Not my kids

I'm working at the newspaper office this evening and dinnertime rolls around.
Chris, the assistant sports editor, and Sam, the assistant managing editor, ask Maria and me if we'd like to join them for dinner at the Creekside Inn, a restaurant/bar on the banks of sometimes-scenic Sugar Creek.
Sure, we said.
So we're seated in a booth, Chris and Sam on one side and Maria and me on the other. After dinner, the 20-something waitress strolls over and plunks the bill, in its padded plastic case, down next to me.
I look at it for a moment and then it dawns on me. Chris and Sam are in their early 20s, Maria is 43 and I'm 61. Instead of seeing us as coworkers, she figured we were a family and I, as the dad - or even worse, maybe the grandpa - would pick up the tab.
How amusing.
When she returned, we explained the situation and asked her to re-calculate the bill.