Brunch at The Marine Room (Apparently they let ANYONE eat there)

"Savannah, say something sophisticated," I hissed as I wrestled my tightly-origami-ed swan napkin into my lap and quickly color-coded my sugar. Our primly-postured waiter approached and, startled, I yelled out, "Lexus!" "That's the best you could come up with?" Sydney asked, astonished as she watched our server fill our glasses with freshly-squeezed orange juice. "I'll do better when you come back," I promised him. "When you have champagne flutes on the table, you're already sophisticated," he assured me.

We were at The Marine Room in La Jolla, known for its majestic ocean tide views, delicious brunch, and splendid service. "What time is the dolphin viewing?" I asked as I flopped awkwardly in the chair that was pulled out for me. "There's an app for that," he smiled back indulgently, making me glad I hadn't worn my pants with the questionable button. This was definitely a button-worthy restaurant.

Aaron arrived with coffee in a silver tureen with a slender spout. I gulped. I was WAY over my head

here. "Have you ever heard of Kay & Peele?" I murmured as Sydney mulled the mimosa selections. He suddenly grinned at me. Okay. This one didn't starch his shorts. I could work with this. Joshua returned and I tried out my recently-googled sophisticated words on him: "Debutante. Bourgeois. Boondoggle." He was, to say the least, impressed. "What's boondoggle?" he asked, trying to re-fold my napkin. I slapped his hands away. "Remember those ugly plastic braided bracelets that you made at camp?" I reminded him. Oh dear. He probably didn't understand what the word plastic meant. And he probably attended diamond-polishing camp. "It also means work of no value meant only to make you look busy," I told him as he shaped my napkin (or, in the French, serviette) into a walrus.

The Pacific took this moment to cough up one of its critters for my entertainment. "I just saw a bird," I clapped. Everyone looked but the bird had slipped back beneath the waves. "Was it a pelican?" someone asked. "No, it was black," I reported. "A crow?" suggested Lisa. "A raven, perhaps," Sydney added helpfully. "No..." I snapped, actually snapping my fingers, "Seaside cliff dwellers...aquatic...slender-billed...CORMORANT!" The restaurant erupted. Actually, the restaurant was alarmingly quiet (except for us).

We were then directed to the brunch line where I spent a great deal of time deciding which plate to use:  oval, rectangular, wavy. Rectangular seemed the most elegant. I jumped in line and proceeded to read the food identification cards that were obviously written by the finest literary minds of our time. I fell prey to the most elementary of dining deceptions and allowed myself to be lured in by the spurious sprinkling of seasonings and sauces. I KNOW that I don't like Eggs Benedict. It's a pretentiously-titled breakfast dish drowning in a layer of yolk-y lemon butter. But yet...there it sat on my square plate, wasting valuable dessert space. I returned to my seat, disgusted that my napkin had been contorted into a cormorant. "Now you're just showing off," I shouted, sliding my slippery eggs onto Savannah's oval plate. "I thought I'd raised you better," I muttered. As my Eggs Benedict changed sides, one of my thousands of forks had moved out of its meticulous alignment and Joshua rushed over, apologizing, to replace it.

I think I was starting to get the hang of this. As I sipped my coffee from a silver tureen, I noticed that my sugar had run alarmingly low. There were yellow packets artfully displayed and blue packets perched precisely in place but my white packets had inexplicably disappeared. I wailed. White packet sugar arrived in seconds along with two new forks as my napkin was again transformed, this time into a mermaid.

Prior to my brief visit to the restroom, I made the girls promise NOT to allow any more napkin folding. As I proceeded through the waiting room to the outer chamber to the inner sanctum to the actual room I needed, I was delighted to discover disposable hand towels thicker, softer, and more absorbent than my actual bath towels at home. I love bringing little souvenirs back for my 4th graders but perhaps this was too extravagant. I returned to my seat to find more forks and a napkin-ed replica of The White House.

"Mom, signal for the check," Savannah said, "but subtly." Has she met me? I began my three-part choreographed dance utilizing only neck, chin, and eyebrows accompanied by a harmonious blend of discreet throat-clearing and sad-sighing, tinged with regret. Suddenly, a flash of movement startled us all as Joshua handed off the bill to Lisa like a spy passing along state secrets. "Was that slight-of-hand? What just happened? Stop bringing me forks!" we all yelled. Lisa laughed as we all fumed. "We don't know how to act in sophisticated restaurants," I explained to Joshua. "I'd love to see how you act in a regular restaurant," he smiled as the staff gathered to say goodbye like the Von Trapps. "Au revoir!" they called, queen-waving us out the door. "Reservoir!" I hollered back before explaining to the valet that the day was so nice, we'd decided to walk (ten grueling blocks back to the car). "Sophisticated people stroll," I told Sydney as we wobbled away from our luxurious lunch. I only stole one disposable hand towel. And a pen. But the true crime was committed by The Marine Room. They stole my heart.