your seat.

The chairs are backless stools that would challenge a 20-year-old's spine, let alone someone with 70 years of living in theirs.

My generation isn't asking for grab bars everywhere, we're asking for basic acknowledgment that not everyone who eats out is young, flexible, and infinitely patient with discomfort.

We've earned the right to dine out without feeling like we're on an obstacle course.

Modern restaurants are designed like they're actively trying to keep us out—bar-height everything, chairs that require a running jump to mount, bathrooms that might as well be in another postal code.

Final words

That couple I mentioned at the beginning? They eventually gave up and went to the diner down the street—the one with laminated menus, cushioned booths, and servers who've worked there since the Clinton administration.

The food might not be Instagram-worthy, but they could read the menu, hear each other speak, and leave satisfied without feeling like they'd just failed a tech exam.

The truth is, restaurants have always evolved. But evolution doesn't have to mean exclusion. There's room for innovation without alienating an entire generation of diners who have the time, money, and desire to eat out.

We're not asking restaurants to turn back the clock. We're just asking them to remember that not everyone dining out tonight was born with a smartphone in their hand.