Delicate Afternoon Delights Suit Colonial Guests to a Tea

W e’ve dressed with perfect confidence for cocktail bashes, benefit balls and Sunday brunches, but when we gussied up for Earl Grey and scones at the Center Club recently, it was a little nerve - racking.

For the tea to benefit Ronald McDonald House, should we go for the King and Queen of England - look--serious pin stripes and suspenders, a frilly dress and flowery hat? Or a classy version of California casual?

And, once we got there, would it be all staid, stuffy and stiff-upper-lip?

SHE: When I looked out my window on the day of the Ronald McDonald House tea, the sky was as gray as a flannel suit. There goes the white St. John knit I’d yanked from the back of the closet. (This 4-year-old nubby number has a very ladylike quality. The edging on its scoop neck is lacy. And the skirt is on the long side. Perfect! I thought.)

So, now what ? The red boucle wool with a thousand pockets? Too loud. The purple knit? Too warm. The simple black knit? Too funereal.

Ah, there. The good old Donna Karan military look--a fitted black two-piece gabardine with a stand-up velvet collar and enough brass to make me look like Lord Nelson. Ideal.

HE: Gee, if I’d only known. And my Napoleon suit just back from the cleaners, too. Or maybe something a little more militarily modern, like the Yasser Arafat look. Although that might have been too strong a statement among all those tea dresses and hats.

Actually, I was wondering what a guy is supposed to wear to what is essentially a women’s event. Yes, there was a handful of men there, but afternoon teas aren’t usually awash in testosterone. What the heck, I finally decided: a dark suit (actually, the dark suit--the only one I own).

And you’re right: It was a little disappointing not to be able to even consider wearing, say, white linen and then dashing off for a spot of croquet on the lawn. The petit fours were good, though.

SHE: And so was the sherry, the nuggets of gingerbread, the teensy lemon tarts, the flaky scones, the moist poppy seed cake with lemon frosting and the tea. I drank so much of it I was wired until 2 a.m. Now I understand why the Brits do it daily. It jump-starts your heart for the rest of the day.

I got a kick out of the way you sipped your sherry. Good boy. No guzzling at this affair.

HE: Yeah, well, you can’t guzzle from an eye cup. I was sort of surprised to find myself enjoying it. Afternoon tea in England is so fully integrated into the day that it’s like brushing your teeth, but we colonials tend to make an event of it.

Apparently, though, we’ve managed to transplant quite a bit of the conviviality and good talk of tea time. Turned out to be a lot more relaxed than I expected. Not relaxed enough for me to wear my Beavis and Butt-head T-shirt, but pretty easygoing.

It’ll never catch on as a typical guy event, though. Not nearly enough beer, and I didn’t see a fried pork rind anywhere. And nobody looked interested in starting a food fight.

SHE: Hey, you’re the one who knew the harpist and said she was one of the best, so don’t give me that macho jazz.

I liked the style of the event. The committee used crisp shell-pink linens on the tables, white chairs and white china rimmed in gold. The whole afternoon felt like an indoor garden party.

I especially admired the creativity of canapes. My favorite was the tiny bread round topped with a tidbit of turkey breast and a fresh raspberry.

HE: Yeah, you didn’t know whether to eat it or hang it on a Christmas tree. If it were a high tea instead of an afternoon tea, though, we would have walked away stuffed. Afternoon tea is a daily English tradition, a little break in the day. High tea, on the other hand, was meant, in times past, as a kind of fortifying meal for the working man. There was lots and lots of tea--gotta stay wired until the job’s done, y’know--and piles of rather plain, but hot, food. It was like a second lunch.

SHE: You’re awfully nice not to mention my “tea” faux pas. I felt pretty stupid when I used a fork to eat my first finger sandwich. Remember when you looked at me and said, “Isn’t that like using chopsticks for sushi?”

In all, it was a great break from a workday. And the truth is, I’d go for a tea fix every afternoon if it didn’t turn my teeth the shade of old wharf pilings.

HE: I managed to avoid screwing up too badly, manners-wise, but it wasn’t for lack of opportunity. I hadn’t had anything to eat by the time we showed up, and I was ready to tear the flesh from a live ox. Little wedges of kiwi fruit weren’t going to make the nut.

Self-preservation instinct demanded that I wolf down every last morsel on every tray that came my way, but I didn’t want to give the impression that all reporters are freeloading chow hounds (just most of them). So I manfully resisted. I tried to beat down the hunger by swilling a bunch of tea (it didn’t work) and I ended up settling for a little takeout sushi later.

I ate it with my hands.