Columnist Melissa Schorr: Pinkies up: High Tea with Mom

Melissa Schorr's column appears Mondays. Reach her at melissa@ lasvegassun.com or 259-4077.

I need more fawning," my mother confides in a stage whisper. "I want a waiter who says, 'Is there anything else Madam would want?' "

We are in the midst of the ultimate in mother-daughter bonding experiences, topping even our perennial shopping expeditions: High Tea in the Petrossian Bar at the Bellagio.

Arriving promptly at 2 p.m., we'd eased back into the deep cushions of the yellow fringed sofa, admiring the small touches on the table set for two -- the fresh red rose at full attention, the butter pat embossed with a swirly "B."

But you can't sip tea and slouch, so we soon moved to the highbacked green chairs, sitting stiffly, as if in corsets.

Carefully, we inspected all the accoutrements: the turquoise chinawear from France, the shiny saucers and silverware.

"It's not too heavy," Mom notes disdainfully, weighing the knife in her palm. "Well," she amends, "it doesn't need to be for tea."

Now, our waitress has arrived and we order tea -- English Breakfast for me, Oolong China for her. Mom peers into her teapot. "It looks like kelp," she notes. But it proves to be too strong for our palates, so we switch to Darjeeling. This is gentler, but Mom still observes that it "looks like tobacco."

Soon we are happily puttering away. Half the fun of High Tea is the busy work: pouring the tea through steel strainers, spreading the scrumptious Devonshire clotted creme, sampling each of the Baxters preserves -- apricot, strawberry and honey -- imported from Scotland.

"Better than Smuckers," Mom smacks with satisfaction, then marvels at her first taste of clotted creme, which, I note, is surely named after its tendency to clot one's arteries.

It is time to talk of cabbages and kings -- or, considering our Jane Austin-like surroundings, how to land a proper husband, one with an income over 10,000 pounds a year and, preferably, a title.

All too soon, our $30 spread arrives on a three-tiered display: four bite-sized snippets of cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches, four scones, and an assortment of five tiny sweets.

"The best thing about High Tea," I declare, "is how they cut all the crusts off the sandwiches."

"I feel luxurious," Mom yawns.

Suddenly, a man in a gray sweatsuit wanders by.

"How yews doing, ladies?" he inquires in a scratchy, Brooklynese accent you'd be hard pressed to find at the Brown's Hotel in London.

And the hotel's piped-in music, layered over the clanging slots, we agree, is a bit off. "It should be chamber music," Mom rightly snipes.

But you must serve High Tea to be dubbed a five-star hotel, and that, our waitress discloses, is the owner's ultimate goal.

After eating all four bites of sandwich, half of the scones and all our pastries, we are, amazingly, quite full.

"Do you think we're just convincing ourselves we're full because there's no more food?" I ask in wonder.

"If so," Mom replies, "it's a good trick."

We continue sipping our tea, marveling at how our pinkies arch out reflexively.

"I think the pinkie knows when it has to come into play," Mom nods knowingly, as mothers tend to do. "It's been waiting years -- just for this moment."

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