There was a time when a doggy bag truly meant food for the dog — or at least, that’s what everyone politely pretended.
In the 1960s and early 1970s, asking to take leftovers home carried a quiet stigma. Walking out of a restaurant with food suggested you were wasteful, improper, or worse — unable to afford leaving it behind. The solution was discretion. You didn’t ask for a “box.” You asked for a doggy bag.
Restaurants obliged with small waxed paper bags, often printed with a cheerful dog. They were discreet enough to slip into a coat pocket or handbag. The assumption was you’d finished your meal and were taking home a bone or scraps for your pet — not tomorrow’s lunch.
In finer restaurants — the kind with polyester napkins and formal table service — leftovers might be wrapped in foil, sometimes twisted into a swan shape. Decorative, yes. Leak-proof? Not even close.
Families played along. Some parents joked loudly for effect: “Oh goody! We’re getting a dog!” Waiters joined the fiction. One family recalled ordering lobster dinners while a parent felt ill; the staff knowingly asked whether the “dog” enjoyed lobster. He did, they replied — he was a water spaniel.
This etiquette reflected a broader dining culture. People dressed up. Men wore jackets and ties; women wore hats and gloves. Restaurants were occasions, and leaving food behind was part of the ritual.
By the late 1970s and into the 1980s, things shifted. Portions grew. Styrofoam clamshells appeared. Microwaves entered homes. Leftovers became practical, not shameful. Eventually, no one pretended anymore.
Today, people leave restaurants openly carrying boxes, bags, and trays. The dog is no longer part of the story — and the term doggy bag itself is quietly disappearing.